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Paul Idiaghe Dec 2020
There’s a holocaust
sweeping through my body
but i call it
love,

strap myself to its stake
as a sacrifice, relish
how its fire

dignifies me,
how the tongue-like torso  
of my scent
rolls out to taste
God.

You, with the hot air
for hair, you
with the sparking skin,
feed my flames,
you

hearteater, the mouths
on your cheeks
open wide
& I enter, as if to join
the rest of me; see

how all that is left
circulating in my veins
is your voice; my body,
now inanimate,

an instrument for your
heartsong—hear
its cinders sing like
cicadas—here

is the sequel to your stones
thrice striked.
Lane O Aug 2020
Cicadas singing
Crescendo in the dark wood
Summer's droning chorus
Mike Markes Jan 2020
yes, our music drowns on the tenement rooftop
as the cicadas droned hymns dedicated to libido
from trees at piercing decibels, shedding nymph exuviae,
mourning warmth and dirt womb
flaunting stained glass wings—
i wonder, do they ever fly?

no, she says, at least not well.
she used to put them on her shoulder in summer
along streambeds before knotting them to balloons.
string-to-flesh, she’d make them fly.
like ground to sky, like up from down, was inevitable,

as fated as abandoned skin left on bark,
a skeletal leaf, rotting for dear death or death after,
moon-drunk, drunk-drunk, in elongated breaths,
we listen to their endless cries, now
the morning’s cold or maybe early afternoon.
danial Jan 2020
3AM
on the loneliest of nights
the cicadas filled the silence

and when they go away
the thought of you sinks back in

love is clumsy
love is loud

and if this isn’t love
why can’t i hear anything else other than you
little Sep 2018
If you hurt again and again
Forgiveness becomes a sin

Lean on me
I'll be descreet
Winking down the hall

Have you seen a hamster ball
The kind that spin around

Tell me more
And anything else
I'll dance until I fall
Don Bouchard Aug 2018
Cicadas whine metallically
In trees along the sweltered streets;
Wasps and hornets arc angrily
Enough to cause me fear.
Late summer’s not my favorite time of year.

Flowers nearly done;
The tulips, irises, and poppies
Long since seeded out;
They’ve had their fun.
Bedraggled day lilies remain,
This is the beginning of the mums.
Bees seek latent nectars
Or tap into their golden stores
To supplement their bumbling runs.

Lawns foist a burnt but stubborn edge
While only thistles still refuse
To bow to August's incessant heat;
Their spikes sprout poisonous defiance.
The dog’s left yellowed pools of dying grass;
I admit the neighbors’ lawns surpass.  
I suppose the time to gather
Drying excrement’s returned, alas....

Keeping up appearances is hard at summer's end.
Ennui of season full and just past ripe  
Leaves tired old men like me
A chiding cause to gripe.
Morning thoughts August 17, 2018
Anna Mosca Jun 2016


it is a revelation
not one cicada
sounds the same

a butterfly sitting
by me admiring
something I lose

myself on such lightness
I use to tell children
to stop and to listen to

the songs  of
butterflies as
they nodded back
This poem is from the collection California Notebooks 01

www.annamosca.com
Cicadas singing
a nighttime lullaby
sending me off to sleep
Jaime Nautte Jun 2015
I sit in a forest, with my back against a large oak,
and listen. Among rustling leaves and
whining cicadas I hear something else.
Something larger.

It's moving through the forest on jointed legs,
snapping the branches of century old trees.
An insect the size of a castle. It lets out a cry.
Sounds like a thousand year old whale's
death rattle. The cicadas stop whining and I
shudder.

It's heading to the lake to breed,
or to die. Their kind begins and ends in water.
Very morbid creatures, they are.

I can feel its steps shake the earth as it comes
closer and then I see it. Ten long, jointed legs
support the bulk of the thing. It towers over me,
silver. Its shell is a knight's armour and its red
eyes are the devil's. I stand up in awe of the
colossal bug as it lumbers past me, blocking the sun
and casting me in shadow for a while.

I light a cigarette and listen to it move through the forest.
Eventually, I can't hear it anymore and the cicadas
start to whine again.
She's an imp of a troublemaker fairy
they call her Heather Featherwand
she lives midst ancient ruins
    'pon Saturn's ringlets
          of ethereal ice & dust
you might get a peek at her
  neath a summertide night's dream,
she wears lavender and tangerine
  to blend in with the blazing cosmos,
 her pale peachy butterfly wings
    make sounds like katydids
     singing in the treetops and
         cicadas come to life at night
  further adding to her mysterious flight,
she took off one day, they say
    with the man in the moon
  and they've been starstruck ever after
Supposedly my fairy name is Heather Featherwand, long story,  just having a little fun with it!
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