Long Cicada Poems
Long Cicada Poems. Below are the most popular long Cicada by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cicada poems by poem length and keyword.
Cicada serenade
Hot dusk darkness;
Dry air moans
~~~~~~~~~
Bamboo veil
Rustle of dry leaves;
Windy whispers
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Moon cake festival
Mid-Autumn nocturne;
Lanterns for company
~~~~~~~~~
Evening parade
Little people play;
Lantern procession
~~~~~~~~~
Warm sanctuary
Buzzy books beam;
Silence speaks
~~~~~~~~~
Active exercise
Heart health engulfs;
Easy interlude
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Fancy frames feat
Quietude prospers;
Silence sheds light
~~~~~~~~~
Grass verge here
Plumeria decor;
Purple flowers sparkle
~~~~~~~~~
Drowsy awakening
Drooping dreams;
New day hurls
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Leon Enriquez
18 September 2016
Singapore
It's been a long time since the cicadas rumbled.
History books say 'twas eighteen hundred and three
When war struck the trees where bees sometimes bumbled.
The seventeen and thirteen boys couldn't agree.
The horror of those days can't be told in rhyme,
But that war to end wars, we may again see.
I tell you children that it's once again time.
It's history that tells us and also some math -
It's because thirteen and seventeen are prime.
For the first time since, they're headed down that path
With products and least common multiples the same,
Their hatch cycles will line up in nature's cruel wrath.
In twenty twenty-four bugs will kill and they'll maim.
Do they just need more food to all eat hearty
For them to be happy and peace to proclaim?
Cicadadoidea Lindseya
1953 marked emergence,
Of Lindsey Elizabeth,
Along with Cicada Brood X.
Now, 4 cycles later,
The school nurse,
Emerges a "Level 68er".
Harmony a la cicada chorus,
Brood X calls "Home",
Maryland & Indiana,
On iridescent wings they roam,
Singing sans piano.
"Linds" likewise travelled.
Snow to Bay to Perdue,
Any knots she unraveled,
As Amma, Audubon of birds blue.
Loved, loving Minchella,
"George's" wings do tell "yah",
Dreams do come true if you act on "REM".
Memories of cicadas can date "yous",
Stay young, savor a poem "Pina Colada,
Any way you choose,
"You say cicayda, I say cicahda"!
What’s It Like?
First:
A strand of hair finer than silk in the Emperor’s robe blows across her face the very end catching in the corner of her mouth. She fills my field of vision her eyes looking full at me, there, a question therein: What’s it like?
Then:
Tiny wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. Yes, that dark spot in the iris, windswept black eyebrows thick and meaningful. Freckles (what an odd word).
Some superlatives:
She’s the orange and fire red of Oklahoma sunsets, Snake River waterfall mist, Palouse rolling richness, maple leaves drifting on the Guadalupe, warm butterscotch on vanilla ice cream clouds sweeping up the valley rain is sure to fall or is it tears? No matter.
Of another order:
The closet’s darkness she is blood on the hunter’s hands, desert dirt devil and twisted mesquite and rose thorns, hand tremors a finger on the trigger, harsh words spoken in anger; she can be cruel.
But then:
The whirligig dance at lake’s edge, white lotus above black water, the cicada wing I saw just this morning, her face so close to mine I can feel her skin’s moisture. I see most clearly that fine strand of hair.
And still the question: What’s it like?
Pine needles falling, I should think, koi blowing bubbles, a mother calling a hand on my shoulder the slightest touch whispers turn around see me. I won’t tell you lies; it hurts, that ache that arc that pain her fair hair’s autumn auburn blended sweetly with black water and her white dress, memories at the tip of mind, the spangled, star-struck twist and turn, dodge and dance of cold constellations.
That’s what it’s like.
I took my students outside
Told them to be still
They looked at me in wonder
Outside of the classroom
What was teacher up to this time?
I whispered….
“What do you hear?”
The booming of the cicadas
In the pine trees on campus
Drowned everything else out
They smiled….
“Write….write about the sounds you hear
Nature has a voice
What does it tell you?
How does it make you feel?”
Today, as I lie on my living room couch
Laptop on belly
In my own world of words
I look out the window
To a over towering pine tree
My little Africa, I’ve called it
The branches curve like the western side
Of that continent
The tree is ALIVE
Little cicadas….irrespective of size
Boom a symphony
Dying to be heard
The rhythm of summer
Maddening chorus
Made by body vibrations
Part of the mystical magic
Of the pine scented trees that
Surround my home
I too need to be heard
For some…the sound will be monotonous
For others…a pulsating melody of a body, a mind set in motion
By dreams, desires, wants, hopes, expectations
By LIFE
A short life span has the cicada….
I, too, am here today, gone tomorrow
But I will not be silent
You may like the “music” I make
Think it heavenly
Soothing
Lulling
Enough to make you dream sweet dreams
Or
You may find it aggravating
Bothersome
Vulgar and loud
Whatever the case may be
That’s me….
Singing in the tree of life
Singing because I know
I too will have to go
But you cannot silence my voice
I sing for me…
I sing for you…
I sing for anyone willing to hear
The vibrations of my soul
I sing because....
I'm dying to be heard
I sing because
Simply because....
I’m ALIVE…
Eileen Manassian Ghali
Spring — Passion
Kintsugi dawn—
white plum scents night air
tea rises in stillness.
Cranes cross pale sky;
child laughter drifts on moss.
A garden remembers.
Summer — Vocation
Tatami breathes—
cicada shells cling
reborn softly.
Koi flicker below
ripples fade in quiet hands.
Evening thunder calls—
incense drifts
forms bow.
Autumn — Mission
Fox lanterns kindle
shoji float through silver mist—
ancestral spirits stir.
Stray dog nestles
by the gate;
even strays seek warmth.
Tea vapor
recalls morning.
Winter — Profession
Snow settles
on stone lanterns
pine needles in palm.
Cold brushes fingertips.
Crane arcs slowly—
silhouette lingers on old walls.
Work kneaded
with laughter;
fire clothes darkness.
Completion — All Seasons as One
Sakura scatter—
petals dance
mirror tea vapor.
Breath holds the garden.
Circle closes
opens anew.
Tea cools,
reflects sky—
time folds gently.
It lays helpless at the foot of the hill gasping for breath, while the shadows drifts slowly over the hardened earth and thickened skies. The scent of the gully birds kept meandering around strange daffodils with courageous scent filtering in the promiscuous skies.
I have learnt that starfish and clams are not the smartest creatures but when they bond together there is no breathing space for the clam to waiver. The bowerbird with its sugary nest scampers around the logs, watching the chipmunk tunneling through the hole while the squirrel kept swinging from door to door and the queen bee kept spewing honey on the wooden floor.
A loud noise echoed from across the horizon crashing through lofty mountain sending billows of smoke through the dented skies. The ashes travels for miles sand and dust mixed with the earth’s crust dancing to the alligator rhythm and the cicada kept its tune for the mass schedule at noon. The beaver stands next to the door watching the giant anteater walking on the shore, while the sea gulls kept asking for more.
I stood from a long distance watching the piranha drifting towards the shore and the gold fish swimming behind its tail with a blood spot on its veil, as the shadows of human encountered with the drill the piranhas plunges in the ocean plate and the mammoth come flying out of nowhere busting down the gate and the fish swam freely towards the shore and migrate into fresh clean waters.
It was a scene that I could never forget; it kept me static on the deck as the ships starts rolling in the voices began to sing and everyone caught on to that mystifying rhythm. I am Free.
The Southern Cross’ trajectory across
the night sky marks the hours that come to pass.
Her prone figure no longer an hourglass;
by the silvery light of Phoebe’s* gloss.
I cling to the edge of the bed, toss
and turn—my reminiscing turns to farce.
Hebe† has long since fled and passion is sparse.
As inscriptions on wedding rings embossed:
‘May our love last forever and a day.’
Eos, turn me into a cicada black!‡
Unlike lovesick Orpheus,** I’m not fey
and I would definitely not turn back
for another round of intimate play.
As lover, she had given me the sack!
I endure constant flak
from my mates down at the pub over pint
that I’m in a terrific moral bind;
inspiration is slack.
If only we could turn back aging clock:
Oh, Selene,†† you might espy lovers who flock
to her bed and lose track.
Written: June 21, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Brian Strand
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Sing, cicada, sing...
a resonant chorus swells—
amidst arching canopies,
through sycamores and silvered shade
crafting the forest’s sacred elegy.
Sing, cicada, sing...
bard of summer’s ageless song
thrums with ardor in amber hues—
your sonorous pulse beats as June stirs.
Sing, cicada, sing . . .
wrap me in blankets of stifling air
where leaden heat bears down the brow—
and midsummer molten cloak dissolves
into the ceaseless cadence of your voice
Sing, cicada, sing...
until the welkin wanes,
until the sighing dusk deepens . . .
until memory rises—as a waxing symphony—
where silence itself morphs into a melody—
Sing, cicada, sing...
so I may recall stillness—
not as ephemeral alabaster
but as summer whispered secret
returning, repeating,
in perpetuum.
Sing, cicada, sing...
Sing, cicada, sleep...
my muse in murmurs,
my solace in shimmering haze,
an aurora-tinged horizon—
a poignant pause at summer’s end
as seasons shift, its song drifts away.
To free a cicada (trapped inside our bedroom)...
Yours truly bug buster Harris - August
twenty fifth two thousand twenty one
(at approximately 4:20 Post Meridian)
felt nearly paralyzed, neutralized,
limned, thus jump started travails,
and went emotionally bust
watching helpless and hapless critter,
who I could faintly hear gently cussed,
anyway said insect found savior
in me, (an aging pencil necked geek),
who sincerely felt his passionate adoration
able, eager, ready and willing to sacrifice
mine measly existence eventually
decades afterwards, these lovely bones
would turn to dust,
(a quicker outcome
if altacocker chose cremation),
yet prior to afterlife matter
first order of business
finagling, jiggling and lifting
liberating confined
within superfamily Cicadoidea
insects in the order Hemiptera
then quickly shutting window and screen
lest plague of cicadas conspired, fussed
and invaded, cuz vicious
rumor quickly circulated
twittering, snapchatting, crowdsourcing,
and buzzfeeding airwaves,
if their harmless buddy
NOT loosed into the wild,
otherwise intrepid nature lover
acquires dubious honor
threatening innocent life form,
her/his helpmates would gather an army -
to rescue stranded
kinsman/woman predicated
duty bound upon semper fidelis
therefore steadfastness
reigning quest they must
be united on wings and prayer,
whereby swarming horde
would cover reasonably rhyming poet
such that he resembles
knight in dull armor coated with rust
whose abridged poem
dogmatically indubitably
opportunistically vapidly trussed.