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Andrew Rueter Jun 2019
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
September Roses Jul 2018
Sit back and relax
Feel the waves wash over your back
In the melting sun
Looking at the clouds reflecting all the pinks and blues
Over the blooming hill, echoing white noise of chirps and crickets

Listen to the trickling of the slow water over the smooth rocks
Feel a warm wind brush your face
With your eyes closed
Enjoying the radiating warmth
And the soothing crackling of a log fire

Or sit and admire the shimmering spray
Of a waterfall smoothly crashing into the water of a sky kissed lake
Sunlight dancing through the vapor
Rainbows jumping through every droplet

Listen to the pitter patter of the rain, against a tin roof
Inside a warm cabin
Drifting to sleep
Soon to wake to the song birds chorus
And the blissful sun

Bask in it
And relax
R Saba Oct 2013
there’s nothing like fire and stars when you’re drunk
i sleep
to crickets and coyotes and rain

this half a heart becomes a whole
whether or not you know it
out here i am never alone
spent most of my life
in places like these
and i’m always looking for more

recount the gossamer threads
because i love those words
and the nonsense means nothing
but i love nothing
it feels like home

there’s nothing like fire and stars when you’re sober
it’s not the alcohol that makes the scene
it’s the scene that makes the alcohol
obsolete

i sleep
to crickets and coyotes and rain
i drink
to crickets and coyotes and rain
i breathe
to crickets and coyotes and rain
i believe
in those gossamer threads
fire and stars
alcoholic words

i love nothing

it feels like home
the beauty of the boonies
Liam C Calhoun Dec 2015
The Crickets cackle “crisp,”
With an only interruption, being I,
Atop dust, whisper and
Desert highway.
I’d tell you if I were running,
But I’m not quite sure, not yet,
Leaving the Coyote to eat,
Respite, and devoured,
The singing Crickets,
A’howl later,
To deliver answers unimpeded.

I have a faint memory –
A snake’s grip promised, via hand and
Crystal contingency,
“Wiser,” once bestowed, the mystic;
An epic complete, atop 17 years of thunder,
Steel stained crimson,
Street stained whimper
And forever remaining,
“Under-construction.”

Symbolic a more relevant scaffold,
½ bamboo and the other steel, the tower,
Note ‘fore me, it’s only purpose –
Elsewhere, and anonymous,
While I tap my belly to some
Melody we’d once enjoyed;
Maybe something by, “Coltrane,”
Or maybe not; but music we’d both
Recognize and reminisce too.

It’s an awkward alchemy of sorts,
As the Crickets, post-mortem,
Persist if only to chirp, and the Coyote mulls.
When the dust continues to cake.
When the whisper finds newer ears.
When interrupt’s abrupt, erupts,
Pacifies and interrupts again;
My precious distraction –
An amnesia loyal in away from, “then.”
Somewhere beyond, “there,”
And onward, “anew.”
You can only run for so long, and all it takes is one song to bring you right back.
Lindsey Sherman Sep 2014
Quiet
in that suspenseful kind of way.
Only two people in sight.
Well, three...
if you count the man sleeping
on the bench.
I'm scared
but hopeful
that may way home will appear soon.
Crickets are
cricketing
quite loudly
in fact.
It's as if there are billions of crickets
flooding the train station
But they are no where to be found
somehow.
Where do all the crickets go?
Where are they hiding?
Are there really as many
as it sounds like there are?
My way home should be here soon...
...cricket cricket...
...cricket cricket...
...cricket cricket...
Ladies and gentlemen,
the next Brooklyn bound
is one stop away.
Another subway based poem...
Morgan Brehilt Mar 2018
Sometimes I think of killing myself
How the end would be so nice
How the darkness would swallow me up
And how the numbness would suffice
My need

For all the voices of the feelings
That constantly keep me reeling
To softly slow to a hush
As my brain starts tur-tur-turning into mush

How wonderful it would be
To have that powerful silence
Not even grasshoppers would bother
To wake me

My cells would stop dividing
My brain would stop the lying
Myself would stop denying
What I truly want

But but but
This is just a reckless fantasy
A way to elude one’s own reality

Because as I sit here on the floor
Tears drip drip dropping
I realize there’s those who care for me more
Cherish me more
Love me more
Than I love my own self

The crickets chirp
I put the pills down
viktoria Aug 2011
the crickets have arthritis
so we're stuck here in silence.
no melody to lead us to our way
no morning song to wake up the day.

so the sun sleeps in
for the first time in weeks
and i wake up to darkness
resting on my cheek.
i untangle myself from
under this blanket
i turn to you and smile
a soft whisper lost
a cry that didn't make it.

restless eyes fight  the stupor
through this obscure enigma.
my mind’s overwhelmed  
my heart in a coma,
I’m trying to sort myself out
gather my words
when a kiss, simplest of sparks
turns into kinetic chaos launched
to the basement of my heart.

you stroke my face, a
hidden tear you smudge
i open my mouth to speak
but you’re too quick to judge.
so i bite my lip and  
lie next to you in silence,
moonbeams highlighting
the empty space inside us
inside me.
all because crickets have arthritis.
Judypatooote Feb 2015
Chirping crickets...

As a little girl....
I remember hearing this sound
In our living room
I ask my mom
Because mom knew everything
What is that?
She called it a cricket
mom thought crickets chirping
Was music to her ears
I remember her saying
Listen! Listen!
It's singing to us
And she was smiling
I never saw the cricket
Just heard it chirping...
BUT
One day as mom moved our davenport
Away from the wall
To dust the mop boards
She found that this chirping cricket
Was eating away at our davenport....
Now that's  what I call
"Singing for your supper"
If only we had GOOGLE back then.

By Judy
I said this before and I'll say it again...it only takes one word to toss me a memory.
L B Aug 2016
It was the time of my Auntie Bee summers
   I was small then
   She had a parakeet that landed on my head
   and a bathtub too
   with water so deep!
   and legs and claws!
   **** thing nearly chased me down the stairs!

She lived in slumbery Windsor Locks
   where bugs hung-out in the haze
   of teenage August
   I played in the tall weeds
   with a shoeless Italian boy
   who ate tomatoes like apples
   and cucumbers right off the vine!
   He was ***** free and foreign!
   We played— reckless, abandoned
   behind the gas pump, under the tractor, in the barn   
   and through the endless fields
   I didn’t know....
   His name was Tony
   I ate pizza with him—the first time

At Auntie Bee’s I had to go to bed at eight
   but I could watch night flowers
   bloom on wallpaper
   She came in to say good night
   slippered, shadowy, night dress slightly open
   and I peeped her *******!
   like Tony’s cucumbers!
   I had never seen my mother’s wonders....

Night spread its wings from the old fan—
   a bird of tireless exhaustion
   whipped, whipped, whipped to death in its cage
   tireless exhaustion
   tic-tocking in time to a wind-up clock
   stretched out on the whine
   of the overland trucks
   Route Five through the night of an open window

In the grape arbor below—
tremulous incessant
   crickets    crickets    crickets
tremulous incessant—insides of a child
   a summer child
   not yet ready for the fall of answers

Auntie Bee had a daughter—Maureen
   I followed her everywhere I could
   I was small then--    
   do anything for a stick of Juicy Fruit
I followed Maureen through my dreams
   of being sixteen
   and woke to Peggy’s “Fever”
   while she tied her sneakers
   against the mattress by my head

I followed Maureen (in my mind)
   tanned and bandanned
   to work in the fields of shade tobacco
   with all those Puerto Rican boys!
   She knew where she was going!

I was small then
...do anything for a stick of  gum

“Mauney! Mauney! Mauney!”
   ...through the goldenrod of roadside
   through the smell of oil that damped the dust    
I followed Maureen’s white shorts
   and chestnut hair...to the corner store
I followed the way the boys smiled
   the way the screen door slammed
   on her bright behind
   the way her lips taunted and took
   the coke-bottle’s green
I followed Maureen

I swear, I tried for hours to get that right!

Must have been Peggy Lee’s “Fever”

Maureen ties her sneakers in my face
Flaunts her years above my head
She has that look—
“We kids don’t know nothin”
(Little turds” that we be)

…followin’ Maureen
through the goldenrod of roadside
tic-tockin’, beboppin’

“Fever— in the morning
Fever all through the night….”
Peggy Lee's Fever:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b4hXyALR9vI
I was seven years old and did I ever get this!
Peggy Lee's stripped down performance is the epitome of ***.

Windsor Locks is in Connecticut.
Jonny Rulon Nov 2012
hes skipping the blank parts.
fire spewed speaking out his eye and everything.

swear it lets the silence in.
to ***** midmorning naught but bile

and tar from your lung, sour taste on tongue 'and charred resinous lips and cankers in mouth.

skipping the blank parts.
this is too much to put in words it pains darling like mouth is faucet ears are ringing sight is grey and unwholesome nerves are sweaty like wrists and jaws too. heart thick heavy beating like a ******* palms and brow sweaty

a new nightmare never sleep gone delirious ever after think only of the thee and the thine and what can i do to make it stop naught but drink for ever after.

early sunday is the worst day. days are ever after cursed is sunday and the bad day, was always was it leads to monday and the no sleep and you go to school or work and they all know you are so tired

so id rather skip the blank parts and spend in blankets cold and clutching to this bottle ever afer like a baby cuz its nicer when its blank here.

------------

so now its the dawn gray, the child breathes in all the nerves of the surrounding block and breathes in.

what thoughts there darling stir that tattered man of child man of scattered breaths and
and of least action least least resistance

night smokes away in his lungs.

his sight unsteady and grey, **** the stars.

his head holds the stars as he passes away.

he thinks, "I dont wanna be astounding, I dont wanna be anything, the dreams, i smoke the night away...why wont they listen?"

the yammering outside his windows

he clutch the sill, needs for balance and hes sweating thinks the week back in his memory. did something dumb but he skips the blank parts like a movie but its not his cellophane life its becoming more like that he thinks

-------------

the cats outside his window yammering outside his window

"headache man and the sunup surprise" he thinks, garlictongued and glittering of sweat.
something strange here something dumb something wicked.
like melodica, im disturbed in step

hitched his pants hitched breathing summer sweet midsummer nightmare is the thirst and drink.

"and somehow it helps" he thinks, head droning like the bees they are buzzing out his window, but screech in speak like the crickets

the air might ripe and seethe.

he can barely breathe.

the scarlet cheeked is he and fairly farther from himself than usual, laid away in pace and time and people, all else arrested. the vines now they crawl along his sill on which he clutches ever after pick the roses from his cheek.



and so he often thinks of it, and his peers think its selfish, but he pronounces himself in such ways as to make it pronounced that he is thinking of this.
and they give him no consideration, no pause or gaze to entitle him to a moment's breath of doubt,
that he is most gnawingly alone.

they gather no cinema, no accord, no intervention. they simply do not comment upon his lost thoughts. and this no comment, for him it seems, gives him validation for his, heretofore mentioned, but heretofore implied, unmitigated and (some may say) uncalled for unarrival.

there are no senates in the state of human. only the mindnumbing pain that is his sour being, upon which he has coerced the subject upon the senate to be impressed:
that he is waiting for the right moment, to be impressed.

to be enough to take himself.

it is not pity, but such a bitter impulse.
that brings him to himself, to take.

------------

and as father of all pronouncements, the species of newspaper blaired...
"the king is dead, long live the king."
so of which he was reading, was par for the course.
he sat down with his wife, and his son, and he spoke to them gracefully in his normal fathers and mothersfamily whisper, he said:

"this is the time when we must eat our cereal, and be well-versed in our gods, and our gaols. and we must believe in the powers that be. for they have told us no lies and will tell us no lies. and if it not so, then this paper begs the difference.
this paper...pulp...and felt, and gold, and ink. will never speak of us naught.
and for what they proclaim to us, the masses, is written in ink,

and thus, so stone.

so believe."

so god ate his wheaties that day.

------

and so i rant and so i speak in illogicals and i so im biased i know.
this is what it takes to be a journal and to filter all the bad ***** things that are black out of the poets mind.

so blame it on cadence, blame it on speak, blame it on linguistics, blame it on my upraising, blame it on an apathetic attitude,

i dont care, just blame it.

just it is my mood and it will not be forgotten, it is me that is scribing this sentence, so it is not forgotten, on the fence and bethrothed to many ideals hence so i be,

i am not an idiot.
i am no coward.
i am not a leech, nor am i a parasite, nor i am a murderer, nor am i criminal.

i sit still still with moles burrowing their burrs into the underground, waiting for the tunnel, and so, the light.
CK Baker Mar 2017
fischers rap
on a hot tin roof
bristol creek pools
over rock and seed
english wolfhound (and the barkbuster)
stroll pine lane
vibrant colors
of a cool spring
in cob yellow and
forest green

field mice squander
in cotton wind
goats and ferret
hold seven hour trim
raven and ****
meddle and forage (on a splendid fiaker goulash!)
crickets and frogs
hidden
in swollen grey logs

creepers fill the
cut stone walls
coy wolf high
on a frayed white rope
eagles perched
at trudy’s bend
catamounts laze
on a snow base cedar
(pared arbutus bent  
through a failed ground rock)

brush spider spins
a timely web
brown bears fumble
at the spirit jamboree
quizzical squirrels
crack their nuts
as pillow clouds float
over telegraph trail

12 point dances
on talus and scree
hen hawks float
in a big hard sun
clydesdale and coach
trot copper smith road
(glancing down
on finch and the warbler
whistling through
colander row)

lavender fills
the peat soil box
mountain cats
guard the heavenly gates
black eyed ridge
is wide and open
the country squire hails
this fruitful land
Bryan Lunsford Aug 2018
It is within an unusually warm and early spring night,
Here, where I begin to feel something ever so unusual while looking deeply into this goddess' eyes,

With her eyes like a pair of diamonds sparkling in the sky,
It's at this moment–in this part of the night–
Love simply didn't need a reply,

With candles lit,
As it's surely to her delight,
And with rose petals all over the bed–
That, surely, was to her surprise,

Though, right now,
Can you really blame me for having this nervous butterfly-feeling whirling around inside?

For this will be the first-ever night that I'll get to hold this beauty tight,

And for such a divine beauty,
Surely I'd make any sacrifice to make sure her every whim and need is perfectly sufficed,

Yes, with our feelings for each other that couldn't be more pure or refined,
I already know, without hesitance, our love would satisfy any god's most delicate appetite inside,

And although, this world may never know how I truly feel inside,
I, myself, know with certainty that I love this woman more than anything I've ever loved in my whole life,

Yet, with nothing more than the sound of crickets chirping within the night,
I proceed to lay this beauty down–
Here, pulling her close to my side (where I tell her)
"I love you, angel, good night",

And even though our love never did need a reply,
She said
"I love you too, sweet dreams baby, don't forget to hold me ever so tight",

And thus with this crazy, whirling, butterfly-feeling, again, that I begin to feel take over inside,
She rolls over unexpectedly and surprises me with a kiss to seal any other reply–
To only roll back over and close her eyes,

Oh, and in the midst of her every action–every move leaving me mesmerized,
She decides to move an inch closer to me,
(Where I wrap my arm around her thighs)
As it's also nearly simultaneously that I hear the clock's stride finally hit midnight,

With a chime that struck once–
Then struck twice,
I begin to hear a set of chimes strike–and strike until they chime twelve times,  
(As these chimes come from this evilly wicked, horrid and heinous clock of mine)

Yes!–with this clock being a clock that through time I have come to slowly hate and despise!

Though, this tower of a clock reminds me of its presence with not the tics nor the tocs–
No, only when the minute hand climbs and the hour's hand meets another notch,

As only then, within that second of the minute, does my mind's thoughts get crossed and rocked–
With my thoughts that become locked within a box
(As it'll be for the next sixty minutes)
I'll just lie there and remain distraught,

Oh, and you ask why?–
Simply because of this chiming noise that won't stop!

With these reoccurring chimes that take my sleep and make most nights a loss–
I can assure you that if I don't go to bed by one or two o'clock,
Any sleep for me will become more and more implausible by every tic of the clock,

Yes, nearly impossible–
For it'll be with the next four or five hours, I'll just lie there, roll, and toss,

Though this is a different night!–
As I'm reminded with our legs crossed and with our fingers interlocked,

Yet, here as I begin to feel the warmth of her body block and fend off any kind or sorts of lingering winter's frost,
I also sense that numerous candles are still glowing bright,
(With the sight of their ambient light flickering off of the bedside's wall from abroad)

And, within this room filled with sentiment as I hear not a sound at all,
I smell the candle's aromatic scents,
With the atmosphere within the air being ever so calm,

Until that is, I hear another chime of a ****–
With it sounding like a melody that's gone ever so wrong–
It's with this tower of a clock, right here, that has just let me know it's now the hour of one o'clock–
And one o'clock, right on the dot,

With only one lone chime that I heard–as everything then simply paused and stopped,

Though, within my mind and with these thoughts that refuse to stop,
I reassure myself–
Knowing that the time is only one o'clock,

For I know I still have an aplenty of time to close my eyes and make these endless lines of thoughts stop,

So to this brilliant mind of mine,
You know that it's clearly time to let these thoughts wander off,

Just close your eyes and let your mind stop–

Though, didn't I just say enough with your thoughts?

Oh, and I can see you might think a lot,
But clearly and obviously you're not thinking about squat!

So just stop or I swear to god,
If you don't stop with these god awful thoughts,
I'll have no other option than to smash and squash your head against these bricks outside of this wall and then leave you there to rot–

For if you don't stop this exact instant then I am almost certain your beautiful woman will become a loss,

And I'm sure you don't want that to happen again, now do you?

So just stop with these thoughts–
Quit fooling around and whatever you do–
Oh, and whatever you do,
Don't let this beauty see that crazed loony side inside of you,

Just fall asleep now and you both can wake up tomorrow around noon,

Yes, just close your eyes and count these sheep jumping over the moon,
And count them jumping one by one–then two by two,

Yet, between one and two,
Surely I knew I was bound to come unglued,
(With the loony that came right out of me as I hear a tune)

With a chime that struck once and then twice,
It left my mind to know not what to do,

Though, that doesn't mean I am confused,
With the duo of chimes that struck–
Only letting me know it's now into the minutes of the night that come directly after two,

And though,
As I begin feeling as if a disaster was nearing in soon,
Still, I knew not what to do–

Because I know nothing as I'm thinking of nothing and just fading away within the scents of her perfume,

(Where I begin fading away within this serenity and hearing not a tune)
I feel the weight of my eyelids begin to feel like a caving-in roof weighing at least a ton or two,

And with just one of a few wondrous thoughts still wandering on through,
I wonder
"Could this be sleep that is nearing in soon?”,

With this feeling of a wonderful tranquil sensation subduing and leaving my whole body consumed,
(As I'm weary and with clearly not a thought left in this room)
I take one last deep breath
(With my lungs swelling like a balloon)

And within a dream is where I have just entered into–:
UNTIL ABRUPTLY I HEAR A SNOOZING OF A TUNE!

Yes!–As I'm awakened and with the insanity within in me being let loose to roam throughout this room,
My mind, then, begins to shift back and forth (like something caught drifting between a typhoon and a monsoon)

Where realizing as I view that I've opened my eyes too soon–
With it being this beauty here of mine that is the one who is creating this horrendous little tune,

And feeling, as I hear–
With every single breath that she breathes rattling the room–the walls–and even the shingles upon the roof,
I feel my mind, here, completely coming all the way unglued–
For all I want to do is make everything within this room mute!

Yes, that's all I want to do!–

For I’m sure I wouldn't even be in such a foul mood if I wasn’t sleep deprived,
And if this beauty here of mine and her snoring roar weren’t the main culprits of keeping me, my mind, and this night alive,

Though, hearing with her roaring of a snore that is beginning to drive me crazy inside–
Yes, as she snores, there!–just an inch or two away from my side–
I hear with her snore only growing more and more–

As I, then, within this second, try to ignore a chord of chimes striking once, and then striking twice,
(With this clock striking three times to remind me once again of the time)

–With this night now being at least 3:03, 3:04, and could possibly even be 3:05,
I know this night is at the most three or four hours away from seeing the sun shine bright through my window blinds,

Oh, and surely I already know I probably would just close my eyes–
Yes, that's probably what I would do!
But this little beauty here of mine is worse than any set of chimes,

And surely indecisive,
(As I move the pillow over my ears while I'm consumed by an irritating form of fright)
I move my body a little to the left and then a few inches to the right,
Where I hear her demon's rumbling from inside,
And screaming as if they're trying to come out and fight–

(Which is where I begin thinking)
“Is waking her up really that much of a crime?”

For if she knew she was snoring at such a high decibel level,
Then I'm sure she wouldn't even mind,

And thus with my decisions that couldn't agree more with my mind,
I decide to slightly lift her head and wiggle her,
(As I nearly tickle her left side)

Whispering to her as I say,
"Baby, wake up, I just had the worst dream of my life!
Oh, baby, wake up, I just need to see those sweet little angel eyes!",

Though motionless–
There, as I try to keep my insane and crazy side inside,
My whisper begins to intensify to a scream
(As she refuses to open her eyes or give me a reply)

I continued to scream–SCREAMED!

"Oh, why, oh, why won't you open your eyes!",

And with her snore being the only reply that she could give me,
It literally drove me crazy inside–
Thus driving me as it drove me to climb on top of her body,
(Where I grab her nose and squeeze)

As it's within the silence and in this exact instant,
Instantly and unbelievably, I see I've hit a stride that I couldn't believe,

Yes, mesmerized!
And content beyond belief–
With her snoring, here, that has finally ceased–

–Casually, I proceed to climb off of her body
(Wherein realization I finally can go back to sleep)

And in the silence, again, as I hear not a peep,
I roll over, close my eyes, and before I could even count one jumping sheep,
I hear a roar once more coming from this treacherous little beast,

And surely with not a second more could I go without sleep,
(As this pillow, right here, has just become my best friend, and the most plausible way to get any sleep)
I decide to move this pillow over her face–with my exertion at first lacking any tenacity,

But what I'd end up hearing would be like a growl or a roar of a wicked beast,

With this sinister snore of hers only increasing more and more with every tic of my heart's beat,
I begin to feel my thoughts shift toward the sentiment of either insane or crazy,

(As my hands push with more and more of an intensity)
I begin sweating–feeling the smothering warmth of her body's heat,

Though, simultaneously as I hear her heart throb and knock an unstoppable and irregular beat,
I begin putting even more weight upon this pillowcase
(With a galore of my sweat dripping upon these sheets)

And surely I have to know,
(For it should be as obvious as could be)
That if I put any more weight upon this pillowcase,
I'd likely break through the toughest of the most unbreakable concretes,

And thus coming to the realization–
With this crazy side of me that has taken over and been unleashed surely not being me,

It's here, against the greatest of restraints
(As I'm barely able to climb off of her body)
I climb off and begin waiting within the silence–

Waiting and hearing not a peep,
Where seemingly prompting myself to say,
Here, as I speak!
"Good night baby–sweet dreams",

Though, I'd hear not a reply–
As a reply was something our love never did need,

Yet, as I roll over to climb under these sheets and close my eyes
(Where simultaneously it all has seemed)
I have fallen fast asleep within a dream while holding my sleeping beauty tight–

Holding her as I squeeze–
Holding her!–
With her heart that holds not a beat–.
Patricia Walsh Jul 2014
The crickets chirping outside my window
Remind me that certain feelings
Stain even the smallest details

I told myself
That things would feel different by this time
(And they do)
But in the same way a song is a time capsule
And a mode of temporary time travel
These crickets sound a lot like the ones that chirped away
While I thought what I felt back then
Would feel familiar forever

Then again
I guess they all do
Out here there are no hearthstones,
Hot grains, simply.  It is dry, dry.
And the air dangerous.  Noonday acts queerly
On the mind's eye erecting a line
Of poplars in the middle distance, the only
Object beside the mad, straight road
One can remember men and houses by.
A cool wind should inhabit these leaves
And a dew collect on them, dearer than money,
In the blue hour before sunup.
Yet they recede, untouchable as tomorrow,
Or those glittery fictions of spilt water
That glide ahead of the very thirsty.

I think of the lizards airing their tongues
In the crevice of an extremely small shadow
And the toad guarding his heart's droplet.
The desert is white as a blind man's eye,
Comfortless as salt.  Snake and bird
Doze behind the old maskss of fury.
We swelter like firedogs in the wind.
The sun puts its cinder out.  Where we lie
The heat-cracked crickets congregate
In their black armorplate and cry.
The day-moon lights up like a sorry mother,
And the crickets come creeping into our hair
To fiddle the short night away.
Once I spoke the language of the flowers,
Once I understood each word the caterpillar said,
Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,
And shared a conversation with the housefly
in my bed.
Once I heard and answered all the questions
of the crickets,
And joined the crying of each falling dying
flake of snow,
Once I spoke the language of the flowers. . . .
How did it go?
How did it go?
1104

The Crickets sang
And set the Sun
And Workmen finished one by one
Their Seam the Day upon.

The low Grass loaded with the Dew
The Twilight stood, as Strangers do
With Hat in Hand, polite and new
To stay as if, or go.

A Vastness, as a Neighbor, came,
A Wisdom, without Face, or Name,
A Peace, as Hemispheres at Home
And so the Night became.
HTR Stevens Jul 2019
The crickets jump...! The crickets hop...!
Chirping in the dark, they won't stop...
Telling me where they are and where they're not
But they are not there, when I reach the spot.
Little crickets, the chirps you make -
Oftimes your location is faked!
Where are you? Along the long grass I look - ;
I just want to give you a gentle stroke.
Little crickets, you're such a tease!
You jump! Then you ride on the breeze...
You sing thro' the night, on a summer day;
I listen to your song from far away.
Liberty J Feb 2018
My eyes flickered to the left, but swiftly returned back to the blank page. Crickets droned on outside, urging me to do something.

Anything.

“Write of great princes and stunningly beautiful maidens" they chirped.

“No," I rejected the thought immediately, "That's much to chilchè"

“Well, why not draw a romantic sunset, covered in a blanket of pink clouds?" they suggested.

“No," I said once more, “ A romantic sunset deserves color, and I have none to give."

“Perhaps scribble down a poem about stars, and all they do?"

“Stars?" I asked, “All stars do, is fall. It seems my efforts are hopeless, friends." I pushed the paper aside.

“Now, now," Squeaked the crickets, “We mustn't lose hope. How about a sketching a crying child in the rain?"

“No, that won't do," I whispered to them “Now please, keep it down."

“Oh, yes." said the crickets “But wait here, we will be back."

“Where are you going?" I asked, but with no response. The crickets had hopped away.

---

“Hello Claire.” A mouse greeted me.

“Oh, hello mouse. I’m glad you have visited, but why have you come?” I pet between her ears.

“The crickets sent me to help.” She stated.

“The crickets?” I asked, “But this was supposed to be secret…” I said under my breath.

“Yes, yes.” The mouse rolled her eyes and smiled at me, “This will remain unknown, trust me.”

“Thank you mouse.” I turned back to the paper, “What do you suggest?”

“Hmm…” The mouse paused for a moment of thought. “Draw a world so small, it fits on a page.”

“No,” I repeated, “That's much to distant.”

“Very well.” The mouse squeaked, “Why not write a story about true love?”

“No,” I recited “A story like that deserve love, and I have not to give.”

“Alright, alright.” said the mouse, annoyed, “Oh, how about a poem about hope?”

I sighed. “All hopes do, is die. This effort is worthless mouse.”

“Come now, don’t give in.” The mouse encouraged, “Um… Maybe a tall tale? About a silly girl with pigtails?”

“No, that won’t do,” I whispered, “Now please, quiet down!”

“Stop being paranoid,” said the mouse, “now stay here, I’ll be back.”

“No mouse!” I called out, “Where are you going?” I turned to reach for her, but she was gone.

---

“Hello Claire.” A crow perched mightily on my windowsill.

“Oh, well hello doctor.” I greeted him politely. “What brings you here this evening?”

“The mouse sent me.” The crow cawed.

“Mouse?” I whispered to myself, wondering how long this had to go on.

“Now then, I like to keep things short, so let's get to work.” the crow said with soulless eyes.

“A-alright then sir.” I whimpered, with a sense of pity. “What do you suggest?”

“Write a story about far off lands with world peace.” He droned.

“No, that's much to unrealistic.”

“Very well,” He adjusted his foot balance. “Draw a series of spectacular places.”

I shook my head, “But doctor, that deserves accuracy, and I have none to give.”
“Hmph” The crow grumbled, “Write a poem about birds, and how we are so free.” He boasted.

“All birds do, is fly.” I said, looking  hopelessly at my blank paper.

“Than perhaps write about how foolish you are.” He spat, and flew away.

“No, Doctor!” I stood and leaned out the window, “But I need help!” I cried, but he had flown too far to hear me.

---

“How are you Claire?” A cat creeped in the room.

“Oh, hello cat.” I sat back down at my desk. “I’m doing well, other than my very blank paper.” I sighed.

“How unfortunate.” The cat stretched out across the floor. “Would you like my help?”

“Oh yes, if you don’t mind.” I steadied myself in my chair.

“Alright.” The cat said, “Have you tried seeing something inspiring?”

“Something inspiring?” I shook my head, “I don’t know anything that would look inspiring.”

“Well.” Cat began to lick his tail, “ Have you tried listening to something beautiful?”

“Something beautiful?” I asked, “I don’t know anything that would sound beautiful.”

“Alright” The cat looked confused, “Um, what about smelling something good?”

“Something good?” I looked down, “I don’t know anything that would smell good.”

“Strange.” The cat stood, “Then why not leave the paper blank?” The cat said, leaving the room.

“Nothing at all?” I looked to the cat, but he was gone. “That’s not a bad idea…” I said, leaving the room.
Harold r Hunt Sr Jan 2015
The song of crickets.
Near the pond lays a field.
Where crickets play their music.
You hear one then two as the song goes on
Many more begin to sing.
A frog and an owl joins in from time to time.
As they sing into the night.
You can hear them at your feet or along the pond and far away.
Crickets play a song that can be here for you to enjoy.
Jasmine Paisley Jul 2011
The sun now disappears over the horizon,
the dew quivers fresh on the leaves.
The air stifling in this deprived heat,
The crickets chatter about the toils of the day.

I sit here, as I did in the early morning
with the sun.
As I have done everyday, inside my glass cellar.
Now the gecko glares, daring me to
break the mirror.
He doesn't stay long, knowing too well how
soft and timid society is -- in
the weathered face of Mother Nature.
The crickets taunt me, their cat calls
pointing out how desolate modern society
has become.
Or inevitably, always has been.

My yearning for the heat of the summer air is peculiar.
Why trade the comforts of this life
for the untamed?

Envious am I.
Allen Smuckler Aug 2010
1
   listen to the silence of night
and the sounds of the crickets;
away from the city
the strikes and the pickets-

     2
night has fallen
on the big meadow
children running to and fro;
crickets churning
gas lights burning,
tranquil nighttime
here at last.
Papst Blue Ribbon
near the end;
sandman time
around the bend.

        3
The Rolling Stones
Exile on Main Street
Sweet Virginia
side one-cut one
           right on.....
August 28, 1972
Melissa Koe Nov 2014
The wind blew strongly. Out at sea, the fisherman’s small boat swayed in rhythm with the waves. He stood up and adjusted the sail, in case the wind blew it off. After so many years of earning a living as a fisherman, he has made peace with the sea – he no longer feels sea sick. Oh, but he feels a certain kind of sickness…… a different kind. His eyes filled with tears as he shifted his gaze from his worn out canvas sails to the horizon where the sun is just about to set. The sky above him is slightly orange – but is dulled by the gray of the storm clouds shifting in.

                He thanked the gods for the sky above and the sea below him, albeit the upcoming storm. He has recently lost his daughter, Fatema to the sea. His grief is still fresh, it still cuts deep. He lost his daughter to the tsunami that destroyed the fishing village. He has lost all his belongings – but nothing belonging to him will ever be as valuable as Fatema. Yes, grief makes him sick – and he has a good reason for that. When they found her, her body was trapped between five pieces of driftwood – it was a gruesome sight. How ironic is it? The arms of Neptune have always supported him throughout his life – making sure he earned a living and yet, the same menacing arms betrayed him and took Fatema away.

                For that, he was angry with the gods. How could they take away a life as easily as they gave it? He snapped out of his thoughts and raised the back of his hand to his eyes to wipe away the tears. His musings aren’t going to help. He has to begin sailing to find a shelter from the storm that is rolling in or else he won’t make it through the night. For the past week or so, he has been living in his small boat, making sure his stomach is full by fishing for small fish and crustaceans. He fixed his sail and began to sail in the direction of a small cove he is familiar with which will provide adequate shelter for tonight.

                As he sailed, he started to feel lonely. He reached his hand into his pocket and pulled out a locket with Fatema’s picture in it. He brought it to his face and gently kissed it, gripping it in his hand. As he sailed nearer the cove, moonlight began to illuminate the prow of his boat. When he is near enough to the shore, he skillfully measured the depth with sight alone, and lowered the anchor to make sure his boat remained in that position till dawn.
                As he descended from his boat, he waded through the water. Both of his arms are full of dried driftwood for him to start a fire tonight. He heard the distant sound of crickets and an owl. He walked toward the beach, heading towards a small cave and entered it. He checked the ground to make sure it was dry before he started a fire using the driftwood. The crackling of fire accompanied by the distant rumbling of thunder brought comfort to his ears. The flames that rose and vanished combined with the smell of the smoke left a silage – a lingering presence that soothed him. They reminded him of how he used to read stories of beasts and princesses alike to Fatema when she was a young girl until she fell asleep in his arms. Those days are long gone now. He stood up and headed back to his boat to set up the fishing nets for his meal later on tonight. He fixed the nets close to the shore before walking back to the cave to the warmth of the fire. He did not know what to do. He was supposed to sail back to the mainland by next week but the storm has been slowing him down. He listened to the rhythm of the waves crashing against his boat and drifted off to sleep……

                He opened his eyes. He did not hear any crackling from the fire nor feel the warmth from it. When he looked down, the fire has been extinguished. The moon was so high and bright now he only needed the fire for warmth. Just as he was about to stand up to fetch more wood from the boat, he heard a sound. Yes, there was a slight drizzle but it wasn’t the sound of rain hitting the sand. It was a soft, melodious voice which was….singing.
“May you sail fair to the far fields of fortune,
with diamonds and pearls at your head and your feet
and may you need never to banish misfortune,
may you find kindness in all that you meet.”

                It was the lullaby he sang to Fatema as a young girl. He began to feel excited and ignored the voice at the back of his head telling him he was insane. He looked out and saw her – Fatema, sitting on a rock. He called out to her and she looked back at him, saying something he has been yearning to hear from her – “Papa.” He was speechless and could not believe his eyes. She donned the black dress they found her in, but she barely had any scratches on her; she did not even look wounded. Instead of walking towards him, she flashed her sweetest smile and started walking towards the beach. She beckoned for him to follow her. He ran towards her, constantly calling out to her but she did not reply. She held out her hand for him to hold, and he did.

                One more step and she will reach the water now. “Fatema, what are you doing?” “Papa, just come along with me.” With those few words…..he felt like he was in a trance. There were so many questions running through the back of his mind but he ignored all of them. Was he hallucinating? He turned to his left as they waded nearer to the sea – the fishing net that he placed near his boat had a small crab in it. The moonlight that shone onto the sea reflected on her beautiful features – her curly, black hair and light brown eyes. With every step he took, he felt more nervous, confused, and excited at the same time.

                The water level is up to their chest now.  On the second day after Fatema died, when he was very much in pain, he made an analogy about grief by comparing it to the nearest thing to him. Grief is like the sea. It drowns you while everyone else is swimming. He felt more familiar towards it….. it did not seem as foreign to him anymore. If so, he is “literally” being consumed by grief as they waded deeper into the sea. He did not mind though – this is the story of a man who desperately wants his daughter back. He did not care if he was hallucinating or if she was a ghost. He does not know where she is taking him, but he wants to follow his daughter to who-knows-where; for to him, that is paradise, be it in the depths of the sea or the height of the skies.

                He can no longer see the moon.
An essay I wrote for English exam.
one hour write-up.
SøułSurvivør Mar 2015
---

in
the
crystal
water bubbles
reflecting there are
golden koi

in
the
mossy
depth of feathers
ancient moonlight
is the buoy

around the
blue-grey stone's
alignment
sand is raked
in perfect poise

every
leaf
has its
assignment
crickets make
a creaking noise

---

there
within the
island garden
small and jewel-like
in the grove

amidst
kimono and the obi
there's a peace
the Nippon know

muted colors
placid faces
the paper lanterns
sway and glow

the lords and ladies
sit for hours
where
the
lotus
flowers
grow
Cyril Blythe May 2015
Growing up in Northern Alabama means you know that WalMart sells crickets and those crickets are on sale Sunday afternoons. The art of wetting a line was mine to claim from, a young age. Dad and I would spend weekends on various simplistically named bodies of water (Gunterville, Goose Pond, the Elk, the Flint) equipped with an alarming amount of crickets, ZOOM bait, honeywheat bread and cheap ham. Riptide Rush Gatorade and Michelob Ultra were the choice drinks to ensure proper hydration. The days we filled with a simple formula: cast, reel, catch, release. Bass love lake-**** and Crappie muddy banks. Catfish are not worth the effort involved with avoiding their poisonous whiskers when unhooking even though they look like Dinosaurs. After a lunch of sweaty ham and blue-bag doritos a quick swim in the water is absolutely crucial to cool down and finally get rid of the weariness sitting on a rocking boat gives you.  The big fish bite during dusk and dawn. Some only after the sun goes down. Sleep came when the green and white light rods on the boat become too bright for tired eyes. Finding a random small island in the water, tying the boat to an Hardwood Oak, and rolling out the sleeping bags on the red-clay will always provide the best sleep of your life-just don't think about snakes. The stars are always brightest and the cricket and cicada harmony the most melodic on this little Alabamian islands.

With each year the opportunity for these ventures dissipated. The fishing never stopped-the creeks in the neighborhood, pond beside our family home, and lakes on the Robert Trent Jones golf course (the 18th hole on the River Course was the best) provided ample opportunity to cure the itchy thumb syndrome.

I remember in high-school my father would fish alone by the lake with our dog by his side and an Ultra in his cup-holder almost every night. It was his time to unwind and process. I always appreciated his dedication to the art and the mastery of skills he passed on to me, but I never understood why he fished every single evening.

Until now.

I have been in the so called real world for a mere two year since college graduation. I have completed a post-graduate program, dated and broken up with various women, obtained a full time position doing honest and difficult work for those in need, and recently became a Dad to a hound of my own.

There in a river that flows through my city, but it is to far to venture to every night. The rivers surface in most places reflects bright lights. On weekends you will find kayak enthusiasts paddling against the current like wasps in the wind. The river, here, is a place of fast motion and has forgotten the beauty of a restful yellow bobber downing crickets.

Fishing equates opportunity for breathing. I still wet my line most weekends, but at 24 there is not enough time to recapture the dreams only found on red clay riverbanks. The river remembers and the fish still look like dinosaurs to me.
the night I was going to die
I was sweating on the bed
and I could hear the crickets
and there was a cat fight outside
and I could feel my soul dropping down through the
mattress
and just before it hit the floor I jumped up
I was almost too weak to walk
but I walked around and turned on all the lights
and then I went back to bed
and dropped it down again and
I was up
turning on all the lights
I had a 7-year-old daughter
and I felt sure she wouldn't want me dead
otherwise it wouldn't have
mattered
but all that night
nobody phoned
nobody came by with a beer
my girlfriend didn't phone
all I could hear were the crickets and it was
hot
and I kept working at it
getting up and down
until the first of the sun came through the window
through the bushes
and then I got on the bed
and the soul stayed
inside at last and
I slept.
now people come by
beating on the doors and windows
the phone rings
the phone rings again and again
I get great letters in the mail
hate letters and love letters.
everything is the same again.
Stephen E Yocum Aug 2018
A steady cadence  
pulsing in a heart beat
like rhythm, voices
and strummed instruments
all in harmonized concert,
An orchestral multitude,
of frogs and crickets,
never tiring or ceasing,

How many must there be,
to render such a cacophony?
Sustained and loud enough
to keep city folk awake.

Nature's Music of the night,
should you but choose to listen.
How do they do that, all night
with absolutely no intermission?

A crescendo finale triggered
only by the coming dawn's
first light, and the boastful
crowing calls of our cocky
persistent red rooster chicken.

Where these musicians go in
daylight is anybody's guess.
To sleep I suspect, deserved
resting up for yet another
night of endless music.
Another value added feature
of living out in the country. Night
voices lulling me to sleep outside
my open window/screen.
hashtag1stworldproblems, but
couldn't even win a prize for reading:
'But there was no give in the cat,
no flex anywhere but his tail. And for
a moment their roles reversed, as though it were
the train facing
the inevitable cat...'
'n' dog 69er
vukojebina Tasmaniandevil in a ******
ad under/overbiting off more than I can
chew Escher's pretzel autocannibal
Prometheus in a Faustian ****
stage pacman dragon fusion starbirth centre
of the earth Bruckheimer pileup of me

Meanwhile bombs fall everywhere but here.

Singing 'Suggasuggasugga my art ***,
liggaliggaligga my art hole'

putting out the bins Insta-grommet-
ed Fama-widgetted the world but the world
is washing its ***** homme moyen sensuel
feels neither ****** nor blessed
culdesac wilderness no 'Wot no samo
©' enriches but inside my flat wypipo
surahs are basquiated alll over bones stones
& date palm fronds Newyork Paris London
Norwich supernobody supernova of purple psychology
prisoner between the lines egotistical subprime of me.

Allthewhile bombs immortalise everywhere but here.

Praying ' Ia! Shub-Niggurath! The Black Goat
of the Woods With a 1000 Young'
  yet still
the DWP send brown envelopes like post-
al millenarian sandwichboards or economic
letterbombs mash of calendars unassailable
nth mph inevitable catastrophe alazonic
file Akashic Bureau declassifies
is conceit of a train facing a rhino of a meme by
necessity a meme of a rhino gardarhino swino
my geworfen gurn of response scenarios
geworfen backatcha megillah galaxy
fillet ubeity is barrow pig cosmic bootyclap of me.

Everyday bombs bombarded the Mousetrap Theatre
but never hereatre.

Isn't everything just advanced basketmaking
everything is advanced basket-
making everything either that or egowanking
like urban legend of the Purple One ouroboros-
ing his purple one Janusjaws bittensmit-
ten by tailtaste once American sawboneses
optimised the Tom Thumb of Funk's
zeroshape with double ribectomy musta hadda sillycunt
implant ah the hiss of hubris human CMBR
soliphissing hero of selflove whited sepulchres
'This is the only musical the mouth & hopefully
the brain attached to the mouth, right?'
X-iestance of me.

The bombs they bombeth everyday, but I'm okay.

Big Gazrilo Princep Bang weltgeschichtlich pinup
modcon slave to my suprachiasmatic nucleus living
l'appel du vide in comfort fatarse sitrep
tragicecstatic bluff transparent as an exhibition-
ist pharaoh mummified in cling-
film hokeycokeying the keys till my right hand's in
court & my leftover hand doesn't count
tallies of tall realities like BasquiAT-ATs or Daliphants
skittled by Tippex the inner crickets' tip-
ple ghost grawlixes sculpsit grazes 00Q's qwerty spype
no carmen triumphale of poetical toothbrushes gets free
from chelseasmiled singularity inadequake scree of me.

But bombs being dropped is not the only way
this 40-yr-old 5'6 din of reverie will stop.
I can make the earth stop in
its tracks. I made the
blue cars go away.

I can make myself invisible or small.
I can become gigantic & reach the
farthest things. I can change
the course of nature.
I can place myself anywhere in
space or time.
I can summon the dead.
I can perceive events on other worlds,
in my deepest inner mind,
& in the minds of others.

I can

I am
~~~

People need Connectors
Writers, heroes, stars,
leaders
To give life form.
A child’s sand boat facing
the sun.
Plastic soldiers in the miniature
dirt war.  Forts.
Garage Rocket Ships

Ceremonies, theatre, dances
To reassert Tribal needs & memories
a call to worship, uniting
above all, a reversion,
a longing for family & the
safety magic of childhood.
~~~

The grand highway
is crowded
w/
lovers
&
searchers
&
leavers
so
eager
to
please
&
forget

Wilderness
~~~

Now is blessed
The rest
remembered
~~~

A man rakes leaves into
a heap in his yard, a pile,
& leans on his rake &
burns them utterly.
The fragrance fills the forest
children pause & heed the
smell, which will become
nostalgia in several years
~~~

Sirens
Water
Rain & Thunder
Jet from the base
Hot searing insect cry
The frogs & crickets
Doors open & close
The smash of glass
The Soft Parade
An accident
Rustle of silk, nylon
Watering the dry grass
Fire
Bells
Rattlesnake, whistles, castanets
Lawn mower
Good Humor man
Skates & wagons
Bikes
~~~

Where’d you learn about
Satan- out of a book
Love?- out of a box
~~~

night of sin (The Fall)
-1st ***, a feeling of having
done this same act in time before
O No, not again
~~~

Between childhood, boyhood,
adolescence
& manhood (maturity) there
should be sharp lines drawn w/
Tests, deaths, feats, rites
stories, songs, & judgements
~~~

Men who go out on ships
To escape sin & the mire of cities
watch the placenta of evening stars
from the deck, on their backs
& cross the equator
& perform rituals to exhume the dead
dangerous initiations
To mark passage to new levels

To feel on the verge of an exorcism
a rite of passage
To wait, or seek manhood
enlightenment in a gun

To **** childhood, innocence
in an instant
Bhill Sep 2019
The cricket was only doing what crickets do
Walking slowly up the walk looking for more crickets
Looking north and south, east and west
He or she appeared to alone
Where were more crickets
Where was the orchestra of fellow crickets
What happened

The wonderment stopped when this cricket let out “crick-it, crick-it”
The orchestra followed suit and sounded out in cricket harmony
Cricket harmony so welcomed by this once lonely cricket

Off it hopped to join in the symphonic noises created by the once hidden fellow crickets

Crick-it, Chirp, Crick-it, Chirp, Crick-it......

Brian Hill - 2019 # 239
Felt a bit silly this morning..
Let your cricket orchestra sing out!
DaSH the Hopeful Feb 2016
I keep waiting for a punchline to a joke told before I was born
           When everyone had their *own
problems.
     Some of them I inherited
                But not happily
  
       I can hear echoes even now, the build up, the relaxed but uneasy tenseness before the drop of the curtain, the reveal.....
      And then,
                                  nothing.

          **Cricke­ts.
The crickets are calling
Out the stars,
Paper holes punched
Into the night sky,
Hear their tune
They play
Just for me and you,
Listen to the waves
In the background,
Their crescendo
Ever so louder
Yet serene,
Watch the dark sky with you;
I could until the morning
Like a face through a screen door,
Looking out, looking up
The twinkles are bright
White sprinkles on a chocolate cake,
The crickets are calling
Out the milky moon,
Lighting up the world
Before we sleep,
Hear their tune
Lullaby serenading,
Gently our daytime cares
As we lull off to our dreams...
© okpoet
Madisen Kuhn Nov 2014
are hands and knees that hit the floor
and crawl back towards what i’d sworn off before
weak, or brave
is it braver to run in the opposite direction
or to stay even when it stings
because when we’re in your car
i know what the crickets outside
are thinking, is it true
am i throwing white sheets over old reminders
written in dust, small whispers leading up
to an attic where all the hurt and confusion is stored
in cardboard boxes labelled DO NOT OPEN

right now i’m sitting on the stairs
with my back against the door
and i’m looking at your face, your face, your face
searching for something maybe i didn’t see before
and the words you wrote at two in the dark
made me miss you when i promised i didn’t,
and i want to stay, but when i try
to convince myself that you’re right,
that pushing you away is the easy way out,
that what we feel is a reason to keep each
other around,
i still find it hard to believe myself
when i tell myself
that i am being strong
Stu Harley Jun 2016
let
your
imagination ride
on
the
backs of
giant grasshoppers
and
giant crickets
Don’t run away  -  open your heart
like a door and welcome in the night
with all her peculiar baggage.       Listen
                                                                   to the haunting cadence of crickets,
                                                                   how the moon pulls slender notes
                                                                   from their wings as she pulls shivering
                                                                   waves from the sea.
                            They sing of freedom.
They sing:      Release
                            all those memories you’ve trapped
                            like fireflies in mason jars - you ask
                            too much of those tiny flashes, expecting
                            them to guide you.       Stop
                                                                          trying to preserve
                                                                          their light   -  their beauty
                                                                                                      exists only
                                                                                                      in darkness.

Hear the promise of sunrise
in the crickets’ song.
April Jean May 2018
11:11. Gazing at the night sky, with nothing on my mind, except the thought of you and I.
Crickets chirping, sky clear. Why do I wish you were here?
Your deep eyes, your warm smile. God. Your laugh, it could stop the world for a while.
Hour by hour, time ticks away. Slowly the night, turns to day.
Dusk will arrive, and my head will still spin.
To love, or to not? That I ponder, as the crickets chirp, and my heart just can't win.
11:11, still I wish, your gaze, your eyes, even your kiss.
Falling for you, wasn't exactly the plan.
Please, I hope, your heart is where I land.
sky filled with diamonds, wishing on shooting stars.
It is now 11:12, the time of moving on...
Love with all your heart people. Wish upon stars. Dream as big as you can. Love is never the plan...
mg Feb 2015
it doesnt matter why i was there,
where the air is sterile and the
sheets sting.
it doesnt matter that i was hooked
up to this thing that beeped and buzzed
everytime my heart leaped like a man who’s faith
tells him God’s hands are big enough to catch an airplane,
or a world.
it doesn’t matter that i was curled up like
a fist protesting death, or that
every breath was either hard labour or hard time.
or that im either always too hot or too cold.
doesn’t matter because my hospital roomate
wears star wars pajamas,
and he’s 9 years old.
his name is Louis,
and  i dont have to ask what he’s got.
the bald head with the skin and bones frame
speaks volumes.
the gameboy and the featherpillow booms
like they’re trying to make him feel at hom because he’s
going to be here for awhile.
i manage a smile the first time i see him and it feels like
the biggest lie ive ever told,
so i hold my breath cause i’m thinking any minute now,
he’s going to call me out on it.
i hold my breath because i’m scared of a
57 pound boy hooked up to a machine
because he’s been watching me and maybe
i’ve got him pegged all wrong,
like maybe he’s bionic or some ****.
so i look away, like i just made eye contact
with a gang member who’s got a rap sheet the length of a lecture on
dumb mistakes politicians have made.
i look away like he’s going to give me my life back
the moment i’ve got something to trade.
i **** near pull out my pack and say,
“cigarette?”
but my fear subsides when i realize Louis is all
show and tell.
he’s got everything from a shotgun shell to a
crows foot and he can put them all in context.
like, “see this is from a shooting range”,
and “see, this is from a weird girl.”
i watch his hands curl around a cuff-link and a tie-tack
and realize that every nick-nack
is a  treasure
and every treasure has a story,
and every time i think i cant handle anymore
he hits me with another story.
he says, “see, this is from my father.”
“see, this is from my brother.”
“see, this is from that weird girl.”
“see, this is from my mother.”
took me about two days to figure out that
weird girl is his sister,
it took him about two hours today after she left him
for him to figure out he missed her.
and they visit every day and stay well past visiting hours
because for them that term doesn’t apply.
but when they do leave,
Louis and I are left alone.
and he says, “the worst part about being sick
is that you get all the free ice cream you ask for,”
and he says, “the worst part about that is realizing
there is nothing more they can do for you.”
he says, “ice cream cant make everything okay.”
and there is no easy way of asking,
and i know what he’s going to say,
maybe he just  needs to say it,
so i ask him anyway.
“are you scared?”
Louis doesn’t even lower his voice when
he says, 
“**** yeah.”
i listen to a 9 year old boy say the word ****
like he was a 30 year old man
with a nose-bleed being lowered into a shark tank,
he’s got a right to it.
and if it takes this kid a curse word
to help him get through it, then i
want to teach him to swear like the devil’s
sitting there with a pen and pad
taking notes.
but before i can forget that Louis
is 9 years old he says,
“please don’t tell my dad.”
he asks me if i believe in angels,
and before i realize i dont have
the heart to tell him, i tell him, “not lately.”
and i just lay there waiting for him to
hate me.
but he doesn’t know how to,
so he never does.
Louis loves like a man who lived in
a time before God gave religion to
men and left it to them to figure out
what hate was.
he never greets me with silence,
only smiles and a patience i’ve
never seen in someone who knows
they’re dying.
and i’m trying so hard not to remind him
i’ll be out here in a couple of days
smoking cigarettes and taking my life
for granted.
and he’ll still be planted in this bed
like a flower that refuses to grow.
i’ve been with him for 5 days and
all i really know is that Louis loves to
pull feathers out of his pillow,
and watch them float to the ground.
almost as if he’s the philosopher,
inside of the scientist ready to say,
“its the gravity that’s been getting us
down.”
the truth is: there’s not enough miracles to
go around, kid.
and there’s too many people petitioning God
for winning the lotto ticket.
and for every answered prayer,
theres a cricket with arthritis.
and the only reason we can’t find
answers is because the search party didnt invite us,
and Louis,
right now the crickets have arthritis.
so there is no music,
no symphony of nature swelling into crescendos,
as if ripping halos into melodies
that can keep a rhythm with the way
our hearts beat.
so we must meet silence with the
same level of noise that the parents
of a dying 9 year old boy make when
they take the liberties in talking
with heaven.
we must shout until we shatter our
own vibrations, then let our lives
echo and grow, echo and grow,
grow distant.
grow distant enough to know
that as far as our efforts go,
we don’t always get a reply.
but i swear to whatever God
i can find in the time i have left,
i’m going to
remember you, kid.
i‘m going to tell your story as
often as every story you told me.
and every time i tell it i’ll say,
“see, there’s bravery in this world.
there’s 6.5 billion people curled up
like fists protesting death,
but every breath we breathe
has to be given back.
a 9 year old boy taught me that.”
so hold your breath,
the same way you’d hold a pen
when writing Thank You letters on
your skin to every tree that gave
you that breath to hold.
and then let it go, as if you
understand something about
getting old and having to give back.
let it go like a laugh attack in the middle
of really good ***,
the black eye will be worth it.
because what is your night worth
without a story to tell?
and why wield a word like worth
if you’ve got nothing to sell?
people drop pennies down a wishing well,
so the cost of a desire is equal to that of a thought.
but if you’ve got expectations,
expect others have bought your exact
same dream for the price of a
‘hard work, hang in, hold on’
mentality.
like, i accept any challenge
so challenge me.
like, i brought a knife to this gun fight,
but the other night i mugged a mountain so bring that ****,
i’ve had practice.
Louis and i cracked this world wide open and found that
the prize inside is that we never lied to ourselves.
never told ourselves that we’d be eazy or undemanding.
so we sing in our own
vibration, and dare angels to eavesdrop and stop midflight
to pluck feathers from their wings and write
demands that God’s hands take the time to
catch you.
so that even if God doesn’t,
it wasn’t because we didn’t try.
i dont often believe in angels,
but on the day i left Louis
pulled a feather from his pillow and said,
“this is for you.”
i half expected him to say,
“see, this is the first one i grew.”



s.k.
Kaley Hudgins Sep 2014
Actually, I'd rather not bore you by telling you what I'm doing right now...
No,
I think I'll pass in letting you know that previous to writing this down,
I was laying on my mattress,
in my tiny apartment,
eyes on the ceiling,
contemplating whether I was hearing
everything at once
or
nothing at all...
Do the crickets outside my window even count?
I've only ever considered them the creature that remained
after all of the butterflies you once gave me turned to dust.
So no...I'll spare you of all that.
I told myself I'd stop writing poems about you anyway...
when the moon is high on the fringe of town,
just beyond city lights and street signs,
the empty glow of neon blinks against a backdrop
of deep blue, (almost black but not quite),
freckled with luminous stars.
it’s the echo of a shepherd barking
in the mountains, chained outside
to a white picket fence, waiting
for an answer that will never come.
it’s the trickle of water in the koi pond
next door, recycled in an artificial route,
spewing bubbles and waiting for evaporation.
it’s the creak of my rocking chair as I fold
my knees to my chest and hug them,
the way I did when I was five, sitting in darkness
because the porch light burned out
and I’m too tired to replace it.
now the dog has stopped barking
and a mosquito buzzes close to my ear,
and in the distance, the absence of crickets
makes silence the loudest sound I've ever heard.
Tanay Sengupta Aug 2018
Chirping crickets, unheard whispers and a lonely street light.
For a small town, it is such a typical night.
A sweet aroma blows with the breeze,
Perhaps, coming from one of the flowers or the trees.

Red flares and moonflowers blooming under the moonlight.
Adding more grace to this beautiful night.
Peace and serenity rule in this silence,
There is no noise, there is no violence.

There are just sounds of heartbeats, deep breaths and whispers.
Just sounds of heartbeats, deep breaths and whispers.











Tanay Sengupta, Copyright © 2018.
All Rights Reserved
This is rather recent, I hope you like it. Happy reading!
there are still crickets outside although it is mid october

i try to tread softly on the way to class
or to breakfast
the quiet spot that i pull high up over my head so no one can hear

the noise of the cricket that cast itself under my boot
oh! little surprise!
i am so sorry
but your scream was only a crunch
that rang out two weeks ago
i still remember
not actually about crickets (though this did happen) but rather a summary of a state of mind

— The End —