Long Cicadas Poems
Long Cicadas Poems. Below are the most popular long Cicadas by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cicadas poems by poem length and keyword.
Nature's small insects cute and rude
Garden blooms gathering food
Butterflies' sweet nectar seeks,
Beneath sun's outstretched blond streaks
Where, yet a spider does hide
Silvery web shadows bide
Night is flashing lighting bugs
Tall grass leaves their heartfelt hugs
Dragonfly's wings weave and fades
Sunlight shining rainbow shades
Termites creeping in woodwork
Silent destroyers as they lurk
Beetle strength squirms in its murk
Fine powder they scratch and chirk
Cicadas incessant whining
Shedding its clear shell lining
Mosquito's blood hungry dining
Ill for which I've been pining
Cricket's chirp amid tall sheaves
Hidden inside curling leaves
A ladybug among a rose
Sweet aroma zephyr blows
Tiny creatures bombinate
Among flowers as they ate
1/18/2022
'Insects' Contest Info
Sponsor Angela Tune
All bugs are insects but, all insects are not bugs. True bugs belong to the order Hemiptera under the class Insecta. The main difference between bugs and insects is that bugs are the insects having proboscis, which can be used to suck food whereas insects have other mouthparts adapted for chewing or sponging.
The cooks in the Japanese navy
Make a dish of aquatic fly larvae.
Too small to filet them,
They just lightly sauté them
In well-sugared soy sauce as gravy.
That Venezuelans eat spiders may be new to a few,
Though tarantulas rarely end up in a stew.
They're best when they're toasted,
Or freshly fire roasted,
Yielding eight tasty drumsticks instead of just two.
Some South Africans' diet is less than ideal,
And porridge of corn is a popular meal.
If the stuff's a bit lumpy
They never get grumpy,
Those termites are added to give it some zeal.
In Cambodian markets in streets
Cooked cicadas are vended as treats.
But etiquette begs
One remove wings and legs
Before they're scooped out and served up as eats.
The Balinese delight in flying things,
Dragonflies are crunchy sweet and have no sting.
They're first dewinged to stop their frolic,
Then boiled in coconut milk and garlic,
But just enough to give the taste some zip and zing.
In the rest of the world from Nashville to Naples
They haven't caught on and don't grace many tables.
Though infrequently served
Canapéd or hors d'oeurved,
More bugs are a treat than are treated as staples.
Author's note: According to Miguel Vilar of "Science World", 80% of the world's population savors bugs, either as staples of an everyday diet, or as rare delicacies. Entomophagy has yet to catch on in America and Europe. Thank goodness for small favors. I'm just saying…
Awakening early mornings with an eerie sound,
as cicadas start calling, emerging from the ground.
These harmless insects shed their exoskeletons,
leaving evidence of cycle changes for every one.
In their once timely appearance you could have placed stock,
due to their biological alarm clock.
Now with global warming and the earth heating up,
cicadas are coming more frequently to mate and feed on newer stuff.
Changing their long held patterns, navigating cooler courses,
they are moving further north in search of better food choices.
Don't run off to an audiologist my friend, that buzzing
in your ears is just this new cicada trend.
Night cicadas
Feisty echoes;
Shadows glide
~~~~~~~~~
Late night market
Noisy bargains;
Crowds congregate
~~~~~~~~~
Shoppes by the Bay
Festive fare;
Crowded feet prompt
~~~~~~~~~
Window shop
Grand displays call;
Christmas spree
~~~~~~~~~
Old lovers
Downtown magic;
Spicy moments
~~~~~~~~~
Transit train
Hordes emerge;
Private escapades
~~~~~~~~~
Proof coins
Precious metals entrance;
Fancy outlook
~~~~~~~~~~
Lovely feelings
Wonder prompts;
Scented spice floats
~~~~~~~~~
Insight comes
Mystic glimpses;
Wonder floats
~~~~~~~~~
Leon Enriquez
29 December 2017
Singapore
Red clay clings to the heels of the lost,
Drifting through streets where the past still lingers,
A heat that hums like a preacher's pause—
Heavy with memory, thick with regret.
Bourbon pools in the cracked-glass dusk,
As magnolia ghosts whisper through fences,
Their petals wilting in the weight of time.
The train wails lonely across the river,
Carrying ghosts and gamblers alike,
Their debts unpaid, their voices drowned
Beneath the hush of cypress shade.
Cicadas chant their dry-lipped hymns,
The neon flickers, the jukebox groans,
A hymn half-drowned in static and smoke—
Somewhere a dog howls at nothing at all.
And the night, thick as molasses, sways.
“Serenity is the balance of mind, body, and spirit.” Anon
Deep dark dusk enveloped the enchanted garden.
I sat on a sort of beach chair, inside a delightful bower.
Silver stars twinkled up in the vast stygian sky
While all around me, I stared at the delicate blooms.
Silence was almost perfect. Even the breeze blew lightly.
No bees flew for nectar around the late nightfall.
They sleep, but house bees maintain the needs of their queen.
Yet all around cicadas sang in a monotonous croon.
No swans glided around the vast lake, nor did birds fly
From trees to trees. They rested in their nests.
A waning moon rose, sending its weak rays all around.
It was a scene that induced serenity as I fell into a deep sleep.
Placed 1
The humid heat lays heavy like a hand upon the porch,
And the rattle of ice in old mason jars.
There is no hurry here; the clock is just a habit,
And the afternoon keeps its own sweet time.
Politeness is woven deep into the grain,
A softened cadence in the yes, ma’am,
And a wave from the truck on the red dirt road,
Neighborly grace passed fence to fence
Like warm cornbread wrapped in a clean dish towel.
Down where the live oaks bow their heavy heads,
Spanish moss hangs low as river mist,
Guarding the quiet between church bells and cicadas.
Here, stories stretch longer than the shadows,
Steeped in kindness, sharp with wit,
Leaving the door unlatched till dusk
And a spare rocker waiting in the shade.
Where the blackwater curls around cypress knees,
And the current moves gentle as an old hymn sung soft and low,
Salt air drifts in from the hidden reaches of the bay,
Tangled in the gray beard of Spanish moss
And the sweet, heavy breath of wild jasmine.
Here, hospitality is measured by the tide:
A hand raised from a passing skiff,
The easy share of a fresh catch and dockside stories,
Warm greetings carried across the brackish reed
As if every stranger were simply kin-folk running late.
The evening settles like amber on the glassy run,
Softening the bite of the blades of marsh grass,
While cicadas tune their twilight choir.
Charm is the patience of the water itself,
Lingering, quiet, making room for all that drifts
Into the shelter of the bayou’s open arms.
Old men and women gently argue over who caught the bigger fish,
Their laughter rolling like thunder over calm water,
Softening the edges of the dark.
Screens tap shut against the cooling night,
Sweet tea turns to porch-light bourbon,
And the crickets take over the sermon.
No matter how far you’ve traveled or how deep the river runs,
There’s always a plate kept warm,
A place to tie off your boat,
And a lantern burning by the door,
Bidding the evening goodnight until the break of dawn.
The world of insects is adither and abuzz
About the biggest party bash that ever was.
Their favorite time is near,
It comes just once a year,
The Annual Ugly Bug Ball.
Caterpillars, centipedes, and honeybees
Are sprucing up and rubbing rouge upon their knees.
Their costumes are brand new,
And soon they're going to
The Annual Ugly Bug Ball.
Moths and butterflies are practicing their dips,
The Arachnida are limbering up their hips,
And ants who love to dance
Hope they'll find romance
At this year's Ugly Bug Ball.
Both the mantises are planning to be there,
Such an elegant, sophisticated pair.
The husband is ideal
As dancing partner and a meal.
One mating tango, though, and he'll have done his share.
When the time comes they'll start streaming toward the hall,
Some will flutter, others scurry, creep, or crawl.
They'll frolic until break of day
To music the cicadas play
At the Annual Ugly Bug Ball.
July burns bright in a sky of hot gold,
While the story of summer begins to unfold.
The sun climbs the heavens in blinding white fire,
And hearts beat in time with a joyous desire.
We gather outside on the emerald lawn,
With buckets of water brought out at the dawn,
And pure white cotton, like clouds in the blue,
Awaiting the magic of color and hue.
The folding begins with a reverent grace,
A spiral spun tight in a sacred embrace.
We pinch the soft cloth at the very sweet core,
And twist it around on the sun-baked floor,
Like galaxies spinning in deep starry night,
Secured by the grip of the rubber bands tight.
Or lines made in zigzags, a mountain and stream,
A canvas prepared for a psychedelic dream.
Then come the bright bottles, like jewels in the sun,
Where pigments of magic are ready and run.
The Fuchsia leaps out like a tropical flower,
A burst of hot passion, a midsummer power.
And Turquoise pours down like a Caribbean sea,
As deep and as wild as a soul running free.
Bright Lemon crashes in like a ray from the height,
To drench all the dark in a glorious light.
With Violet shadows and Tangerine blaze,
We paint the fierce pulse of these long summer days.
The liquid sinks deep through the fibers and threads,
As vibrant as poppies in garden-row beds.
It stains our own fingers with colors of joy,
A playful design that no time can destroy.
We wrap them in plastic and leave them to rest,
To dream in the heat while the noon is at best,
While cicadas hum loud in the sycamore trees,
And sweet heavy scents ride the slow-moving breeze.
At last comes the rinsing, the glorious birth,
As water runs clear from the salts of the earth.
The white cloth is gone, and the miracle stays—
A rainbow uncurled from the summer’s hot haze.
We hang them to dry on a line by the shed,
Where banners of ruby and sapphire are spread.
They flutter and snap in the soft afternoon,
Beneath the pale ghost of the midsummer moon.
And wearing these shirts when the twilight is cool,
By edges of woods or a clear gravel pool,
We carry the fire of July on our chest,
The vivid expression of what we love best.
A riot of joy in a world overcast,
A moment of magic we wish would last fast.
For tie-dye in July is more than a hue—
It’s wearing the soul when the world is made new.
In the waking arms of Spring, a gentle whisper flows,
Where petals dance with breezy tunes, and vibrant life bestows.
Buds unfurl their verdant wings, in a delicate embrace,
Kissing the world with tender hues, a rejuvenating grace.
Underneath the Summer’s gaze, a sultry whisper warms,
Where fields of gold sway freely, beneath the sun that swarms.
The melody of cicadas hums, through the endless azure skies,
While flavors of the fruitful boughs, in sweet repose, lies.
Within the folds of Autumn, a crisp whisper swirls,
Where leaves cascade in fiery array, as the wind unfurls.
Harvest moon bathes the land, in a golden, glowing sheen,
Whilst creatures frolic, store, and nest, amidst the amber scene.
Beneath the quilt of Winter, a hushed whisper chills,
Where snowflakes grace the slumbering earth, and time seemingly stills.
Bare branches etch against the grey, a monochrome ballet,
As fireside tales and warmth entwine, keeping cold at bay.
Through cycles of the whispered tales, nature sings aloud,
A symphony of life and death, in every leaf endowed.
Eternal is the melody, of seasons wax and wane,
A testament to resilience, through sun, wind, and rain.
Nature spins her stories, in the threads of time so dear,
A tapestry of moments, crafted year by passing year.
In every changing season, may we find a reason new,
To stand in awe, appreciate, and cherish every view.