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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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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Wings Of Fair-Hair
August is the origin in us it rises.
The sky of song of the cicada, watch the sun.
Clear wings of fair-hair she has left undone,
with heat by the falls around us.
Sand crane of the dunes hoovering.
Left, us it' which is felt.
So it is heavy and heavy it is So, it is.
Emptied the grip which should be broken off freely, it.
And that you must be settled,
August because it is short than exact.
By September her journey' It has arrived.
Cicada's exacted simply,
from the ground, At the time of her sun.
poem by Is It Poetry
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The Cicada
The cicada sheds his skin in summer,
Leaving behind an empty shell, a trace
Of his former self. The callous is left
With the peeling of its flesh. Now, a raw,
Reborn body remains, unspoiled by
The surfaces he felt beneath his claw,
Or the textures that formed against his weight.
A new cicada crawls forth from this case,
And he is no longer any number
Than the Earth that firms underneath his feet.
His wings buzz, freed from the crispness of time's
Dusty chrysalis. A much younger face
Emerges with eyes fresh from the slumber.
Awake, he couldn't believe what he saw.
poem by Tim Stensloff
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An Old Lesson From The Fields
Even as I watched the daylight how it sped
From noon till eve, and saw the light wind pass
In long pale waves across the flashing grass,
And heard through all my dreams, wherever led,
The thin cicada singing overhead,
I felt what joyance all this nature has,
And saw myself made clear as in a glass,
How that my soul was for the most part dead.
Oh, light, I cried, and, heaven, with all your blue,
Oh, earth, with all your sunny fruitfulness,
And ye, tall lillies, of the wind-vexed field,
What power and beauty life indeed might yield,
Could we but cast away its conscious stress,
Simple of heart, becoming even as you.
poem by Archibald Lampman
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There Is Peace
in an early morning
walk
along a path
winding through
the hillside
just the wind
brushing with the leaves
of trees
and some interfering
cicada cacophony
this hot summer
day
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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first date
cicada and me
seventeen
haiku by Ben Gieske
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A Cicada Shell
My companion to this
Last journey
A cicada shell
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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157
My companion to this
Last journey
A cicada shell
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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at the waterfall
trees rain down
cicada trills
haiku by Ben Gieske
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on the tree bark
a cicada shell
its song remembered
haiku by Ben Gieske
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A mantis stalking a cicada is unaware of an oriole behind.
Duet for heaven and earth
Cicada at dusk -
do you know how sweetly sing
the stars, with your voice?
poem by Michael Shepherd
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A cicada shell
A cicada shell;
it sang itself
utterly away.
Translated by R.H. Blyth
poem by Matsuo Basho
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Stillness
Stillness--
the cicada's cry
drills into the rocks.
Translated by Robert Hass
poem by Matsuo Basho
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In shaded oak crowns
A cicada chorus sings.
Crickets chirp at night.
haiku by Paul Hartal
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Death Sticking On A Bark Of A Tree
as i walk today
under the trees
when rain starts
to pour and i
take shelter
to find a
a cicada
unmoving by
the side
of a bark of
a tree
light and empty
only a shell
left-over of life
clinging still
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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From The Crevices
In the cover
of darkness
or full daylight
only the cicada knows
his torturous path
from subterranean
to flight.
poem by Vince Gullaci
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Cicada laughing,
Evening wind whispers in field.
Moon flower dreaming.
haiku by Janice Windle
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Eleven
Tel me what is your recently invented pretense
Your latest lie?
Shape, form, color, texture,
Of your many selves like your unequal fingers
More than the number
Of your allowable toes,
Feign and feign
That is feigning
Feign in feigning
Fingers like other fingers,
The shape
Of your fingers
You make things up
You invent new stories
And without any excuses
At all, like a very clever man loving many women
At the same time,
Figment, fabric, fabricate fabrics
To entertain, you are justifying, just to entertain, not to
Deceive
To lure them to glorify themselves
To believe about some goodness and beauty and the
Truth so well expressed in fiction,
In the field of imagination things work themselves into human beings
The cows talk in affable fables, the characters talk about avarice, love, hate,
And murders done in fiction,
We learn a lot,
And in that vast field of fiction
You are the cicada singing
Alone
To a cold and dark night
Wishing to be
A black bird, the one that flies and sings
And goes to places where
You have never been.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Fiction
Tel me what is your recently invented pretense
Your latest lie?
Shape, form, color, texture,
Of your many selves like your unequal fingers
More than the number
Of your allowable toes,
Feign and feign
That is feigning
Feign in feigning
Fingers like other fingers,
The shape
Of your fingers
You make things up
You invent new stories
And without any excuses
At all, like a very clever man loving many women
At the same time,
Figment, fabric, fabricate fabrics
To entertain, you are justifying, just to entertain, not to
Deceive
To lure them to glorify themselves
To believe about some goodness and beauty and the
Truth so well expressed in fiction,
In the field of imagination things work themselves into human beings
The cows talk in affable fables, the characters talk about avarice, love, hate,
And murders done in fiction,
We learn a lot,
And in that vast field of fiction
You are the cicada singing
Alone
To a cold and dark night
Wishing to be
A black bird, the one that flies and sings
And goes to places where
You have never been.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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