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Andrew 7d
There are crickets in my room
Somewhere not reached by my broom
They keep chirping
To alert me
Of what hurts me
They’ve made a mess
In my nest
But I can’t find it
To confine it
Like I’m blinded

Mistakes were made
Hurting my name
Bringing me shame
So I live in a grave
Where crickets lay
They can’t be slain
So their noise remains

The crickets are beckoning
Bringing my reckoning
With a sound that’s threatening
Because it’s so deafening

The crickets infest my home
So I’m never really alone
They live in my basement and attic
Chirping until I’ve finally had it
I jump out my window like a rabbit
To avoid their noise so emphatic
But out here the crickets sing prouder
With a chorus that’s even louder
The crickets buzz like an alarm
Reminding me of my harm
They’ll sing for me to disarm
Until I change or wither
So I’m a plagued sinner
Who’ll never be a winner
Wrestling with damage inner

I eluded their noise
So nukes were deployed
And my nation destroyed
By a sound that annoyed
Me until I couldn’t avoid
Not being conscience devoid

I ask for forgiveness
All I hear are crickets
And cops giving tickets
In this concrete thicket
That I need to picket
Distant thunder rolls
As the prairie crickets sing
Kanza babes to sleep
@LadyRavenhill 2019
Haiku #103
Philomena Mar 15
In my dream i'm in his arms
In that same black dress
Barefoot in the soft grass
And we dance
We dance to the sound of the night
The soft crickets and the water's waves
And the steady beat of two hearts as one
And I'm lost in it all
Lost in your eyes and your voice
Lost in that soft black dress
Lost in the darkness of the night
I miss those dreams
Grace Dec 2018
The crickets and the train
How one sound can take you somewhere
But two sounds takes you fast
The summer air begins to shed its heavy skin
The crickets cry to the cold stars,
Harsh and brilliant
Are they beautiful, or just far away?
The train cries too
But at least the crickets
And the stars have each other
My love sleeps by my side
Deep breaths rise and fall
Another sound, but this one brings
Me back and keeps me from following
That train
Those crickets
Those stars
That sounds wraps me up in its arms
And whispers don’t go
There’s nothing for you there at the
End of summer
Sharon Talbot Sep 2018
The very end of August
Brings a stillness in the night,
When the many trills of midsummer
Are silenced and the fireflies gone out!
Lying stilly and listening, I hear
A solemn drone, like an old contralto,
Trying to warble but instead
Radiating an insistent hum
That thrums athwart the arid air,
Long fingers scraping a humming tanpura.
Even the full moon is dry,
Gazing down, matter-of-fact,
Through the dust-like mist.
Summer has given up,
Letting leaves and vines dry up,
Tinged with red and shriveled bronze.
I could walk in the garden now,
And not worry about slugs on
The dried stalks of lilies.
The robust asters offer little
Temptation to garden  pests
And strapping thistles seem to stand guard.
Is the balance between my will
Over the garden and its desire
To overflow and bloom beyond me,
Now achieved yet unwanted?
Yes…I prefer the lushness that comes
After the rains, with an untamed riot
Of color and green, the celebration
That happens on its own, heedless
Of my wishes; yet I revel in it
Every time it wins
And will wait a year
For this to emerge again.
I originally titled this "Cricket's Song" but it didn't seem to match the mystery and majesty of their night songs. I hope the title doesn't seem too pretentious!
PoserPersona Aug 2018
The concrete drum
beats two steps;
their sound signals
dear freedom

The cricket hum
drowns the day
and instills a
tranquil numb

The bare breeze
strums leaves and all
and breaks the heat
in welcome

The tonic sum
a blessed song;
allowing one
to triumph
sunprincess Aug 2018
Today there was a cricket parade in town
All the crickets from neighboring towns were in attendance even
Every cricket that was sociable came joining the festivities
Clicking their heels and pulling up their hose
Even brought their cousins and their grandmas

Every bird in the county must've came to watch them put on a grand show
True crickets were everywhere
and the birds were having a feast
Awtumn May 2018
At 3 am,
In a small city
Where the stars barely shine
And the darkness is silent,
You can hear hidden crickets
And feel the ghosts of forgotten memories.
They call it the witching hour,
But I call it
The hour of inspiration.
Because it's at 3 am,
That I write my best poems.
But it's also the only time,
That I let the tears fall
And I allow myself to think
Of hugs from winter,
Conversations with the breeze,
And the kisses from the stars.
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