Voiceless! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
Climbed the stairs slowly due to arthritis
Rummaged in the bag for the house keys.
Unlocked the main door, and wearily stepped in
Laughing Buddha seemed to mock and grin…
Kept her stuff, and rushed to the refrigerator.
Took out frozen food along with a bottle of water.
The house was quiet, after the din of work place.
Badly, needed some solitude and her own little space.
Just then she got two messages from her family on mobile.
Hubby- sorry, a client meet, she read with a taste of bile.
Son- ma, last moment decided to go for Oscar winner,
‘Slum Dog Millionaire’, so please don’t wait for dinner.
Was she mad or glad when she threw the TV remote?
She took out her pen and made some notes.
Later, she made a salad and chicken roast
And had it with chilly pepper and garlic toast.
Outside the cicadas were performing a concert
There was a light drizzle, as she had a dessert.
A shower of rain and cicadas come alive.
Is it because they have voiceless wives?
In his book ‘The wonderful world of Insects, trees and wild flowers’
Ruskin Bond, quotes a Greek poet
‘Happy are the Cicadas for they have voiceless wives.’
Apparently, female Cicadas are dumb.the Greek used to keep male Cicadas in cage, as they loved their music.
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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Related quotes
0029 This night, this night of endless miracle
On this Mediterranean night with its light breeze
scented with the sun-warmed herbs
drifting down from cooling, stony hills,
a million stars you’ve never seen before
shine on a million crickets singing
as if from eternity to eternity
and you cannot say, and there’s
no need to say, which is which;
the trembling of the stars,
the susurration of cicadas,
join as in endless praise
of the imagination of their maker
who made imagination too
and though the cicadas, singing, may never know
that the stars they sing to
are shining from a thousand years ago
and though the stars may never know
that the cicadas that they shine upon
are a thousand years here from their now,
it’s all known, to the mind that made the vines
that made the grapes that made the wine
singing in my veins tonight
like cicadas susurrating in the starlight
as you hear them now
this night, this night of endless miracle
poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Song of the Cicadas
Yesterday there came to me
from a green and graceful tree
as I loitered listlessly
nothing doing, nothing caring,
light and warmth and fragrance sharing
with the butterfly and the bee,
while the sapling-tops a-glisten
danced and trembled, wild and willing
such a sudden sylvan shrilling
that I could not choose but listen
Green Cicadas, Black Cicadas,
happy in the gracious weather,
Floury-baker, Double-Drummer,
all as one and all together,
how they voiced the golden summer.
Stealing back there came to me
as I loitered listlessly
'neath the green and graceful tree,
nothing doing, nothing caring,
boyhood moments spent in sharing
with the butterfly and the bee
youth and freedom, warmth and glamour
while Cicadas round me shrilling,
set the sleepy noontide thrilling
with their keen insistent clamour.
Green Cicadas, Black cicadas,
happy in the gracious weather
Floury-bakers, double-drummers
all as one and all together---
how they voice the bygone summers!
poem by Roderic Quinn
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Under the Purple Flowers
In the purple flowers’ shade
You kissed me the first kiss.
The moon lit its light of jade;
The cicadas sang their song of bliss.
Then, time passed fast and blind;
You went to your studies above
Leaving the purple flowers behind
With such a dreamlike love.
In each letter sent to the old place
You said you still missed this start
With the purple flowers of grace
And this young and true heart.
I have come back each day alone
To see the old flowers obsess
And hear the cicadas groan;
I feel such a vague distress.
I have nurtured my pastoral love
Now that summer is back to see
With the purple flowers above
I am an amorous banyan tree.
poem by ThanhThanh NhuanLe
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1: 55 A.m.
the cicadas still sing
that early
in this small town and
everyone is
in fact everything is
so quite that if you
are awake at this hour
unholy as they call it
(but so holy to me
i think)
i can still hear
the voice wanting
to be spoken
deep inside the
linings of my
esophagus
there is this mummy
of the sarcophagus
wanting to be
reborn
honestly the name
still slips
in my tongue
perhaps this could
be the poem
about cicadas
and their songs
or the sound of
quiet
the murmur
of peace
long gone
now
trembling at the
tip of my lips
who knows?
if at a little stare
on the wall
soon i shall understand
and decipher
what slime is there
that wants to speak
inside my
throat
but still wanting to
be swallowed
honestly
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Place Of My Dreams
Nobody ever walked this path before
-before trees grew here nearly touching the sky,
I am alone safely inside a world of my own-
A world where only deer roam and birds fly about-
Cardinals, robins and sometimes
I believed I saw angels-
Angels singing in harmony with bird songs-
The wind would rustle the leaves upon the trees and
In the early summertime, cicadas would sing incessantly-
Incessantly and melodiously-
Only one day I heard a different sound-
The sounds of footsteps and children screaming,
Following closely behind me-
I would hide behind a tall oak tree and I would almost weep as
My solitude has been interrupted and
I am no longer safe as my private world had been invaded-
Nobody ever walked this path before until this day and
My dream has been transformed to a nightmare-
I am not safe in a world destroyed by the presence of strangers-
Cardinals, robins and cicadas are my friends and
Other people are my enemies whom I do not trust-
Following in my footsteps and trying to make eye contact,
To read the verses of the songs my mind composes?
I know I have seen angels and heard them singing, and
Birds chanting along with the gentle winds
Rustling the leaves upon the trees-
But now other people have discovered the path,
upon which I have walked alone,
And my secure space has become a public tenement-
I once believed nobody ever walked this path before,
This path to which I could escape reality and lose myself inside
The magnificent world of my delusions-now they have come to take me away and
To lock me inside this prison which I cannot escape?
I cannot hear the angels singing here and birds are seemingly far away-
Here I have lost myself inside my own world,
one so different and so frightening?
There are people here, so close to me, yet I feel so alone-
Although alone in a dangerous way- I am singing my own song,
Hoping that the angels can hear me and one day I shall be back in unison with nature,
Far away from intruders and singing in harmony with nightingales –
And once again, alone safely,
as I shall have abandoned the nightmare of reality,
Touching the sky in my dreams, dancing with angels as I listen to the cicadas chanting
Happily as they are lost inside the world of their fantasies, just as I wish to be…
poem by Claudia Krizay
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Place des L[ces St. Tropez
I pray for the chickens on the spit
whip cicadas into a frenzy over it
then watch them sweat as they turn
for chicken sins
they couldn't have commit
poem by STEPHEN BRIAN Brady
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At Night...
the cicadas make music
on the twigs of trees
where dry leaves fall heavily
though there is no wind
they make the dirge
for those who die for the season
the funerals
of silence are at it again
the leaves so light
like souls....
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Late August
Everything expires.
Even the cicadas seem
to run out of steam
poem by Morgan Michaels
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Prelude to autumn! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
As the monsoon recedes, with vengeance
Sun livid strikes back, but gives up pretence
By mid noon, it retreats and westwards race,
Far from city scape, it slips leaving no trace.
Dusk falls at six, in blows a gentle breeze.
Festive season on, feel like drape silk weaves.
House is plunged in the darkness, but moon beams
Gently descend and rest on leaves it seems.
My upturned face is touched by their caress
Palm fronds swing and night strolls in at its pace.
Cicadas have made a quiet exit with the rain,
I embrace the quiet; no background score or strains.
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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Little Lives
some little creatures
just around us
making tiny sounds
the cicadas
underneath dry leaves
the worms singing
on hollow grounds
the ants
working for food
to feed
their queen.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Trapped
Today the sky is blue as far as I can see-
Except perhaps for one cloud
Dancing within the shadows of time.
Today I am locked inside of a metal box-
A metal box with one small hole
From which I can look out and see the sky-
But only the sky.
A gentle breeze blows through this hole, and
Slightly cools the fire searing inside of me-
That fire of anger that rages as would a forest bonfire,
That shall not be quenched.
Flames rise and smolder inside of my heart, for
There exists a small door inside of this box
To which I have the key to its lock-
A key that dangles from a string which hangs around my neck.
All I can see is the sky but I know inside of my thoughts
There are tall and beautiful trees outside,
Which that cool breeze rustles-
There is a trail where deer gracefully run wild,
Cardinals fly about and cicadas sing.
Then there are the enemies that follow me wherever I walk and
Stare into the pupils of my eyes and steal my thoughts away-and
When my rage scorches my heart and I threaten- they laugh and
Call me a lunatic. That key is dangling about my neck, and
My hand aches to grasp hold of it and to unlock the door to this metal cage
That confines me. I can feel the water in the creek that runs through the trail
Caressing my ankles as my spirit dances to the tune of the
Song played by the beating of the wings of the cicadas, while
My hair is blown about in the subtle wind-
Tears begin to fall as from hail in a summer storm-
I am trapped inside this empty metal cage-like box, as
I am confined inside the violent frenzy of my own fantasies-
Those fantasies that ensnare me and separate me from the world outside.
The world outside I have been told is a strikingly amazing place but inside of my mind
Demons lie to me and strangle me with the string that holds the key to reality
About my neck. I scream so loudly it blows the top off of the box, and
I find myself lying in the grass as thunder claps and the rain pours down upon me-
But I can still feel the fire burning my heart and my mind, as
I am doomed to be trapped inside this outrageous world of my thoughts-forever.
poem by Claudia Krizay
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hot summer night -
on a sycamore tree
the crescendo of cicadas
haiku by Marijo Pinero (2008)
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Sun rise to the east
Hazy fog drapes the mountain
Cicadas cry shrill
haiku by Desiree C. D. (29 January 2010)
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cicadas' frenzied song
a new summer day
has dawned
haiku by John Tiong Chunghoo
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CIcada's Song
That fog at dusk can almost be heard,
As heavy as the thundering of a bass drum.
Night birds beat their wings as gracefully as
A dancer would, with agility
Beneath the light of
Venus…
Listen to the sounds of the
Cicadas calling in the midday or their
Chanting in the twilight while their plaintive tune resonates throughout the forest-
Dewdrops decorate the surface of the ground and
Only angels can truly see rain in the dead of the night.
Dark days or dismal afternoons,
Foggy and overcast as a sorcerer’s nightmare-
Only the downpours of tears bring universal sorrow-
Rain or tears, the same, never ending …
Naiads weep with the full moon at midnight, for
The rain won’t cease to pour and their tears-
They just keep on falling, to mingle with the moisture
That blankets the surface of the earth-
Sky lightening illuminates the heavens as thunder claps.
God is wakening, opening the skies.
Cicadas carry on
With their cacophonous, though
Dolorous and melodious song, as
The moon disappears behind the mountains,
The rain ceases to fall and the sun rises and
Nature weeps her silent tears of joy.
Fog tip-toes behind the thicket, and
Disappears past the horizon while the
World dances in blissful wakefulness…
poem by Claudia Krizay
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Blame Me This Time
This time, to save time
I'm just going to fall in love
With myself: discrete lunches
Alone at the table, with an engrossing book
Candlelight dinners and vintage wine,
Looking up at the stars,
Trying to name all the constellations-
Just me and only me;
Slow dancing in the garden
To a symphony of cicadas
Heart-shaped chocolate boxes,
With a romantic poem tucked under the ribbon
Surprising myself with flowers
And fresh-squeezed orange juice
After an all nighter
Of watching movies by myself
Secret notes slipped into my bag
To meet myself at an undisclosed place
For a romantic interlude:
I can see it's going to get complicated
But at least, I'll have only myself to blame
If things go wrong.
poem by Patti Masterman
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The City And The Town
this is what the city has to offer
neon lights, ambulance screams,
loud music, beer and ale,
a small room, a busy life,
a little sleep,
exquisite dinners,
late shows, gags, gigs.
but i have enough of all these,
i went to the little town
and have this wooden house,
beside a river, there are flowers
blooming and vegetable gardens,
and tranquil horizons,
a beautiful sunset
a brighter sunrise,
crustal clear rivers,
home fishing, and mountain treks,
and fresh smell of green grass,
and cool shades of trees,
mountain shadows,
full moons and singing birds
love calls, and fresh fruits
direct from the trees,
wild chickens, and
horses to ride and carabaos
to pasture, goats to feed
and turkey chases,
a very peaceful sleep at night
under the moon
lamp-lit room and some cicadas
in concert with the frogs
and crickets and worms
and then the rain
starts to fall
you hear the sweet hum
of the nearby river
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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As the Monsoon Retreats
Besides the smell
Of the earth,
Lush green trees,
Garden weeds,
And the sound of the rain
Music to my ears, after
Dust storms and hot winds.
I loved the
Croaking of the frogs.
After dusk fall
Twinkling fireflies.
The call of the Cicadas,
Although a bit
Eerie at night.
I would exclaim
Monsoon brings
Wild life
Full of sounds
And delightful sights
Now, as the
Monsoon recedes
I realise, those sounds
Had long since died,
Couldn’t survive and adapt
To polluted environment.
It’s a pity,
Nature has become
A victim
Of human activity.
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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As the Monsoon Recedes
Besides the heady fragrance
Of the wet earth,
Freashly bathed green trees,
(Evoking images of a damsel
stroking her wet tresses)
Garden weeds,
And the sound of the rain
Music to my ears, after
Scorching summer,
Dust storms and hot winds.
I loved the
Croaking of the frogs.
After dusk fall
Twinkling fireflies.
The call of the Cicadas,
Although a bit
Eerie at night.
I would exclaim
Monsoon brings
Wild life
Full of sounds
And pleasing sights,
Though the family
didn't share my delight
Now, as the
Monsoon recedes
I realise, those sounds
Had long since died,
Couldn’t survive and adapt
To polluted environment.
Victims of
thoughtless human activity.
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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It Is Finished
the stalking is finally over
the poems still keep popping
and flowers blooming
(oh the cliche of birds singing
and cicadas chirping)
the bamboo leaves bring
the hush in the making
the sea is crystal clear
i swim there
and this i must wait
when i rise up from the
waters
when my hair is wet
and my body still dangling
with glistening sea foams and drops
i now find this joy
of lying upon the big stone
by the shore
sunbathing.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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