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Chris Saitta Jun 19
The cicada husk of the crescent moon sheds in cyclides light,
Molted whispers of life, spread like perfume behind the ear,
Or like silver earrings unadorned and scattered around the night-lit table.
Here too, the garden gown of Babylon lies heaped in soiled ruin,
Beaten down to sand at the foot of the bed of the Tigris and Euphrates.
  
Though the dunes are its aerial, root-bound springs,
Though the underground nymphs tend with cicala wings,
And underspurt of incessant summer song to lure
The resurrection rose of Jericho to bud once more,
In desert-faith for the hanging garden of a full moon.
“Cyclides” are more formally known as Dupin cyclides, which are geometric forms that can be ring-shaped, parabolic ring-shaped, or take other similar shapes.

Almost all cicadas (also called cicalas), including periodical cicadas, live primarily as underground nymphs until they emerge above ground in the adult form for several weeks to months.

The resurrection rose or rose of Jericho is the name for two varieties of resurrection plants, one of which grows in Iraq (modern-day Babylon).  The hardy plants can survive extended droughts and like the Biblical city of Jericho, from which they take their name, are thought to be reborn from ash.
Phi Kenzie Aug 2018
They start as a single
before moving to unity
a chorus of chortles
to those who listen for that

It’s hard not to
when they rehearse in your right ear
and perform in the left

You said that they could
lent them the key
thought about drowning out
with a little symphony

What a ******* mistake that was
August
and all the bugs are looking for love
Danielle Jun 2018
The cicada revealed itself to me.
Gray to the touch,
Streamlining itself into oval curves,
To cooperate with the summer storms.
I listened to the tangy air.
Watched as they organized their flight
And as they disappeared
With their flowery baggage
All while lightning struck the air.
I think I was reading a book that talked about cicadas and I had an urge to look them up. Somehow that lead to this poem on a topic that I would never have chosen to do myself.
PoserPersona Jun 2018
The encompassing and deafening hum,
until Winter's grasp snuffs out the last one.

Malaise Summer fails rousing still Autumn,
by delaying the elliptical stone
Unawares, she slumbers in chaste chateau
Without prince Summer's kiss she won't be woke;
ode to sleeping beauty's enchanting thrall.
Though due time was granted, time now to stall
For he can't let go his cicada heart;
singing beau woes for Spring prior long gone
The pulsing winged drums maintains being sane
Yielding to Fall would at first worsen pain

The encompassing and deafening hum,
until Winter's grasp snuffs out the last one.
John Koroko Jun 2018
I can still hear the cicadas,
their inescapable and deafening hum.
They are the only thing I can hear,
and you are the only thing I can see.

Dry green canopies of less oft seen gums.
Rocky outcrops for zen water to trickle through.
I can still feel my heart beating to your drum,
the only thing I can feel.
Martin Mikelberg Jan 2018
millions of cicadas
why do they choose
a mate
Enough cicadas, enough protein, lets eat
Martin Mikelberg Jan 2018
millions of cicadas
how do they choose
their mate
this follows from my previous minimal haiku
Martin Mikelberg Jan 2018
cicadatingame
millions of cicadas
how do they choose
their mate
lick your palms before you dive
i've sweat all my salt into your hands
don't lose it
cramp scared the daylight out of me
so i'll sit in the sun a little longer
sipping my pink lemonade.
wearing my enamel.

i'll watch you swim. seize the day.
from a distance where i can still hear the little winged love birds singing in the canopies. and cicadas chirp at dusk.

there's days to come i'll remember this
and wish i had the guts to be even waist deep in the sea
just to be close to you.
when the rain paints a river on the hillside i sit upon. my teeth chatter 'til they crack, and you were here once (but now you're not).
Juniper Zed Jul 2017
Dimly glow the fireflies
In the densely wooded grove
The creek beside the promenade
Sounds like the whispers of the cove

In its solitary peace
The carp repress confessions
In the quiet emerald water
Live sorrows and obsessions

And when the cicadas buzz
They are like a music box
Young love is their handle and springs
They are the muse the world mocks

The melody of passion
Bleeds like the sap of the trees
On lukewarm nights of dancing stars
Love enters the world as breeze

A pair of lovers awaits
To live together at last
And as the date comes closer here
The future is not colorfast

Life's hourglass so expires
And there is not one who grieves
His final rest is too costly
So now he floats with the leaves

There's no wedding to foresee
Thus the bridge became of use
Her toes hang off the bridge again
But this time she holds a noose

Oh the irony of love
It's as the cicadas sang
"Be joyful now in summer's heat,
By our love, we all will hang."

The silly girl hanged herself
And she hung there not alone
Cicadas sang her melody
As her neck skin removed from her bone

And so she hung there quite still
Until her corpse decomposed
Her tale was not quite as haunting
As the music the cicadas composed
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