Preconfigured deities

I arranged this poem as a series of linked morae of seventeen syllables of the haiku/senryu 5/7/5 pattern.

In a world of the brilliant spark of life, the desire to survive, rival species, judgment and chaos, I took inspiration from periodical cicadas.

They are quite an interesting bug of the order Hemiptera, genus Magicicada and comprise seven of the approx. 3,000 species of cicadas which only occur in the eastern United States. Unlike most cicadas, periodical cicadas lay eggs that hatch and then their nymphs burrow underground for either 13 or 17 years, depending on the species, while subsisting on xylem fluids of rootlets. Brood X of 2021 (roman numeral – ten) was one of the largest groups. Cicadas emerge when ground temperatures reach 64 degrees Fahrenheit. This year it was in May. Males of the periodical cicadas sing using special organs called tymbals which are membranes that vibrate very quickly when pulled by tiny muscles and this vibration creates the cicada’s song.

Cicadas protest
the harsh light.       A horary
ear splitting drumroll
            of sunday sermons -

simply pungent polemic
   crowding around in
a bowl of       sticky
      gruel      ad infinitum

   Stars made no promise
to enflame the sky,
poet! Yet,    how we believe ..
      unctuous metaphor,

sparking delusions,
   imagery       combust .. piss ..
on the bathroom floor.
The Stoic's ablaze. We 

rise to bright, indifferent
self immolation.
Stars fade, cool, splutter
supernovas. The light's not
         always about us.

We are,
             because of ...

For those interested, there is the cicadasafariapp available online, that maps annual cicada emergence and helps share and identify species.

Some references:

The purpose of life.

There is none ……

but self preservation.

Or the need to transmit our selfish gene,

smug in the fallacy,

that we shall inherit the earth.


Who are we ?

A bunch of smart simians,

on a rock hurtling through space.

Parasitic, competitive,

intent on draining our host, till we find the next place to breed.


This is perchance not evil intent

but the very cornerstone of our existence.

And some over everyone else have a ruse

to keep us calm, satiated, dominated,

entertained , as we try to outlive each other.


Annointed with  hyssop then, vaccinations now.

The times haven’t changed much

Although I would love to live a thousand years.

For I am much entertained by

the prospect of everything new.


They say, the truth lies in being alive.

And my grasp gets tenuous each passing day.

All these unguent salves of hope

don’t quell, doubts of my mortal dilemma,

the sad argument of my reality.


Each day  thinking I am closer to the eternal truth,

having resigned myself to the fact that there is none;

This hope gnaws at living entrails and tries to defeat death

And although I seek the restful slumber of the millennia

I am enamored of  the possibility that my memories may be recycled again.