All the fireflies of the town
Have gathered in front of
The Town Hall.
Being mere sources of light
Not worm
Nor life.
Mere sources of light -
The way sometimes
Humans become
Mere genitals.
I can't look at their light
Are they brighter than the Sun?
I can look straight into
The sun, Day and Night.
Still, I can't look at
The Fireflies
Like the people who
Look at the genitals
Can never look at
The Eyes.
We
were bright
small fireflies
gleaming at nights
with soft silver wings,
alas bombs rained on us
with poisoned plains our harsh grave,
our magic gone, our show complete
for ever lost to darkness of night
with no prayers, no funeral for us.
Scorched
moss
remnant
speck of dust,
dainty dot matchbox
plume ex tiny chaser light chain,
dried out moist field, drought a wretched blight, habitat woe,
as wide sweep venal mindsets purge swathe after swathe of candle fly inbred impish glint,
they feeble bugs, leaf strewn dwellers whose twinkle once power charmed tree tops, lush pastures, putrid logs, harmless to the touch, dodging worldly brass nerve,
warm-hearted watchers for the environment who pose not the remotest threat of even miniscule proportions, now diminishing landscape feature, they atrophy, sag, shrivel, wither, languish, a pointless premature death
I
corked
the last
lightning bug
in this Coke bottle,
too precious for any matchbox,
distinguishing it from slugs, snips, spineless annelids;
for no other reason than juvenile sensibilities, vainglorious captures,
nothing for practical science, all to preserve a boyish reputation that made me aleatory, dire, perilous, savage, bland
but pride, quaintly, comes as I bear its marginal light, dwindling the dutiful darkness of evening, like faint choking hymns of elder choristers; hence I pray it shall be till morning, since fireflies have no engagements with the sun
As
stars
flashing.
Fluttering
across dewy grass.
Outstanding mesmerizing glow.
In melancholy, my eyes drawn into the circle ...
they are called to dance in their search for a bride/groom, stitched together with gold strands of hope.
If fireflies could sing it would be magical - a declaration of love, crafted with the same delicacy as a romantic poem.
I'll stay awhile and enjoy the view, take a deep breath understand that the days are numbered, as life wisdom or philosophical acceptance - with joy, dignity, calmness, solemnity pride, honor, and self-esteem ... beauty.
Them,
lights,
sparkle,
soft, in dark,
playful, enchanting,
search soulmates for blessed union,
flying hither thither, bioluminescent wings
depleting inborn energy, dark gloomy grave awaiting to sniff out their soft light,
yet letting them sow seeds of their progeny in time to let their sparkling legacy flicker, for a continuum of magical glow,
hiding the funeral of older generation of fireflies under the sparkle of newer generation of fireflies, as if it was a celebration of their short lived existence in the nature full of wonders.
In
our
childhood
catching the
small sparkling fireflies
in summer when dark, was pass time.
Catching and making them fly off was a good omen.
They would dance off tailing soft light, us imagining success embedded in future
It was quite disappointing to later learn that their sparkling magical glow was snuffed out in other seasons due to their short existence.
We stopped catching them, celebrated their short existence to let them find soulmates in their flickering glow, let them propagate legacy of summertime sparkle for us to cherish, honoring their impending funeral.
At
night
fireflies
make a noise
and light up the sky
flickering their wings gossamer
pretty in the garden landing on the water pond
I drift off to sleep tranquil, relaxed, and stress free with no cares to dream a peaceful dream.
And in my dream I am transported to a magical forest where fireflies twinkle and glow, the
flashes of light make for a lovely dance.
In dreams I am wandering about trying to catch a firefly, but they are fast and busy with their
mating dance. I know that they do not live very long, only sixty-one days, sad, such beauty only
lives for a short time.
Prompt "Funeral of fireflies"
Funeral of Fireflies
Winter
Bites
The street
A jute bag
Bare feet bleed
Torn cloth holds no warmth
Hunger walks beside him like a shadow
His eyes are small fires begging someone to buy bread and bring heat
But hope dies
Like sun
On a cold
Mountain peak
Snow falls, silent
He wraps himself in jute, a coffin
At midnight fireworks bloom while the world forgets
A boy dies at twelve with light still trapped in his eyes, a firefly no one cupped
The city drinks
And laughs
Above his
Frozen grave
We buried
Kindness
Tonight the last fireflies went out
Spark,
Dies,
Ash falls,
Glow fades out,
Lanterns lose their light,
Tiny souls of summer depart,
Softly drifting through the
deep and weeping autumn
breeze,
A fragile world dissolves into
the deep and utter silent
shallows of the night,
No longer showing, guiding
lonely travelers back across
the misty forest meadows
where they used to dance so
bright underneath the silver
moon,
The weeping woods are cold
and silent now to bid a final
sad farewell to every single
fleeting spark of gold that
softly perished in the winter
air before the frozen ground
can ever wake again to see
the warm green spring.
Rot
Blood
Warm husk
Crushed rib cage
Pustule burst of light
Searing through the heavy black lung
Trapped in a breathless, weeping shroud of the stagnant air
We watch the ruined summer spark, drowning inside of a glass chamber where the dead things scream against the cold, tearing our bleeding hearts apart
Burning the skin away to feed the starving shadows deep in the hollow night, we watch the final frantic flutter char to ash, reduced to nothing underneath indifferent stars, forgotten by the cold, silent universe.
On
the
threshold
of twilight,
firefly lamps ignite,
Bewitched children covet the charming, floating gold orbs
abandoning play to chase tiny elfin creatures, capturing joy in glass jar globes.
Blooming phosphorescent glow spills magical light, charming effulgence for hanging wisteria pergola. Perfumed purple clusters scent
sunset duskiness. Fragrance, lamps, and a cozy sanctum form playtime perfection till little eyes grow sleep heavy, fairyland abandoned for soft eiderdown quilts. Firefly lanterns grow still and dull, their flawless light extinguished.
August 5, 2026
Stars or Fireflies Fibonacci Poetry Contest
Hiya Sharma, Sponsor
Faint,
spark,
smothered,
frail flicker,
doused by wanton strafe,
of bogus blitz on firefly swarm,
whose sintered flecks luminous once a mint meadow rash,
fetid stench on sombre marsh morgue deathly plummet in wet woodland, squelching plot interred,
winsome wing glow worm surreal,
larval lantern love, a spring twilight trail flash mate signal in mid-flight flare, haphazard helix of red flame,
lightning mimicry from maiden whose passion quest quenched querulous by nightmarish callous earthling hand clamped coffin dull click, twilight yellow, blue ghost, witching hour green tint spectaclenow grave entombment, mourning planet sheds tears
Oh
yes,
in the
dark of night~
just like the fireflies
flashing against a sky of black
with final elusive sparks that celebrate life's end ~
will illuminate my soul and still my heart, as death's adventure lifts me to the stars.
Fireflies glow, then they rise to die and procreate. My soul is reborn to meet new life
at Heaven's Gate- and waiting there- my eternal fate.
flash
spark
lights dark
court and spark
fireflies on a lark
flirting with their little lanterns
adorn the skies, and tease the eyes, with starlike patterns
school-kids savor in Summer, before that bare bummer, the firefly funeral in Fall
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