Cricket on the Windowsill

(a poem by myself)



Quickened step and daunting breath
Haste without intent,
For the wandering vagrant with eyes like death
Is carried forth by portent.
Under cover of nebulous cloud,
By the light of haughty fluorescence,
Was the Wanderer drawn by a voice so loud
Though ambiguous in essence.
This was the door, this was the night,
This was prospect in every right.
On went the Wanderer, onward still
Despite the cricket on the windowsill.

The Wanderer had a peculiar gait
Strident with ignorance pending,
The cricket did chirp, for response- await
The Wanderer’s feet meet their ending.
They halted not for the sorrowful stare
By the miniscule eyes below.
Though still they became, with a burden to bear
Only then did the stare prove thorough.

With purpose found and with purpose fulfilled,
The Wanderer made a retreat.
All at once, the objective feet-
How swiftly, how hushedly do they fleet
Oblivious of what they would one day know
Of the cricket they left in the snow.

With each passing day, sun up, sun down,
The door, by its hinges, swung in, swung out.
The Wanderer wore a solicitous frown;
The cricket, archaic, a heretic’s crown.
Seldom aware of the other’s demise,
Their coexistence was subtle;
To one, the other was subtle;
Though loud, the cricket was subtle.

The Wanderer’s ease brought the snow to a melt
The cricket was slave to the sill.
Tranquility chirped, and dissonance felt,
The repose made the Wanderer ill.
Why was the cricket so still?
The wanderer hoped with expedient will
That the cricket would jump from the windowsill.

Passing of date, and the Wanderer’s gait
Became more of a waltz or a promenade,
For the Wanderer felt that only by fate
Were the cricket’s chirps, in her honor, made.
Even, if only, she bade,
That, in her honor, gestures were made,
The eyes of the cricket, their rapture persuade,
Told her expedient heart to be still
And await the cricket on the window sill.

The lackluster sill was a glorified place
Where defiant silence would ring,
Silence that occupied abundant space
When the cricket refused to sing
And less did the cricket sing
As the Wanderer begged it to sing;
For lest there be song, the air was quaint
Beyond, before, below the door,
When seldom, the cricket would chirp so faint,
The cricket held intrigue no more.
The cricket lost his voice.
The Wanderer had no choice
But to exit the door, and exit in vain
The wanderer left, though her heart did remain
There with the cricket on the windowsill.

Cricket on the Windowsill

epiphonies hath occured

alas, the great empirical formula of the chemical we like to call "seretonin" has graced me beautifully tonight. all sorts of terrific thoughts are wondering through my head at the moment. events occured to me through the vines and willows that never occured before, although they could have and might have and wanted to. nonetheless, their day is to come. i can say that i sat, complacid with all that was elegantly balanced around me, and dreamed the wildest and most vivd of dreams. narwhals (yes, actual pale-white, silky, beautiful narwhals) were swimming rapidly through winding glass tubes through the crystal-navy ocean.
and then came terror.
these tubes were a great vacuum.
but fear not, my narwhal children.
for you are re-visiting a place called childhood.
childhood is where te mind returns whenever we discern the dullness of modern life.
we quiver.
we are vulnerable. we are more raw than a freshly-speared fish, as gruesome a comparison that may be. our omnipresent being has deterred and shown itself from the inside for the world to see. it's availble for all to see. it panics and dashes around.
I sang and everything was better. Much better. The sage cast upon me a blanket of protection. no one was out to get me. no one would harm me.
this i knew for certain and for sure