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Sam Lampyris Sep 2024
Date written: June 23, 2024
yisselakh@myyahoo.com

Mantis

By: Yisselakh

Verse:

So you look above the hedge
And see the mantis on the edge
The waning sun shines through its silhouette
A sea of green perched beneath
The roaring storm of overcast red
The roaring storm of overcast red
The roaring storm of overcast red

Pre-Chorus:

And the little life
Oh so it oversees the other side?
Arms curved, and the eyes?
The eyes?
The eyes?
Piercing into the mind
Does the little dot lead
A sphere of truth or lies

Chorus:

For humanity patiently on this side
Of time, of life, of a metaphorical rhyme
What do you see from above us
What can you prophesy?
If he were the cicada perhaps
We'd know everything
Everything
Everything
But it stays so silent
Oh so silent
Oh so silent
So we can do nothing
Except keep dreaming
Keep dreaming
Keep dreaming

Repeat:

Pre-Chorus:

Ask the little life
Does it oversees the other side?
Arms curved, and the eyes?
The eyes?
The eyes?
Piercing into the mind
Does the little dot lead
A sphere of truth or lies

Chorus:

For humanity patiently on this side
Of time, of life, of a metaphorical rhyme
What do you see from above us
What can you prophesy?
If he were the cicada perhaps
We'd know everything
Everything
Everything
But it stays so silent
Oh so silent
Oh so silent
So we can do nothing
Except keep dreaming
Keep dreaming
Keep dreaming

CODA:

Is there an unshakable truth waiting of a sweet
Awakening
That, my child, my soul, the faithful and hopeless
We have to answer from within
Do you believe?
Do you believe?
Do you believe?
The Secret Lives of Sam Lampyris 3
Loosely Inspired By:
FABRE’S
BOOK OF INSECTS
RETOLD FROM ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS’
TRANSLATION of FABRE’S “SOUVENIRS ENTOMOLOGIQUES”
BY MRS. RODOLPH STAWELL


-------


Disclaimer:

Sam Lampyris is peeking through time from eternity. Sam Lampyris has all the time in the world. Sam Lampyris wants to know everything, Sam Lampyris wants to do everything, Sam Lampyris wants to write about everything. Sam Lampyris draws, Sam Lampyris paints, writes, learns, sings, thinks.
Sam Lampyris has many facets and many names, many interests and hobbies.
Sam Lampyris is PinkCircleLyrics,
He is Yisselakh.
He is Meynoher.
And more.
He is impulsive, and follows the ebbs and flow of his stream of consciousness faithfully.

All conscious directly inspired pastiche, homage, references, adaptation, and other derivative content will be noted, and any other similarities beyond this I can only attribute to subconscious influence, collective consciousness or unconscious, or pure coincidence.

Unlike previous works by Sam Lampyris under various pseudonyms, these works are less reactive and more proactive. This is to say that the previous poems and lyrics often sprung directly from my immediate reaction to things I have heard, listened to, read, seen or watched, and are usually much more authentic to my personal philosophy, be it intuitive or learned.

These, however, are more proactive in the sense that I voluntarily seek prompts and inspirations from books and other mediums I look to learn from and write with them in mind. I do this in order to fortify my understanding of them in my own preferred way.

However, during the writing process, my mind always, in some strange way, becomes locked in a track and I, again, seem to be always directed to follow my intuition. Thus, most of the works are non rhyming or rhyming free verses, as instead of writing with strict and consistent meters, it feels like my own being is forced to follow rhythm patterns that "feels right."

Thus, though I can't promise these thoughts are anything under the sun, in fact I can promise the exact opposite:

Ecclesiastes1:10 King James Version

"Is there any thing whereof it may be said, See, this is new? it hath been already of old time, which was before us."

I can promise these works are absolutely authentic to the entire being of Sam Lampyris, no matter what his name is at the time.
Sam Lampyris Sep 2024
Date written: June 20, 2024
yisselakh@myyahoo.com

The Cicada

By: Yisselakh

Intro:

Therein lies the rub
You're mistaking the grubs
You can't even tell between the cicada and the wasp
When it's so obvious
So obvious

Chorus:

Who's the singer, the summer bug
Who's the singer, the summer bug
Content with its own love
Even if its something perhaps
Only he'll love

Verse 1:

And you still think you know
The stranger of the olive grove
The slacker shut out of the ant's abode
And we always think we are the ants
In these stories told
At least that's what's sold
At least that's what's sold
To us

Chorus:

Who's the singer, the summer bug
Who's the singer, the summer bug
Content with its own love
Even if its something perhaps
Only he'll love

Verse 2:

You looked in the pond
And felt rather cross
This ant looks too much like a cicada
You feel it's too late to accept who you are
When you spend most your life lost
Doesn't the right way feel like the wrong path
Is this the fallacy of sunk cost

Bridge:

Unable to accept
Unable to accept

CODA Chorus:

Who's the singer, the summer bug
Who's the singer, the summer bug
Content with its own love
Even if its something perhaps
Only he'll love

Who's the singer, the summer bug
Who's the singer, the summer bug
Content with its own love
Even if its something perhaps
Only he'll love
The Secret Lives of Sam Lampyris 2
Loosely Inspired By:
FABRE’S
BOOK OF INSECTS
RETOLD FROM ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTOS’
TRANSLATION of FABRE’S “SOUVENIRS ENTOMOLOGIQUES”
BY MRS. RODOLPH STAWELL


-------


Disclaimer:

Sam Lampyris is peeking through time from eternity. Sam Lampyris has all the time in the world. Sam Lampyris wants to know everything, Sam Lampyris wants to do everything, Sam Lampyris wants to write about everything. Sam Lampyris draws, Sam Lampyris paints, writes, learns, sings, thinks.
Sam Lampyris has many facets and many names, many interests and hobbies.
Sam Lampyris is PinkCircleLyrics,
He is Yisselakh.
He is Meynoher.
And more.
He is impulsive, and follows the ebbs and flow of his stream of consciousness faithfully.

All conscious directly inspired pastiche, homage, references, adaptation, and other derivative content will be noted, and any other similarities beyond this I can only attribute to subconscious influence, collective consciousness or unconscious, or pure coincidence.

Unlike previous works by Sam Lampyris under various pseudonyms, these works are less reactive and more proactive. This is to say that the previous poems and lyrics often sprung directly from my immediate reaction to things I have heard, listened to, read, seen or watched, and are usually much more authentic to my personal philosophy, be it intuitive or learned.

These, however, are more proactive in the sense that I voluntarily seek prompts and inspirations from books and other mediums I look to learn from and write with them in mind. I do this in order to fortify my understanding of them in my own preferred way.

However, during the writing process, my mind always, in some strange way, becomes locked in a track and I, again, seem to be always directed to follow my intuition. Thus, most of the works are non rhyming or rhyming free verses, as instead of writing with strict and consistent meters, it feels like my own being is forced to follow rhythm patterns that "feels right."

Thus, though I can't promise these thoughts are anything under the sun, in fact I can promise the exact opposite:

Ecclesiastes1:10 King James Version

"Is there any thing whereof it may be said, See, this is new? it hath been already of old time, which was before us."

I can promise these works are absolutely authentic to the entire being of Sam Lampyris, no matter what his name is at the time.
David Plantinga Jun 2024
When the nimble aphids are leaping
And squat caterpillars are creeping
They’re fleeing on before
The mower’s starting roar,
Like field-mice at the autumn reaping.
neth jones Aug 2023
flying ants are 'the business' today
differing species
clumsy as ducks in landing
unclear of their randy goals
they bat about scorching streets
summer 23
no.8

15/08/23
monique ezeh Jun 2023
days crawl by
and humidity stills the air.
the black flies are late this season,
though around here, most things are.
below the gnat line, girls like me
seldom get to die easily,
perfumed powders
masking the scent of illness,
flushed cheeks and damp foreheads donned
as our feeble bodies recline on fainting couches
to delicately languish away. we know that
there’s a certain beauty to decomposition,
to fungus gnats invading potted soil,
to fruit flies nesting in sink drains. we know that
rotting is a clock that never stops,
tallying each unflinching, humid second while the
days crawl by.
Glenn Currier Aug 2021
June bugs crash into screens
mosquitoes whine
to get in by any means
dogs howl, frogs croak
like the bass fiddle
in Lightning Hopkins’ blues.
Sticky moisture from the bayou
envelopes, and soaks through,
permeates still night air
like the sad strains of Claude’s La Mer.

Growing up in southern climes
slowed days, stretched years
put me on the edge of tears
yearning for escape from there
from dominion of church
and Mama’s monarch perch.

Hints of her softness
were so rare and spare
that when she let us smooth her hair
we forgot how parched were we
for a trace of this tender intimacy
on summer nights’ scorch
spent on our homestead porch.
Before the advent of air conditioning families, especially children, spent lots of time on their front porches. This poem is an attempt to describe the experiences there of one little Cajun-French girl. This is the second of the Teche Series of poems inspired by the memoir of my cousin, Melanie Durand Grossman,  "Crossing Bayou Teche."
neth jones Jul 2021
00
night drums                
          spousing heat distorts

in tall grasses              
          insects chirr and fling

in moonlight              
a fertile field
Parker Vance Feb 2021
Crow's feathers like
The exoskeleton
Of a long-nose weevil,

The color of
Mom's grease-stained
Pots illuminated in moonlight.

They're a mind
That's gone dark
With a tunnel straight through,

Like a billion
Ants all piled
On- throbbing

Can you hear
Them *******,
Hear them slurping?

Those oily wings
Writhe in air like bodies
Launched from 90-story trade buildings

They close their eyes;
Sleep forever
Bathing in crow's feathers.
Ruth Solnit Feb 2021
Life in the smallest pond
can still give a thrill,
skating on top of
shiny beauty.

Ruth P Solnit, September 2020
neth jones Feb 2021
Retreating from
  weighty day of toil
I settle my slack
  on tailored sprawl of lawn
Compressed soil radiating ;
  tapped battery
  of a day's warmth
Life is raised through my cartridge
  I stretch out
  receiving reptile charge

Aimed shyly
   at the expansive dark bedding of night sky
     speckled
         pierced
     pecked at with pinholes...
each emitting brilliance
firing out fuel
  exhaust from further worlds
                less adulterated than our own

There is a correspondence
  amongst the insects in the grass
  ticking, clicks and tats
  like static amongst laundry
There's a great correspondence out there
  in the night sky

here am
   invulnerable human
    suburban and secure
   belly...

a cross draft
   from the open basement window
              invades me
eggy sulphur burping from the drains
an organic degassing from below my house

: Betrayed ! 

my feeling passes
the stars behave stagnant
       and dismissive of me
; withholding glove oblivion ;
the clouds step in
  like a quick curtain
  over some 'lewd private show'
(must I pay more
                  to see more ?)
My world is kept restrictive
; a muzzling

I bare the weight still
      of the days wetter ill
Better off indoors
        filtered
            of my own dander
and projected upon
        by a feeding screen
homework
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