In shaded oak crowns
A cicada chorus sings.
Crickets chirp at night.
haiku by Paul Hartal
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Love Sonnet 31 Red rose for my love, the best heaven owns,
Red rose for my love, the best heaven owns,
The fairest Earth could bloom beneath the skies,
As tucked upon her hair instead of crowns,
Bestows well what the lack of crowns denies;
That wisp of cloudiness above her head,
Heralds the sudden souring of the day,
Yet, does not damp the warmth her smiles have spread,
Though crickets chirp thinking that night would lay;
Her sighs could drown this soft cacophony,
As ear discerns better the whispered word,
Within my heart she plays a symphony,
And those who love must have known every chord;
….My love, timely toast of the morning dew,
….Quite enough reason why red roses grew.
.
poem by Reyvrex Questor Reyes
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A Reaper
He dances with his shadow
To the tune of cicada's chirp
In the middle of the night.
Harvest has stolen by an unknown,
The poor farmer's beholden
And how he shows his indignation?
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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A Cicada Shell
a cicada shell
how like a porcelain
it breaks piece by piece
after a noisy night
the cicada waves at me on the floor
with its legs
A cicada shell;
it sang itself
utterly away.
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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I Wonder About The Cicada That You See
i know that this morning
you walk on the park
on a sunny day and it
is, of course, hot
and then you see this cicada
and i wonder if it is
singing
or grumbling
on this very hot sunny day by the park
i wonder if the cicada stares
at you
i wonder if you talk to the cicada
i wonder if
something happens that you
cannot just forget
about the cicada
i wonder if everything is unfinished
images half-printed
i wonder if at all, to whatever we see and feel and
talk about i wonder if
there must be conclusions
i wonder if
we must limit only to our own observations
leave it that way
like a bat hanging on the wall
and then
just that, whether if flies away or drops dead
you say
i do not honestly know and
i have really nothing to say
i like it with you,
something unfinished, and perhaps that is the beauty in you
this suspended suspense
suspenseful till nowhere
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Lady button-eyes
When the busy day is done,
And my weary little one
Rocketh gently to and fro;
When the night winds softly blow,
And the crickets in the glen
Chirp and chirp and chirp again;
When upon the haunted green
Fairies dance around their queen -
Then from yonder misty skies
Cometh Lady Button-Eyes.
Through the murk and mist and gloam
To our quiet, cozy home,
Where to singing, sweet and low,
Rocks a cradle to and fro;
Where the clock's dull monotone
Telleth of the day that's done;
Where the moonbeams hover o'er
Playthings sleeping on the floor -
Where my weary wee one lies
Cometh Lady Button-Eyes.
Cometh like a fleeting ghost
From some distant eerie coast;
Never footfall can you hear
As that spirit fareth near -
Never whisper, never word
From that shadow-queen is heard.
In ethereal raiment dight,
From the realm of fay and sprite
In the depth of yonder skies
Cometh Lady Button-Eyes.
Layeth she her hands upon
My dear weary little one,
And those white hands overspread
Like a veil the curly head,
Seem to fondle and caress
Every little silken tress;
Then she smooths the eyelids down
Over those two eyes of brown -
In such soothing, tender wise
Cometh Lady Button-Eyes.
Dearest, feel upon your brow
That caressing magic now;
For the crickets in the glen
Chirp and chirp and chirp again,
While upon the haunted green
Fairies dance around their queen,
And the moonbeams hover o'er
Playthings sleeping on the floor -
Hush, my sweet! from yonder skies
Cometh Lady Button-Eyes!
poem by Eugene Field
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Weird-Bird
from the wire chirp
on the wire chirp
frantic head
to and fro
to and fro
chirp, chirp, chirp
little bird on a wire
head and beak
to and fro
to and fro
ten times in a second
tail up, tail down, tail up, tail down
the tight feathered bodice
doing a twist
legs angled tight on tiny wire
a tightrope walker
chirp, chirp, chirp
looking for some fun
looking for a companion to share its day
chirp, chirp, chirp
inspired by
Weird-Bird
Birds are flyin' south for winter.
Here's the Weird-Bird headin' north,
Wings a-flappin', beak a-chatterin',
Cold head bobbin' back 'n' forth.
He says, 'It's not that I like ice
Or freezin' winds and snowy ground.
It's just sometimes it's kind of nice
To be the only bird in town.'
Shel Silverstein
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Never Empty
Do you ever muse what houses do
while you're at work, the kids at school,
how the traffic roars as it rolls on by
and the telephone rings with no reply.
The refrigerator sings its refrigerator tune
and the gas man calls in the afternoon.
How rain pours through that hole in the roof
and the ants infest all the children's shoes.
Have you ever thought on that dear folk,
when you're out all day and the front door's locked.
When the spiders dance and crickets chirp
with their clod hopper feet on the skirting boards,
making merriment while you're away,
assuming the house is empty all day.
Have you ever looked under old floor boards
where the mice all run when the cat's at play
and the spiders return at the break of day.
Only the house knows what goes on,
only its walls see the spiders run
and the crickets dance and the mice at play,
only the house when you're all away
except for the clock on the kitchen wall
with its heart ever beating the time of day.
poem by Ruth Walters
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The dim silence of my mind seems filled with crickets' chirp--the grey twilight of sound.
aphorism by Rabindranath Tagore from Stray Birds (1916), translated by Rabindranath Tagore
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Untitled (poem in the style of Emily Dickinson)
It's always black
When the sun drops down
Until the stars attack
The unaware sky
The moon creeps out
Leaving the blocking cloud
With the night now lit up
The crickets jump in a crowd
No violas, No violins
Only one instrument
The cricket’s crick
Music better than an orchestra
Everything good must end
And the frog knows this well
Some crickets flee, others defend
The crickets left to die in the end
poem by Claude Davis III
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Writer's cramp
Not only the muscles of the hand
his heart too got cramps
and the writing paper refused,
pen has hidden somewhere.
Candle it burned to the last stage
wax like his tears
Grand father clock stopped.
A cicada's chirp the resemblance of his heartbeat.
His fiancee has eloped
with his best friend
and there is no way
to express his misery.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Poem about Poetry - The Real Poets
poets are birds
birds are poets
and the latter
are the truest poets
singing - from dawn till night and night till dawn
crowning the world
with their exuberant,
health giving and never ending poetry slam
first to flag off
the daily slam
would be the cockerels
sending our heart reeling
with the precision of
their poetic clock
they crow until the sun
has no choice but
to rise to the occasion
and then a thousand
other of their kinds
a million colourful plumes
in pomp and pageantry
high on cool shaded
majestic green podiums
begin their rumbunctious slam
their songs as diverse as their shines
every bird chips in
to make their slam the most powerful kind
some squawk,
some squeak
some chip chirp chap
some cry, crow, caw
some whistle, peep, screech
bark, croak, grunt, grumb
some plain quack
the best poets
chirp simple
mersmerising songs
slicing through
the first light
with their varying
tone, scale, metre, rhyme
cheering up the day
with full throated optimism
that could cure
any depressed heart
some twit delightful songs
chirp, chirp, chirp
chit chit chit chit chit chit
chi chiu chiu chiu chiu
twi wee twi wee twi wee
yer er er er eeeeeeeeer
so tenuous
and true
these feather poets
are in their art
they could put their
human cousins
in the novice basket
when it comes to
the world of poetry
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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With the Crickets Gone
Crickets make
The night sounds sweeter.
It's hard to replace
Their usefulness.
Just like moonbeams,
In eyes and dreams.
Without that magic...
Where would romance find meaning?
Where would romance go,
To await times to unfold?
And how...
Could we keep that rock to our boat?
With the crickets gone,
How could we stay afloat.
Crickets make
The night sounds sweeter.
It's hard to replace
Their usefulness.
Just like moonbeams,
In eyes and dreams.
Without that magic...
Where would romance find meaning?
Where would romance go,
To await times to unfold?
And how...
Could we keep that rock to our boat?
With the crickets gone,
How could we stay afloat.
With the crickets gone,
Could we keep that rock to our boat?
With the crickets gone,
How could we stay afloat.
With the crickets gone,
Could we keep that rock to our boat?
With the crickets gone,
How could we stay afloat.
With the crickets gone,
Would we then become remote.
With the crickets gone,
Could we keep that rock to our boat?
With the crickets gone,
How could we stay afloat.
With the crickets gone,
Could we keep that rock to our boat?
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Awaiting Thee
When thou art gone;
I sing my lonely song.
When thou art gone;
My waking hours are filled only with thoughts of thee.
When I sleep,
My dreams are filled with thee-
As I long for thee.
My love;
I await thee-
Lonely day,
After lonely day.
Lonely night,
After lonely night.
When The sun shines bright,
And the songbirds sing their joyous chorus-
It reminds me of this love of ours-
As I long for thee.
I await thee,
My love-
Throughout the lonely day-
Till the setting sun dwindles in dusk’s twilight-
Beyond golden pastures-
Fading in the night.
My love;
I long for thee.
My love;
I await thee-
Throughout the lonely night,
As the crickets chirp their symphony,
And in the darkness,
Like floating candles,
The fireflies glow.
And I remember our love,
As I gaze at the silver moon,
And diamond stars.
Forever embracing this love of ours.
As I sleep at night,
I dream only of being with thee,
My love.
As I awake,
And the sun rises at dawn over the emerald mountain tops,
I await thee,
My love.
Longing for you-
Day through day,
Night through night-
I await thee,
My love.
My love;
When thou art gone;
I sing my lonely song…
poem by Philip Alarie
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I Await Thee
When thou art gone;
I sing my lonely song.
When thou art gone;
My waking hours are filled only with thoughts of thee.
When I sleep,
My dreams are filled with thee-
As I long for thee.
My love;
I await thee-
Lonely day,
After lonely day.
Lonely night,
After lonely night.
When The sun shines bright,
And the songbirds sing their joyous chorus-
I remember our love-
As I long for thee.
I await thee,
My love-
Throughout the lonely day-
Till the setting sun dwindles in dusk’s twilight-
Beyond golden pastures-
Fading in the night.
My love;
I long for thee.
My love;
I await thee-
Throughout the lonely night,
As the crickets chirp their symphony,
And in the darkness,
Like floating candles,
The fireflies glow.
And I remember our love,
As I gaze at the silver moon,
And diamond stars.
And I Forever embrace this love of ours.
As I sleep at night,
I dream only of being with thee,
My love.
As I awake,
And the sun rises at dawn over the emerald mountain tops,
I await thee,
My love.
Longing for thee-
Day through day,
Night through night-
I await thee,
My love.
My love;
When thou art gone;
I sing my lonely song…
poem by Philip Alarie
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Cricket
Cricket, cricket
chirping all the night.
Why don't you sleep
until the morning light?
I lay there abed
listening to you.
Sometimes you stop.
I think you are through.
But no, chirp, chirp
you start in again.
I'm up searching your sound
but it's then
you are silent
'til I'm back in bed.
You are relentless
and so it is I dread
another sleepless night.
I'll find you in the morn
and when I do,
You'll wish you'd not been born.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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A Rose Grows In The Night
A rose grows in the night
Lit beneath the diamond lights
Petals smooth in silken magic
Blossom crimson shaded fabric
I touch the stem and thorns
Disappear from their tragic court
Scent regales the pollens nectar
That sings in childhood's laughter
Where smiles are like roses
That grow inside the night
poem by Kevin Patrick
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At The End Of The Day
At the end of the day
when the hues of night
are seen by lovers
as they stroll to their favourite rendezvous,
where the moonbeams dance
across the waters of a lazy river
and fireflies court in twos.
The chorus of the crickets
fills the stilled night air
as lovers gather in courting
here, there and everywhere.
The night is filled with whispers
of words not to be overheard
on a staggered summer evening
in a time not far away.
2 March 2009
poem by David Harris
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Poem about Poetry - the bird belting out a poem
twilight amusement
the different IQs
that make their way
to my room
dividing the world
in the form of chirp
chirp, chirp, chirp
twitter, twitter, twitter
in so many styles
and tones and syllables,
some extended,
some short broken notings
as diverse as the blooms in the garden
warbling, twittering, twit, tweedling, chirping
chirping, chirp
the singing IQ chart
try, try, try, you never know
how good you are if you never try
the varying quality bird songs
from the large garden tree
each bird's chirp
a humble contribution
from a little creation
each chirp divides the world
at morn, at dusk
what a delight to the ears, mind
simple short noted twitter
long extended mutli-toned varied tweedle
the varying quality poems
those chirpy nature poems
by celebrity birds
the like of sylvia plath,
and proletarian birds
the like of impoverished citizens
of the world
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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My Heart Sings
My heart sings.
My heart sings the songs of happiness.
My heart sings the songs of joy.
My heart sings the songs of peace.
My heart sings the songs of the Blues.
My heart sings the songs of the Gospel.
My heart sings the songs of good news.
My heart cries a melody for all to hear.
My heart sings the harmonies of love.
My heart sings a song of beauty
that comes from the Thorne Birds
just before they die.
My heart sings songs to keep me alive.
My heart sings songs for as long as it beats.
My heart sings forever.
My heart sings haluwasa.
My heart sings.
poem by Jennifer Burns
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In a Southern Garden
WHEN the tall bamboos are clicking to the restless little breeze,
And bats begin their jerky skimming flight,
And the creamy scented blossoms of the dark pittosporum trees,
Grow sweeter with the coming of the night.
And the harbour in the distance lies beneath a purple pall,
And nearer, at the garden’s lowest fringe,
Loud the water soughs and gurgles ’mid the rocks below the wall,
Dark-heaving, with a dim uncanny tinge
Of a green as pale as beryls, like the strange faint-coloured flame
That burns around the Women of the Sea:
And the strip of sky to westward which the camphorlaurels frame,
Has turned to ash-of-rose and ivory—
And a chorus rises valiantly from where the crickets hide,
Close-shaded by the balsams drooping down—
It is evening in a garden by the kindly water-side,
A garden near the lights of Sydney town!
poem by Dorothea Mackeller
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