two poems by Chris Litsey
By Chris Litsey
Cicada Song
Kissed by Starshine,
Under the pale-faced goddess,
Changing gaze in full beauty this evening,
Crickets chirp,
Restless woodland spirits drift about,
All to the continuous rhythm of a Cicada song.
Air is thick,
Full of rainwater, campfire smoke,
Children’s loud laughter,
Ominous chills of old ghost tales, fretting,
Cold autumnal fingers
Tracing in the air,
And the explosive chorus of the Cicada song.
Summer meanders slowly through time;
In the particle acceleration of heat,
Soft stillness settles in the calm, sweaty mist.
Slow heartbeats in each chest,
Shallow, soft breathes, exhaling hot gas,
Puffs of memory and experience and
Hotdog drippings mixing skyward,
Combined in the air with the Cicada song.
Amber husks of youth cling to trees
Their lifeless eyes gave birth to singers.
Remnants hang, shimmering like
Priceless gems before the radiant goddess,
Monuments to burial,
To growth,
To metamorphosis.
Their children linger in the air,
Screaming their Cicada song.
It is a song of passion,
Of renewal;
Of ensuring descendants,
Memory of the tune sang into their bloodstreams.
An oath to rekindle the tune
Every 13 to 17 revolutions,
Though some eager children will get a head start;
Late bloomers will come to the choir thereafter.
Their generational grand goal is all the same.
Youth crawling from the cold earth,
Taking flight on fresh webbed wings,
And singing the Cicada song.
We lay in the shifting gaze of the goddess,
Cooled by summer breezes
Whistling through the trees,
At one with the cackling coyotes in the underbrush,
Hunting and fighting and playing in shadow;
At one with the spiders,
Spinning their ornate orb weavings,
Predictions of some great things
Or dire tidings to come;
At one with bats,
Dartwings of twilight,
Worshipers of dark and silence and the
Subtly of nighttime sounds;
At one with our brethren all ready slumbering,
Resting for the heat to come while we
Steal a little more day from night;
And at one with the multitude of insects,
The crickets chirping,
The fireflies illuminating the glorious garden of nature,
And winged thousands
Singing their Cicada song.
Basking
In this rainbow-painted desert,
Filled with chemical stench and physical ideas,
We bake atop cloth rocks under false sunshine,
Gila monster scales glistening,
Trading glances and imagination,
The songs drifting over decorated dunes.
We bask,
Taking in heat,
Soaking in acceptance and life.
Chris Litsey is a teacher, aspiring poet, and former editor of Indiana University Purdue University Columbus’s literary magazine, Talking Leaves, where you can find a few of his published works. He is a father and a lover of reading, writing, getting tattooed, and exploring museums. He lives in Muncie, Indiana, where he teaches and writes.
