Best Cricket Poems | Poetry
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
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New Cricket Poems
Don't stop! The most popular and best Cricket poems are below this new poems list.
God a Cricket and Me
by McGuire, Timothy
HAVING A BALL - IT JUST ISN'T CRICKET
by ALLISON, JAN
A Cricket Responds
by Rigoler, Maurice
by Staton, Valerie
by McLain, James
A Chirping Message From Jiminy Cricket
by harris, matthew
Cricket in my House - PART 2
by S , Judith
Behind the stove the cricket sang on a stage
by Klugman, Alex
Cricket in My House
by S , Judith
The Frog and the Cricket
by Wilson, Roger
View all new Cricket Poems
The Best Cricket Poems
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
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
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
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
Love goes to another address...
SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA
Copyright © Sandip Goswami | Year Posted 2014
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
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,
Copyright © Rhonda Johnson-Saunders | Year Posted 2015
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
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
...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,
"The love of friends? The love of child and mother?"
"The love of two?" he softly questioned.
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."
Copyright © James Inman | Year Posted 2015
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;
its stomach pink and extended:
he ate too greedily
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.
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.
best laid to rest
together with the memories of you.
The sky has lost its colour,
as I step outside the courtroom.
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
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
Listen to the subtle sounds
surrounding Mother nature.
And you'll hear water chuckle
as it gurgles over rocks.
Hear the drone of humming birds
or the songs of humpback whales.
And the sonic squeaks and clicks
exchanged by chatty dolphins.
Hear a cicada compete
with the chirp of a cricket.
And the wailing winds whistle
within the weeping willows.
Hear laugher as white water
careens off of canyon walls.
And to hear the voice of God,
you merely have to listen.
Copyright © Emile Pinet | Year Posted 2015
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
The frog croaked
The cricket chirped
The cricket croaked
The frog burped
Copyright © Roger Wilson | Year Posted 2017
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
**Example for my contest.**
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
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 'n white set watching My Three Sons,
Gunsmoke and Bonanza with my toy guns...
or perchance playing canasta 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
detonating 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!
For the Way Back Then When I Was Ten contest.
Copyright © Keith Trestrail | Year Posted 2016
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
Copyright © HGarvey Daniel Esquire | Year Posted 2013
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
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
A Long, Long Time ago, there was a cricket whose name
was Blue, she was named after the sky that she loved so true.
All day long she would look up at the sky while the other
crickets played and hopped merrily on by.
Then one day a dragonfly landed near and he heard the
whispered wish, the cricket held so dear.
Crickets my dear, he said, belong on the ground and if
you fell, well, you may never ever be found.
The little cricket answered yes I know, but to the sky
is where my heart longs to go. I have wings to help me fly
but they only carry me about one foot high.
To the top is where I long to be.
Hey! Maybe you could help me.
I don't know if that is a safe thing to do little cricket
but if you can help me then I will try and help you.
What can I do to help dragonfly, the cricket cheerfully asked?
Some rain would be nice to put in my water flask.
I carry water to those of us who are sick but there seems to be a
water shortage since the farmer filled in the ditch.
I would be more than glad to help and the cricket sung her beautiful song,
then tender raindrops fell from the sky and the dragonfly was pleased
as he carried water half the day long to those in need.
When the sky cleared and there was no more rain, the cricket waited
for the dragonfly to return again, and when he did not come back to her,
the cricket's face had a look of concern.
I know he will return, the cricket whispered to herself low, he just has to
for he promised me so. Just as the sun begin to set low, along came the dragonfly and asked, Are you ready to go?
The cricket said, Yes as her heart for this had cheerfully longed.
The little cricket jumped on the dragonflies back and held tightly on.
To the top of the tree he flew and landed on the tip top as he promised her
he would do. The crickets eyes filled with wonder and tears.
This is what she had been dreaming of, for years.
The dragonfly's days were never worried about drought, whenever his cricket
friend was about and the Cricket took many journeys on the dragonflies back.
She told her story in a song again and again. The tale of how a cricket flew
up into the sky, on the back of her dragonfly friend.
Copyright © Sharon Gulley | Year Posted 2016
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
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.
Copyright © Seren Roberts | Year Posted 2013
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
Copyright © Charmaine Chircop | Year Posted 2012
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