Amazing Nature Photos

Best Cricket Poems

Below are the all-time best Cricket poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of cricket poems written by PoetrySoup members

Search for Cricket poems, articles about Cricket poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Cricket poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

See Also:

New Cricket Poems

Don't stop! The most popular and best Cricket poems are below this new poems list.

Cricket: The Golden Era by OMara, Red
Cricket Killer by O.J. Hunt, Keith
The Cricket and The Dragonfly by Gulley, Sharon
Antipoetic cricket: Chalkup the Score Board by Wignesan, T
A cricket by aliandro, alphonze
Cricket Waltz by Welch, Jacob
The Garden Keeper and The Cricket by Gulley, Sharon
A cricket match to remember by Bansal, Rachit
My Debut at Cricket by horsman, harry
The Cricket by Arowolo, olusegun

View all new Cricket Poems

The Best Cricket Poems

Details | Cricket Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Spider songs

Blades of grass, wet under foot, insect eyes  
Dusk, offset by the cricket orchestra 
Muted and receding into the trees and bushes,
Tickled by the wind, rattling snake tail wind 
While we may be in the company of wolves,
A long legged friend is late for the party 

Eyes, little iridescent stars 
Attending to each one, and look there, 
There she is, making the most beautiful geometry 
Parallels within the octagons, pulling silks
An arm for every task, little perpetual motion machine

Is that the Queen of the Night under the rusted iron? 
A forlorn lady, black patent leather, kill a man, maybe two 
With her danger red symmetry, oozing with youth 
And a penchant for paralysis, no one can resist her wine

Then there's the hall of cob webs, threadbare handkerchiefs
Left by ladies who exhausted all of their company 
To be a spectacle under the moon, in the wood pile 
Dressed up in the finest furs, all earth tones 
Stepping out to introduce themselves in girlish droves 

Venus of another sort, these little cursed jezebels 
Hovering on the skin of the water, or on the red brick wall 
Must frequent every happy corner, and slip away at a moment's notice
A real lady always knows when to say goodnight
Such graceful exits through cement cracks
Back to the parlor, to glow in the dark 
And they become spiders again 





Copyright © Jeremy Martin | Year Posted 2013

Details | Cricket Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Stargazer

Under 65 degree starry, onyx blanket
Containment of quarter moon identity

A whimsically soothing song exuded
In muffled taps & Prohibition era lyric

In the distance,
Snow-capped mountains reflecting lunar clarity
Off its tips of freedom

As we lay on recycled steel hood,
Made in 1950s USA, when it mattered,
Her silhouetted fingertips released from my right arm
While insistently looking towards stratosphere’s vocal chord

“Can’t it be like this forever?
Oh, how I want to just make love to the stars.
Become one with Orion while riding
On Sagittarius’s arrow”

“What about our stars?”, he softly questioned.

“I’d like to be your never-ending shooting star.
To ride on blue moon’s comet, by your side”

Cricket whispers manhandled his romantic clef
Mother Nature’s afterglow, upon her ears, fallen deaf

Inherent waxy build-up from illicit tongue,
She pat his shoulders like a dog
Being taught his first lesson

Her eyes, still sky high.

“Sigh, I like how you think.
You’re such a nice friend.
You’re going to make a woman so happy one day.
I hope to meet a guy just like you.”

As her eyes sighed with a powerful lack of substance
Into the arms of Leo,
A slammed car door supplants the reverberation of the car’s V8 engine.

He confidently turns back the hands of time.

Reversal gears become his new tune

“If you get lost going home, follow the stars.”

As he pulls away with majestic, amplified lyrics
Of Whitesnake’s “Here I go Again”

Going down the only road he’s ever known

While she stands in fraudulent gasps of shock,
Looking back up to the stars in blank wonder

As he accelerates into a new page in his book
Closing his chapter with wondrous questions

“Why would I taste your starlight?

When you never believed in our constellation?”

©Drake J. Eszes
It’s good to gaze at the stars and make wishes. But, be careful what you wish for. For Earth has its own gifts…


Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2013

Details | Cricket Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

The Cuddling Cricket

It’s not enough to have a Dragon plus his penguins and pigeons, too?
Darn it! I had a limit, until a cute Cuddling Cricket found my shoe.
He was just a little baby, who saw the pigeons and decided to hide.
Now, he won’t let go of my pants leg; he’s definitely along for the ride.

The first time I saw him, I Eeekk’ed and I jumped, yep, about to pounce.
But at my response he sighed, and slumped, and he began to cry, at once!
At first I couldn’t believe it, so I pulled out my magnifying glass.
What I found were soulful eyes, and a face, so very cute, but sad.

So now when I stand, A Cuddling Cricket, comes along for the ride.
Yeah, he’s now part of the family… Well, of course! Sigh! I replied…
He sleeps in a cute little plastic bug box, with a matchbox for a bed.
But it’s hard to explain, to others found, in my life, which have fled.

I bring a magnifying glass, so they can see him bow so proper and nice.
But carrying my Cuddling Cricket around, does have a certain price!
Food stores aren’t very understanding, and restaurants, Not At All! Truly!
But the paparazzi seem to understand a Cuddling Cricket, completely!

He does have his own type of novelty as he carries around his blankie!
And he’s just a baby, who needs a Mom, and of course, his little binkie!
Honestly, I’m not kidding! There’ve been a few, strange turns, in my life.
But, if I have Trolls and Dragon, then a Cuddling Cricket seems, so right!


Copyright © Carol Eastman | Year Posted 2014

Details | Cricket Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Woodland Path


Fae circles of mushrooms
Lanky yellow toadstools
Firm jelly tot larvae 
Feed from rich stagnant pools.
Fungal disks cling with wanton 
To the grey trunks of trees
Cricket strums join to bird song
Sending messages of peace.

Lambent beams break through foliage
Gradient tones tint the scene
Yellow, purple, and whites
showcased by backgrounds of green.
Fractured rock nests bright flora
Compost mats engage moss
A place of breach and survival.
Nature's gain, (one might say) 
is the product of loss.



Copyright © Michelle Mac Donald | Year Posted 2012

Details | Cricket Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

A Love Story

The girl is an ultra-modern scholar, 
Belongs with an upper-middle class family. 
Looking very nice, smart, gets angry suddenly. 
She reads M.A in English at Presidency University. 
She is assimilating to the ideas of Shakespeare, 
Shelley, Keats, Neruda, Byron...
Fluently speaks English, loves cricket. 
Shoulders are shaken by expression.
She cries alone, laughs with everyone....

The girl is very good.

The boy is a post-modern educated son of a lower-middle class family.
He studies M.A in Bengali at Calcutta University.
He is assimilating to the routes of Vaishnab literature,
Ideas of Bharatchandra, Rabindranath Tagore, Nazrul, Jibanananda...
Writes poems, sings song, loves football.
He walks on the high-street and observes people.
He laughs alone, listens to everyone...

The boy is very good.


They are attracted by the opposite personality!
The  girl wants that her lover will be a modern man.
The boy thinks that his lover will become as the mind of his. 
 
They are changing silently
Losing individuality.

Time flows.
Love goes to another address... 

SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA


Copyright © Sandip Goswami | Year Posted 2014

Details | Cricket Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Cricket's Song

Refrain of dreams, I gift to you. My hum lulls in rhythms deep; Night chant lifts to heavenly heights coupled with starry sky’s plume. My faithful promise kept from sight 'til fall of moon's sleepy eyes. By Rhonda Johnson-Saunders, 1/15/15 for Nette's Night Creatures Contest, (Cricket #6)


Copyright © Rhonda Johnson-Saunders | Year Posted 2015

Details | Cricket Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

When the Sun Sets on Me


I wonder where I will be 
when the sun sets on me…
for if I were a flake of snow,
a dying breeze, or autumn leaf...
then I’d know.
I am but a blink of a father’s eye
desperate for answers to my words and rhymes
waiting for another world or God to intercede, 
in what may come or ever may be.

I wonder where I will be 
when the moon rises over me...
for if I were shadows in a cave,
a cricket, star, or ocean wave...
then I'd know.
I am but a drop of rain on a summer night
vaporizing where I fall and touch,
waiting for clouds and sky to again define me;
not knowing who I ever was or aimed to be.

If I am clay in my Maker’s hands…pliable, yielding, 
I wonder where my own will comes to end
and where His fingers start forming me
into the masterpiece He desires me to be.
All the answers dancing gracefully,
from omnipotence and my need to be free…

I wonder where I’ll be, when I start to 
speak, live, breathe, dance….fearlessly.
If I were air and sea, with all of Heaven shining on me,
then, I’d know…    


Copyright © Rhonda Johnson-Saunders | Year Posted 2015

Details | Cricket Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Sundown in Paradise

My blessing basket is heavy with heaven's gifts,
Tomatoes the size of my fist, eggplants so cute,
And fresh heirloom beans bursting with pride.

The sun, orange on the horizon, frames a pair of
Snowy Egrets above, wings folded in glide descent,
Angling towards their roost.

A solitary Cricket, at home in the cabbage patch,
seesaws a hypnotic greeting, then hushes
As I pass.

A Monarch Butterfly wisps past my head, enjoying
Nectar from scattered flowers. The scent of herbs,
Blossoms and love settles softly in my heart.

I know life can be hard, but this moment, just
This moment, I'm filled with such Grace from
God I only stand in humble gratitude.



Copyright © James Marshall Goff | Year Posted 2015

Details | Cricket Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Dark Reflection

...and the Demon spoke,
its voice deep and mellow like smooth satiny chocolate,
"There is more, much more then good and evil,"
the words thunderously whispered.
The verdant emerald green of the forest quivering at the sound,
drawing in upon itself, hiding, fearful.
Cowing multi hued flowers peeking cautiously through tangled undergrowth 
in the dappled moonlight filtering through the leafy canopy.
No sound could be heard,  
no cricket chirping,
no toad croaking,
no Nightingale singing its mellifluous songs of sorrow in the night sky.
The beast stepped deeper into the crescent of the secret hollow.
Turning its head in a fluid, yet, some how awkward and disjointed manor
it slid on to a large stone, gently caressing it, as if it were an old and trusted friend.
As it lowed its massive frame onto the center of the boulder,
lines of concentration furrowed its ancient brow. 
"What of justice?" the creature spoke.  
"The death of one man for killing another?" its words slow and deliberate, 
scaly calloused hand gently stroking the gray green rock.
"A woman stoned for speaking truth to a man?  What of the man?"
It looked up and gazed into the forest, eyes of ebony, like black holes
sucking in the light, swallowing the essence of all it gazed upon.
The forest withdrew from its lifeless gaze.
"Good or Evil," unasked, its whisper menacing.

It sat thinking in troubled concentration.  
Statuesque, it remained motionless atop its massive granite pedestal.  
Reflections from chips of mica in the stone cast silvery highlights 
along the edges of the crimson scales on the demons thigh, 
and small patches of green and purple moss bunched along the outer part of its calves.  
"What of passion?" the words slowly hissed from its lipless mouth.
"The joining of a man and a woman in sweet, gentle desire?"
Long spike like toenails scratched the surface of the stone 
and it seemed to move beneath it.   
The corners of its mouth stretched into a grotesque and hideous smile, 
sharp uneven teeth shining dully.  
The stillness of the air weighed down upon the giant, wrapping it in a breathless embrace.
"A woman for a woman, a man for a man?"
Long outstretched fingers mingled as its hands clasp 
in a knotted entanglement of skin and bone.
Its smile now gone, its frown hung heavy on its face.  
"Good or Evil," again, no question in its tone.

Sliding from the rock the Demon stood, long legs stretched beneath it
casting shadows on the stone, gnarled hand tenderly caressing it.
Its thoughts interrupted, it cast its gaze to the sky in the east 
set aglow with flames of the impending arrival of the life giving orb.
Sensing the strengthening will of the forest it knew the time was short.
"And what of love?" it asked.
Looking around, it glanced at the stone as if waiting for an answer.
Long moments passed, no reply.
The Demon sighed heavily.  
Leaves on the awakening morning glory, 
whose brilliant purple petals with deep bleeding red hearts 
stretching in the dew of early dawn,
withered and died in its breath.  
Again it felt the stillness, 
the stillness that followed it,
nothingness,
alone.
"The love of friends?  The love of child and mother?"
"The love of two?" he softly questioned.  
"Love lost?"
Head hung low no tear wet his demon eye. 
He could not cry.
With one final sad glance at the stone he straightened his strong
muscular body and slowly disappeared into the forest, 
the trees and shrubs opening a path before him.
The only sign of his passing, the echoing whisper,
"Good      or      Evil."


08/19/15


Copyright © James Inman | Year Posted 2015

Details | Cricket Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

MILDEWED EXPECTATIONS

The rose colour of your mouth stirs something primordial inside of me – I smile along with you. Plump little hands reach for my face. I hold still while you explore my heart with a feathery touch.
When you are asleep, I look over the papers of your college fund. We could make it if we would forsake frivolities. It will be no hardship for me to do so. I smile contentedly. The boxer puppy lying at my feet; quite content– its stomach pink and extended: he ate too greedily (as usual). You will grow up together and share our unconditional love. The cricket bat, signed by the national team, takes pride of place in its brackets on your bedroom wall – a pale dove blue (matching the colour of your eyes). A gift from your dad – sure that you would follow in his footsteps. A rainbow of possibilities prostrate at your feet.
I check every now and again whether you are breathing. Sleeping soundly, neither a frown upon your smooth face, nor a care in the world. Your long, black eyelashes quiver slightly, as though following a dream – a dream we all shared: a dream of boundless expectations …
************** Exhuming long forgotten memories; mingling with my fevered tears – echoing my breaking heart. They lead you away. Assaulting the arresting officer had sealed your fate.
Mildewed expectations best laid to rest together with the memories of you.
The sky has lost its colour, as I step outside the courtroom. Inspired by: Closer By Chris Aechtner “If frozen within caged snapshots of mildewed expectations” 3 July 2013 Sponsor Debbie Guzzi Contest Name Referential


Copyright © Suzette Richards | Year Posted 2013

Details | Cricket Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

One Nation Under God?

It’s a sad situation, the state of this nation
of murderers, molesters, and thieves
I can’t help but wonder as we continue to plunder
at how we create our own grief.

We bully and batter, look out for the splatter
as we rob our own children of pride,
It’s no wonder our sons take up their guns
while we all sit back and ask why.

In this generation, of vain masturbation,
which can create its own self in a tube,
Each woman is master and can now choose to blast her
fetus right out of the womb.

Gender reversal is no longer controversial
(in fact it’s barely thought of as odd).
As men become women I find my head spinning
at man’s struggle to be his own god.

When possibilities ignited we just got so excited
about the fact that we could,
that perhaps we forgot to think whether or not,
as a civil society we should.

Somewhere in the thicket chirps our Jimminy Cricket,
hoping that someone will hear,
While we in the piety of civilized society
stand stoic with fingers in ear.

Make no mistake ‘bout the risk that we take
by not heeding ol’ Jimminy’s call.
Consider the thought that God you are not
and pride always precedes the fall.



Copyright © Shelly Berkeley | Year Posted 2007

Details | Cricket Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Trying to sleep

I am trying to sleep here; can someone let the world know?

Somewhere the pressure cooker whistles, 
Rises in the night air, the smell of pulao rice.

The peddler selling eggs on his final tour,
The ringing of his cycle bell and paddle distinctly heard,
Elsewhere a cat mews, finding a safe spot to rest,
Or mayhap from hunger, I shall know never,
Dogs bark at a ragged man pacing fast,
His sole hanging slippers chatter away against tar,
As he glances at the canines from the corner of his eye.

A weak twig falls off the peepal tree nearby,
On the asbestos, creating a cracking noise,
Unendearing to his ears, the toddler wails,
A rickshaw shifts gears, as I shift sides
The sound of acceleration arrives at my eardrums,
A pillow atop my ears I rest, 
An attempt feeble in decibel-arrest,
I am trying to sleep here; can someone let the world know?

I sense the creator is perhaps 
The conduit in this conspiracy, 
A gentle wind blows, 
A pair of unshut windows rattle,
A metal latch dangling beats out-of-rhythm,
The jamun trees rustle, sounding 
Like sand falling on tin-sheet,
The sound of roaring cheers 
From a cricket match on TV otherwhere,
Triggering the flow of my curse on technology, 
At the apartment gate, 
A bunch of teens giggle away, 
To a cunning joke or a murder mystery, 
I wonder in utter dismay.

A medley of noises, of all kinds and creed, 
Can someone let the world know, I am desperately trying to sleep.


Copyright © Sudha Ranganathan | Year Posted 2014

Details | Cricket Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

A silent wish


As we sit looking out over strawberry sherbet skies, breathing in the solitude of twilight’s scented breeze, remembering the passing day and laughing at firefly sparkles glistening in our eyes I see the evening’s first star appear beyond pine tree shadows, above a drowsy horizon, an opal on a deep violet canvas illuminating the desires forever glowing in my heart, and I make a silent wish Enchanting cricket song wafts through the fields in harmony with our heartbeats, when you take my face in your rose petal hands and kiss me, sweeter than jasmine pudding, taking my breath completely away Then resting your head on my shoulder you sigh, telling me I am everything you have ever wished for and you will love me forever… as I look up at that star once more and whisper, “thank you”


Copyright © Chris Green | Year Posted 2016

Details | Cricket Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

CRICKET

**Example for my contest.**

THE CRICKET  


chirp chirp!


Visions of my past why are they following me?

Leave me the h3!! Alone,

Let me be, the earth is my home. 

I am not willing to fly free allowing my deception to roam free.

A passion I no longer see.

I find myself lying on this grass all alone.

Tears caused by my saddened past.

How can I hear the ocean waves, only trees surround me?

A life I cry why me? 

I have no guide to show me how

I have been all alone before the age of one.

I have nothing to call my own. 

What is that chirping sound? 

Allowing me to live knowing my mother, did not care. 

An embryo in her womb, safe in your care. 

My mother's destruction pulled me out of a life that was not for me.

Where is my guide?

Crickets chirping soundly, how is that supposed to comfort me?

Do you not care for me? Why do you send the smallest insect to laugh at me? 

Every time I fall to the ground, a chirping is the only sound. 

I'm not ready to be rescued, I have not found my final stop.

Why is this insane insect in front of me?

Is that an annoying sound just for me?

What a silly way to show me who and what you can be!

Thinking of you in the biggest form.

An insect I can hardly see.
Why did it not come to me, on wings?

Do you mock all those times I fell onto the ground? 

It was not the ocean waves I heard. 

It was always the sounds of millions of crickets around me. 

Showing me your power can come in any form, shape, and size. 

Next time stings your way into my life like a bee.


.                  By; p.d.
				
~~LOL, my worse poem ever~~
~~LOL, what was I thinking~~



Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2010

Details | Cricket Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

When I Was Ten

 Now in my decline in the time of men
  I remember way back then when I was ten,
 when we lived in a shadow much greater
  at the foot of the Mount and its dormant crater.
 Where we'd climb and to the top race
  like Hillary and Tenzing up the south face,
 then on our backsides slide to the rocks below
  from whence the lava used to flow.
 Behold the old white house at 89 Owens Road,
  the grass I with an old push blade mowed,
 and where from my upstairs room
  I saw the spring terraced flowers bloom.
 Where outside we played cricket all summer long
  and inside were the masters of ping pong!
 In our living room my family and me
  saw a moonlanding and a war on TV -
 on our black and white set with blazin' toy guns
  watching Bonanza and My Three Sons...
 or perchance playing canasta as soon as I was able
  and even a séance on the coffee table,
 where spirits from the spirit world did roam
  and truly spelled out to our guests "go home!".
 When my birthday cake burnt ten candles
  and I wore short pants and Roman sandals,
 with my bag down Valley Road walking
  past the shops on the way to school talking -
 spending my lunch money licking my lips
  eating aniseed wheels and jelly tips!
 Where my mate lived above his mum's shoe store
  and between us all was fair in love and war!
 Listening to my new transistor all the while
  tuned in to 1480 on top of the dial:
 to the hip happening sounds of Radio Hauraki
  in the gulf on a pirate ship called Tiri.
 Till through the gates of my teacher and jailer:
  Mrs Furner, Miss Gaiqui, and Mr Taylor;
 and catch a glimpse of a vision in a cotton dress -
  the girl of my restless dreams I confess!
 Then before the bell sounded its morning ring
  we'd be flying on the moari swing,
 or games on the courts or running to shield
  playing bullrush on the football field.
 And behold, in class on his guitar my teacher
  playing folk songs and exhorting like a preacher,
 singing "where have all the flowers gone?
  Young girls pick them every one..."
 and "Oma rapeti...rabbit run, run, run"
  or playing Maori stick games just having fun:
 drawing native carvings and birds that can't fly,
  reading about Hinemoa and Tutanekai.
 Weaving flax and with hands of string
  making diamonds and parachutes that cling,
 or in single file marching from the school
  with our towel and togs to the pool -
 an Eden boy at the starters end ready to dive in
  for a prized 50 metre certificate to win.
 Then gather the class in the projection room
  and gaze in the ceiling the stars illume:
 where our Milky Way mural hung so surreal
  as we sat and watched an old movie reel.
 But soon the fun would turn to palpable fear
  when all the class trembled to hear...
 read to the children who were quiet as a mouse
  was the Dental List for the Murder House!
 Alas a fate worse than death - the whining drill
  to bore and clean and to mercury fill;
 where the needle sometimes dulled the pain
  yet the screams of boys and girls remain.
 After school in my uniform arrayed
  I marched to the tune in the Boys Brigade!
 And on weekends roaming the neighbourhood
  in search of adventure as best we could,
 climbing the hill to the construction site
  of The Pines apartments at a great height.
 On Guy Fawkes night from my pocket
  lighting my firecrackers and my skyrocket -
 armed and dangerous ready to throw
  with red packs of Double Happys lit to blow.
 And on night time mission on ninja patrol
  detonatin' milk bottles - whoa! fire in the hole!
 Or off to the Crystal Palace to catch a flick
  lest my mother test my arithmetic.
 At Eden Park when the mighty Auks played host
  sitting with my mates behind the goalpost,
 with my dad and brother at the track
  in the birdcage and hearing the whips crack -
 at Ellerslie in the Ladies Stand or Alexandra Park
  with my Best Bets - my picks to mark.
 And on the Sabbath beneath cross and spires
  in Sunday School at old Greyfriars.
 Now alas, in my decline in the time of men
  I remember way back then when I was ten!



                    January 2016

For the Way Back Then When I Was Ten contest.


Copyright © Keith Trestrail | Year Posted 2016

Details | Cricket Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

I am the Shell of a POET

I am the Shell of a POET, Gazing upon my Last Sunset : Dancing with Death
The Shell of a POET, absorbed in Nature: inhaling whispers with my last breath
I cloak myself  in HER Tapestry : Azure Blue painted Lovingly; with Life Rose Pink
I sleep in sweet hues of colors as the Serenity of Sunset draws me nigh; I Think
I see the Darkness envelope me as Venus "The Evening Star" Blinks a Loving Wink
As the cricket hums of Glory as a sky of ebony descends upon My Dark Memories
As the night becomes Alive the Reborn "Shell" Reads the History of his Destinies
Mesmerized by the Autroscities, by the pain and sorrows of Mankinds sordid Past
Tears of Humility flow the contours of my cheek as  Autroscities of a distant Past 
Immortalized by My Cold and Blacken Heart, Forgotten are the Memories of Lenore
I stand at the Pearly Gate in AWE of the Magesty of Eons of Eternity: FOREVERMORE
I grasp HIS Hand; Lenore Grippes Mine : We Entwine as ONE : Through Heaven's Door
                                    to be Cont.
Inspired by the Contest : " Let's Be Open " Sponsored by Xegrakio POETESS : SuZ D
                Dedicated to the Souls in Glory waiting for thier Loved Ones
  This is not an Entree as I was to late for the Contest. LOVE ALWAYS and FOREVER
                                            YOUR Liege...Harry 

 



















Copyright © HGarvey Daniel Esquire | Year Posted 2013

Details | Cricket Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

As You Lay Yourself To Sleep

Let my heart be your pillow as you lay upon my soul as you gaze upon a star Let your dreams and wishes flow Let my heart be your pillow on the wings of wind soar high Let sheer silken feathers guide you to confetti in the sky Close your eyes as slowly I rock you in the cradle of the moon Let my arms become your blanket and night's lullaby your tune Let your lashes slightly flutter to each ripple in a stream to the rattle of each cricket to my playful melody Let my heart be your pillow Come my darling,Come to me In your sleep I softly breeze in and sprinkle serenity.


Copyright © Charmaine Chircop | Year Posted 2014

Details | Cricket Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Spirit In The Flute

I walk an already trodden path...
Uncertain, of future lives that lie ahead

But, in faith I close these earthly Ojibwa eyes
In trill, thus, I hear the old ways in your presence amidst Chinook winds
As harmonic they play across the plains, from sacred astral pipes
Mimicking cricket songs that echo abstract out of the season's last autumn mist

I also hear your fifes in the rustle of the leaves, rising into writhe
And almost see your spirit aura as it accompanies the Algonquian breeze
Ancient ghost of proud, but now lost upon a dying nation tribe
Your music from beyond is narrations of a mystical language nature speaks

Sweeping thrush calls, chirps through weeping willow weeps,
Unto past September sounds, beating down on war drum clouds, of thundering maelstrom claps
And babbling brooks going on and on until narrowing creaky creeks
Alas, whooper wills warning and morning loons mourning, hidden amidst the swaying grass

When I see you, I imagine spectral legends majestic high across horizon's sky
Snowy silhouettes in headdress, drifting in flowing rainbow crowns
And with the night, I see you in my mind dance as the "Will-Ó-the-wisp" just might 
Then, my body shivers from the distance, where your flute imitates the cry of the lone coyote's sound

As for all of your Mishomis (grandfather) traditions, I accept there is a greater essence
Kindred I am, son to your spirit and without partition from an Ojibwa eye
And I stand here staunch in cattail marshes, pondering my place in ancestral questions
Now, your answers again begin to play upon the wind, but this time traveling through the November... Whispers on needles of the pine

I walk an already trodden path...
But, each new step before me keeps this culture alive...


Written in honor of my Chippewa family ©2012 Michael G. Smith


Copyright © Michael Smith | Year Posted 2012

Details | Cricket Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Romance of Four Seasons

Where do roses birth their petals when Spring gardens disappear Where do petals bloom in Winter when white snow falls everywhere Where do snowflakes melt in Summer On silk lips brushing the cheek Where do lips steal out first kisses In between the cherry trees Where do cherries share a secret of bare branches in wild dreams Where does autumn burns the fire On carpets of yellow leaves Its the romance of four seasons Florescent fragrance fills the air the East wind keeps breezing softly Midnight bells greet each New Year And the robin keeps on tweeting butterflies flutter their wing the cricket rattles all evening the pide-piper plays and sing And the mistle-toe keeps hanging Coloured confetti chase the moon And the rainbow keeps a pathway a stream cascades in the dune And a dove flies above star dust as the white swan pirhouettes and the fire-flies keep twinkling in the lake of honey-zest
Charma


Copyright © Charmaine Chircop | Year Posted 2012

Details | Cricket Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

z is for Zaria , ABC of Disney Characters Contest

A is for Akela of Jungle Book fame
B is for Baloo from Jungle Book the same

C is for Cinderella what a pretty sight
D is for Donald Duck, hope he doesn’t bite

E is for Eyore the lovely donkey that brays 
F is for the Fairy Godmother your wishes she obeys

G is for the Gopher loves Honey from Winnie the Pooh
H is Hyacinth Hippo from Snow White fame that’s true

I is for Ian the Alligator who is always hungry
J is for Jiminy Cricket who starred in Pinocchio story

K is for Kiara means princess in Swahili from Lion King
L is for the lovely Lady not sure where Tramp is hiding

M Is for Mickey Mouse with the best fashion trend
N is for Nala was Simba’s childhood friend

O is for the Owl with eyes so big. Sees everything
P is for Peter Pan in his book he is king

Q is for the Queen of Hearts with a tray of lovely goodies
R is for Rafiki is a Mandrill meaning friend in Swahili 

S is for Simba who likes to live dangerously
T is for Tramp who is looking for his Lady

U is for Uncle Max the Meerkat another Disney star
V Is for Vitani the outsider lioness who looks from afar

W is for Wendy, she is waving to Peter Pan
X is for Xerxes  you will find him in Aladdin

Y is for Yzma from the Emperor’s new Groove
Z is for Ziggy the hungry vulture everyone hates to love



Hope you like my ABC of Disney
Stories for you Zaria to enjoy.



28/02/2013


Copyright © Seren Roberts | Year Posted 2013

Details | Cricket Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Rahul Dravid

Rahul Dravid is called "The Wall",
A true servant to the game of Bat and Ball.
He is nicknamed Mr.Dependable,
since his dedication is Remarkable.
He displays a lot of commitment,
with his great temperament.
He is a man who is selfless,
and the number of runs he scored is countless.
He has played consistently against all nations,
indeed,with a lot of patience.
Though his game looks quite simple,
opponents have to do a job which is ample.
Everytime he comes out to bat in any session,
he seems to be like a Man on a Mission.
His technique to budding stars is like a guide book,
the footprints of Dravid in Indian cricket have the best look.


Copyright © NIKHIL GOPAL KRISHNA | Year Posted 2012

Details | Cricket Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

The Hollow

The October night was dark and cold,
As the autumn sun was going down,
When I recalled the legends I had been told,
About this sleepy, little town.

There were tales about the haunted woods,
They say the wind seems to call your name,
I was going where no one should,
And if I survived, I'd never be the same.

I walked through the covered bridge,
As the harvest moon rose into the sky,
I had made it around the darkened ridge,
Just as I heard a lone wolf's cry.

I walked the path of the dark, gnarled thicket,
Through the fallen leaves of maple and oak,
I heard the chirping of a cricket,
Near the hollow, where the bullfrogs croak.

Then, I heard the "hoot" of an owl in a tree,
And the "caw" of a raven on it's perch,
The headless horseman I hoped not to see,
As I passed the graveyard near the church.

I told myself I would be alright,
Just as I heard the hooves of a horse,
But, I knew I would make it home tonight,
Because there are no ghosts, of course.








August 30th, 2013

(This was my tribute to "The Legend Of Sleepy Hollow" by Washington Irving.
I wrote it from the perspective of Ichabod Crane.)


Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2013

Details | Cricket Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

The Diary of a Tobacco Chewer-w

 
“I never travel without my diary,
One should have something sensational to read”

5-4-11: I never knew about the above quote of Wilde
But an event in life taught me to keep one.

4-23-94: Let me start with the initial jotting 
A local doctor said it’s just cough, a thing seasonal

5-5-94: No cure, consulted again after two weeks 
Advised to consult an ENT specialist attached to
A Medical College Hospital.

5-8-94: Diagnosed cancer of the vocal chords
 
5-10-94: But preferred to have a second opinion 
Confirmed the first opinion and advised radiation.
The word spread in the University Campus town
In the Bohemians circle that a Wicket (Cricket) down
Heard from many mouths the fate of the tobacco chewer.

5-15-94: A friend of my son came to see me on hearing the news
He had the disease of the same type and category 10 years back
He took the radiation and there he was a positive case.

7-4-94: Started the radiation therapy of six weeks  
Resigning 4 months earlier than the regular retirement.
Along with the radiation started the nature cure therapy
And the greatest of all therapies, the rosary with HIS name.

8-12-94 the radiation machine, only one in my State went off 
Consulted the Cancer Hospital at Mumbai  
Got the reply appointment after six months.

8-22-94: Luckily the treatment restarted after 10 days
 
9-2-94: And completed the radiation course.

12-5-94: Retested and was declared cancer free.

Thus the history of trials, tribulations, tests and tobacco taste.

5-4-11: The habit is still with me even to-day.
Oh, the digit 5 could be a lucky number for me.


                       ******************
*The dates and events taken from my diary are real*. I have written
 two poems on the event
1. What Gods there were 
2. Butterfly Counts not months but moments.

Thanks, Constance, for sensational refreshing of my memories.

Dr. Ram Mehta

==============================================

Second place win in :
Contest: The Diary sponsored by Constance La France-A Rambling poet


Copyright © Dr.Ram Mehta | Year Posted 2011

Details | Cricket Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Footles - Part 14

Norseman on Foot

Hiking
Viking

Attack of a Norseman

Striking
Viking

Norseman Plays Volleyball

Viking
Spiking

What Jiminy Got For Speeding

Cricket
Ticket

Quiet Laughter

Vicar’s 
Snickers

Baby Rick Gets Into Honey

Sticky
Ricky

Cheap Melted Metal

Nickel 
Trickle


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2012

Details | Cricket Poem | Share this poem | Create an image from this poem.

Jeeeeez

In years gone by, folks didn’t like to say
God’s name to show  surprise or great dismay,
and so you would hear “Goodness,“ “Gol” and “Gee,“
and also euphemisms for J.C.

Jiminy Cricket! Doesn’t that sound nice?
Jeepers Creepers, Jason Crisp or Cheese and Rice?
Godfrey Daniel! Surely you know that
is slang for God and “God rot it” is “Drat!”

“Oh my gosh,” “My goodness,” or simply “Lord”
replaced expletives that today come poured
from mouths of kids who can’t be mannerly
to just say “Leapin‘ Lizards“ or “Golly Gee!”.

You’ll hear (for damning something with God’s name),
“Dag nabbit” and “Dad gum.” They might seem tame
but fit the bill and give us a small thrill!
But dang it, why would someone say “Sam Hill?”

Words from the Holy Bible we enjoy
employing when we say Holy Moley,
Holy cow, Judas Priest (but WAIT!)
For Pete’s Sake! How did Judas ever rate?

Great Scott, there’s even Jumpin’ Jehosophat!
How the HECK did they ever come up with that?
By Jove, I’m nearly finished. Now pretty please. . . .
Instead of using Christ’s name, just say Jeeeeez!


Written July 26, 2015


Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015