Long Crickets Poems
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Under the canopy of the silver crescent light, right before the ripe of night, basking in the mushroom embrace of twinkling stars, listening to crickets’ melancholic lullabies, before temporary death beckoned to make acquaintances, we circled around the glowing reddish and yellow flames, our ears ajar, ready to tune to the frequency of riveting wisdom transmitted through the crisp, serene evening airwaves.
The grey-haired oracle would sit on his favourite laid-back chair, ready to unscroll the scripts that would come to be the "cheat code" of life.
He was revered, an epitome of admiration and a central figure with instinctual prognosis. He would smell the rains three summers away, a harbinger that steered us clear of troubled waters.
"Let me tell you about the tale of pregnant men," he began speaking through the silence of our sheer attention.
"In a faraway land existed men, heavy-laden with self-gratification and pride.
They fed on ego, spiced with self-righteousness.
They dined and wined at the expense of those who erected the ladders for their ascension.
They spoke with twisted tongues, words that cut deeper than a surgical blade. Words that only those cut from the same cloth praised and fed as daily bread.
The ‘sword of command,’ given under the supposition that it would emancipate the chokehold on humanity and poverty, became a weapon that sliced the very strands of morality and voice of reason.
But no matter how skillful a bird is at kissing the clouds, landing is inevitable.
With time’s relentless march, they gathered at the village square with sugar-coated lips ready to tea their way up once more.
Bellies full of deceit from yesterday's promises. Wearing humbled faces, as a litmus test, to test the masses' dementia and ignorance. Expecting oranges from the lemon seeds the earth swallowed.
"If you were among the gathering, what would you have done?" he queried, soliciting our comprehension from our intrigued faces.
"Time is but cyclic in the arena of karma," he concluded, yawning his way to his chambers of dreams.
Effervescent elation arises and dances to ancient echoes; the rhythm of the drums heartbeat.
Champagne notes bubble into the night sky; night music of Gaia’s children is music to my sleeping ears.
Ethereal flutes singing to the crickets,
usher me into the dreamtime and there I awaken;
an ancient being, I heed the call.
I drum along; wings beating out the chorus;
I dance in skies of cotton white fluff.
Drums intensifying, crescendo as,
Native Voices sing my name.
I am king Thunderbird and my subjects saluting me…
music to my ears.
Written 2-14-19
Mary Fletcher was prime minister in olde England, like fondest memory,
Of days when the twilight stood still, with silver moon, floating on sea.
Mary Fletcher was capable and caring, to the country's great benefit;
Like spring rains of green benevolence, trailing the fragrant evidence.
Andrew was Mary's loving husband. Their lives were so happy together!
Like allurng, violet future, that recalls moments in lush, green heather.
Scarlet summer was all in a fever, as faceted friends called, flustered;
Passing fields of fabled enchantment, where silky, lilac wind muttered.
Faces of family came in dreams, and in person, on the Fridays of fairs;
Full of food, games and fun activities, like colored, hopscotch squares.
Mary lived in the house of butterflies, forever peeking at the windows;
Offering the frequent flashes of color, like every shade of the primrose.
Saturdays wore its smiles, on Mary's street of pretty robins screeching;
Where blue dragonflies were dancing, and chirpy crickets had meetings.
Owls stared wide-eyed fascination, as neighbors came, one with night;
In the company of nostalgic, new moon, like velvet under the spotlight.
'Mangave mission to Mars' lifted off, when the 'corpse flowers' lay dying;
And 'grow anywhere' trees sprang hither and yon, without halfway trying.
During storms of 'dahlias electric flash,' or dark nights of 'showy lanterns,'
'Rose feather' blooms took the spotlight, while secrets hid in blue caverns.
As Andrew was crossing a bridge one sunny day, a large chunk of it fell,
Breaking the car's blue windshield! How he escaped harm, none can tell.
Andrew sent Mary an emergency message, apprising her of grave danger;
And she notified the right departments, within moments. Anxiety changer!
The bridge was capably repaired, due to the action of Andrew's first lady;
Like midnight of mimosa fragrance, giving raptures to areas grown shady!
'London Bridge is falling down,
Falling down, falling down,
London Bridge is falling down,
My fair lady.
Build It Up With Bricks of Shaw,
Bricks So Sure,
Bricks So Sure,
Build It Up With Bricks of Shaw,
My Fair Lady.
It Will Stand For Ever More,
Ever More,
Ever More,
It Will Stand For Ever More,
My Fair Lady.'
fluorescent trees bathe in the scent
of a citrus mid-evening,
fingertips tracing lemon stars
as roots house the very veins that
wake the smell of quietude: of what
mystery wets the blanket
of sparkling air robed in yellow mist,
as wisps of neon feathers rub
breezes ordained only for crickets
winging threads of flowered hair… hush!
the settling night induces a thousand
births of newborn seeds, seeds gaping
primeval rebirth stirring the flavor
of another late night in hints of amber,
and dusk slowly changes her skin
to finest tone so golden like wickers
of coming dawn… this is my kind of yellow
a burst of light where handmaids of wind
glide beneath my feet, the lake and dune…
this halo ever flickering through eyes’ palette
-----
For Broan Strand 265
What exactly is home and where is it? And why is it vital that we know about 'Home'?
And how will I really know when I have arrived home? Some say that home is the place where one was born.
Others say that it's the place where one's story begins. Is it just a geographical place of origin or something more?
If something more or something less, what's the more or the less?
The main road and railroad tracks were there long before I arrived late summer of 1949. That huge rustic tower overlooking everything and the big seed and fertilizer building where we threw rocks against the coca cola sign are gone forever, and so is the big store in the center of town where we bought ice cream bars and sodas for a dime. Those geographical images of my place of origin are mostly still intact, and the agricultural crops of corn and beans are still being produced, but most of the people are gone.
My childhood friends and relatives, most of whom I have not seen in more than 50 years have all moved North, South, East, and West. And I guess my move west and the scattering of all the rest was best for most because I have never once heard any sounds of protest. I do suppose that the lighting bugs we often saw and the crickets we heard late at night chose to remain.
In my case, I guess when you sum it all up, I'd have to say that home is where your heart is, and I took it with me everywhere I went. I can often hear the ending of a song I heard many years ago. "And I like where I am today and this is where I'll stay". For me, the first part of that line is true, and would to God the second part was too but unfortunately, it holds no promises for me.
06172019PoSoup
the hole in the street
is a gaping wound
it’s been here
for two months
now
the walls in the house
groan and ache
as the front yard
hides in shadows
the night is an ocean
set in front of me
while sitting at my laptop
i hear a pattering sound
i open the door
and look outside
to see there’s no rain
but restless crickets sing
a street light flickers
dead stars
the tractor factory
down the hill
has been closed
almost forty years
a casino opened
to pick up the slack
but nothing’s the same
i can feel this town
is dying every day
yesterday
i washed dishes
at a diner
three hours for free
a trial run
and didn’t get it
as a second job
the manager says
there are many others
on trial
a light bleeds
through a crack
under a door
in the other room
the roommate
who wants me to move
stirs
The midnight sky is filled with stars
that sparkle 'round the bright full Moon,
while mirror image on the lake
so softly ripples in her glow.
As crickets sing their mating song,
and palm trees sway in summer's breeze,
my eyes look toward the glowing sky
and think about how small we are.
Alone I sit on this grand night
with nature 'neath this lovely sky,
and watch Moon's silver shining light
paint surfaces from far away.
With her, I'm drifting through a void
we share in this grand Universe;
so close and yet so far away...
she smiles at me with Luna-Love.
August 5, 2018
~2nd Place~
Contest: Beauty Of The Night
Sponsor: Sotto Poet
Judged: 11/17/2022
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Just pass the flourishing sycamore and maple trees.
Just pass the vast meadow where crickets play and butterflies probe for nectar.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Just a few kilometers from me is a blue water pond that is a seasonal home for
a family of trumpeter swans.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Where I'm surrounded by a rustic gothic fence.
And at my feet are glorious variegated annuals and perennials.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come see me in my brilliance where the sun is pouring its heavenly beams upon my ivory body.
Come and see how many seasons has embraced me.
Let your eyes be gifted with the sight of my golden thatched crown, where larks and wren gently nestle.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come inside me.
Enjoy my warmth.
Explore me and all my charm.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come rest your weight on the antique rocker in front of the Rumford fireplace.
Enjoy the port that is half filled inside a lead crystal decanter.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
You will, with great contentment bury yourself in the serenity, and pity many in the world who isn't you.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come and listen to the enchanting sounds of my memories.
Come see me.
I'm just at the end of the dirt lane.
Come and hold in perfection the moments you share with me.
copyright Looking At The Light From The Bottom Of The Lake.
Inspired by a picture. 2017
In the labyrinth of appearances, life stretches like a carpet of shadows,
I still dream of walking barefoot through storms of stellar chaos,
letting stones embroider my skin with love in shades of amethyst,
the ash of yesterday erases the traces of relentless lightning,
the ignorance of loneliness swallows the stars on the mysterious horizon.
Entrusted to the tormentor, I dance with the devil's shadows,
I sip from naive springs, like a jasmine in chains,
towards the Stockholm syndrome of chained eternity,
I hear the song of crickets, feel the warmth of dewy tears,
waiting, longing for peridots dancing in spirals of light.
A game of Lucifer, peace is a winding chimera,
the scent of sunrays tastes of a mist of malice,
today I kneel at the altar of enchanted illusions,
reminiscing the forests where I was a forbidden lace,
cursed by the fires of the blood moon, a tortured sin.
Oh, divine destiny, woven with shadows and shining light,
anguish hidden among clemencies sculpted in time,
the beginning of an inevitable end, but I do not fear what is to come,
the realm of fragrances and mysterious zephyr,
regret will be a garden purified with saffron and amber.
Perhaps, when life's last refrain repeats,
we will reflect on the circus in which we naively danced,
but then would you catch my soul ready to soar,
would you feel my pulse, listen to my heart singing,
would you catch my ink, would you catch my sigh?
Hallowed be Your Name, Hallowed be Your eternal Light.
The pampas grasses' tassels start to show
Creamy white against green
Behind the Crepe Myrtle's color
Banked like a sunrise preened
Gray clouds tinged with luminous light
From clear to magenta
A somber morn parenthesized
By stillness; fear enters
Silvery blanket drapes the woods
A foggy damp surrounds
Crickets sing a chipper melody
'Pon the damp, cool ground
Roosters' crows fall flat in the vale
Weighted by the moist air
Birds begin to awake and sing
Songs of love ending fair_
What will this day's purpose reveal?
Good, evil or neutral?
Only God knows ahead the events
Even the unusual