"fancifully" poems
The cool winter air makes the grass sway like the ocean's waves.
Makes the limbs of trees, both young and old, dance fancifully without care of who's watching.
The brilliant sun, bold as it is, is shy this morn
Only peaking over the icy mountain tops.
The sky is as clear and beautiful as a newly forged glass sculpture.
As I turn around, I see my home,
The furnace still warm from yesterday's work
sits quietly in the center
The bellow, old with use
waits impatiently for it's next push
The anvil, stubborn with age
tightens it's muscles, prepared for the torment of the day
The mallet and hammer, young with ambition
remember the creations so recently forged with creativity
The ground is riddled with steel and coal
The grass here is burnt and covered with the now stagnant embers of the furnace
The walls are filled with the tools of my trade,
all made in this very place.
The day has begun.
I act with repetition as I have so many days and nights prior.
I lay fresh coals upon the furnace
I push the bellow with all my strength
The furnace begins to roar with vigor like a newly awoken bear
I pull new, unworked steel from the bin
Laying the steel upon the fire,
I can see the color change and shift rapidly
I prepare the hammer and mallet for use, and hear their excitement fill this place
Pulling the steel from the fire, I lay it upon the grouchy anvil.
Then I begin my work of creation.
Hammer meets steel,
sparks and embers fly,
steel morphs it's shape,
the day is now warm in this place.
For hours, this process continues
The furnace only grows warmer,
The bellow only grows more worn,
The anvil only tires with work,
The mallet and hammer only become more ecstatic.
Until the creation is complete.
The day is complete.
The wind has all but ceased.
The grass now as still as all the sleeping creatures.
The trees' festival is complete.
The air is now freezing.
The furnace is cooling again,
The bellow is at peace again,
The anvil is relaxed again,
The mallet and hammer are quiet again.
I sit here now, watching the sun retreat behind the lake.
It's setting as colorful as a painting.
My work today is done,
My tools are silent,
My creation is complete.
I too, can now bask in the serenity of the night.
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 11:15 PM UTC
It’s cold in here.
Cold in her fingers
In her toes
In her nose
In her chest.
Cold icy fingers
Crawling up her throat
Ball into fists there
But they don’t melt.
Burning icy hot there,
Freezing all the words there
Adding Help and other desperate sobs
To the lump there.
You see,
She’s had this blanket,
This beautiful blanket she’s had since birth,
And it was tightly woven,
Stitched with love,
And so so warm.
And it’s always been there,
When the coldness crept in,
And she’d close her eyes
And reach for her blanket.
Even when the blanket started unraveling,
Started sporting holes
Leaving uncovered toes,
She didn’t mind
Because she was mostly warm anyway.
And even when the blanket took on
The smell of ethanol
Blindly she’d reach for it,
And Blindly she’d tuck it away,
Because it still made her feel warm enough anyway.
Well, she used the blanket
Until there it lay in tatters
Unrecognizable to her fingertips in the dark.
So, she opened her eyes.
The blanket wasn’t even a blanket anymore.
Hadn’t this been the way it began though?
She saw the disassembled ball of yarn
That was her blanket
Even before her blanket became a blanket
So in a way,
This blanket was really only
Fancifully packaged yarn
And that was all anybody could expect it to be.
And yarn on it’s own
Doesn’t do a great job
At keeping little girls warm.
She tried hard not to be disappointed,
But she was.
So as the ice crept up her calves,
Into her tummy,
And again up her throat,
She closed her eyes and held herself.
She’d let her yarn be just yarn,
And wiped her own tears away.
Nov 25, 2020
Nov 25, 2020 at 2:35 AM UTC
Growing out from childish pranks,
With the storm and stress of turbulent teens,
I locked within my mind’s cupboard,
A portrait vaguely sketched, but never finished.
Rough it was, though fancifully done,
The silhouette of a masculine figure,
The Gallant who would reach one day,
To hold my hand and own me his.
I had no inkling who he would,
Yet had fallen in love with that phantasmal figure,
He had dazzling eyes and sturdy limbs,
With striking features, ravishing to view,
Elusive ever to sight and touch,
He remained an enigma, abstract to grasp.
At times his contours grew distinct,
But soon blanched out into hazy lines,
When at times a covert devouring look,
Or a pair of intent adoring eyes,
Sent a thrill down my fickle heart,
I forced open my chest nut draw,
And took out stealthily that half done sketch,
Hidden out from world’s staring glance,
To alter the features one by one,
And make it resemble the man I met,
Either within a moving train,
Or sometimes in an elite gang,
Who derailed my thoughts in pensive mood,
And tickled my fancy to heave and sigh.
He made me turn and toss in bed,
And left me, many a sleepless night,
He stroked my heart with gladdening ache,
And made me lose in sweet reverie.
In the nick of time, he solemnly came,
To hold my hand and tie the knot,
With pounding heart and quivering breath,
I found him differ from the man I dreamt.
The fabulous fabric in my loom,
Looked at variance from the one unfurled,
Transfixed between fact and fallacy,
I struggled to hide a falling tear.
Time marched on in silent haste,
And I learnt to outgrow my childish whims,
Sagacity dawned with passing age,
Making me discern the real from the sham.
It made me admire his sanguine self.
On fathomed deep beyond external mien,
I saw him unveiled in taint less worth,
That made my heart ever pine in love.
Piecing together our halved selves,
With the glue of love, our identities merged,
Now he is with me in my blues,
Consoling me with his balmy touch,
He is with me in my joy,
Making it resonant with a hearty laugh,
He is there when storms rage,
Whispering in my ear, not to fear,
He taught me how to savour life,
To meet the slings with radiant cheer,
Now the image is clearly etched deep,
Never to erase, nor to revise!
And the old portrait locked within,
Grew so musty, bereft of use,
In its place, I keep within,
His solid figure in indelible print.
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 6:59 AM UTC
I have a bashed-up coffee donker,
From too hard and too much dinking —
It sits there, next to my retro, white barista-chine*,
On my movable wine bar,
Slash coffee trolley cart;
My all-in-one entertainment scene.
Where, previously, I had a silver aluminium bucket
Storing all my coffee sloshes.
It seemed like a convenient (cheaper) way
To free my frustrations fancifully —
I could have gone to a firing range,
Or let some golf ***** fly,
Usually though,
I just internalise the anxiety and rage —
But, life is fragile
Like a china tea cup cracked —
Do we hold on to these crooked pieces,
Like we hold our inner wounds,
Hoping to mend them one day —
something sentimental?
Mindful?
Frugal?!
Precious.
Sep 15, 2025
Sep 15, 2025 at 5:15 PM UTC
Every night,
chosen stars abandon their authorized positions
dancing tantalizingly through a universe;
splashing blues and violets
a fancifully dramatic canvas;
and finally explode
to unknown masses of reds;
showering another vulnerable heart...
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 2:08 PM UTC
Where is everyone who knows what their doing
People who actual ponder the words their spewing
Who don't just falsify the metaphors around
And do more then fancifully describe absence of sound
Sure there may be no rules to this game you play
But still you do no good fiddling in the grey
Sure it has a charming tone
That doesn't mean you have a single artistic bone
There's no formulated thought
Just basic patterns bought
Through the books you heard others sot
By authors who only gained value once they began to rot
So continue to spill your soul to those
Who's poetry lacks everything including a sense of prose
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 4:24 PM UTC
frantic fingers in February
frost bitten and fumbling the knots
forbidden fish frolic, unsuspecting
free fresh chum flows from the flower bucket
as foraging future fillets
flounder in the underwater foliage –
fallen leaves create the floor
frog feet rest in the funk
finch feathers float on the ripples
frozen fox prints dance fancifully on the fresh fallen snow field
freely, my friends and I frolic also –
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 12:17 PM UTC
Her scarlet dress is blowing all around his knees.
He's smiling as he's tripping.
Skipping.
Straight into a love affair.
That he doesn't want.
And he doesn't care.
She's love's lonely widow.
An open window on the world.
Heart cold.
Rich feelings.
She's really different to most.
Differences too many to count on one hand.
She's never revealing.
His issues flow to the street side beat.
His metronome rocks fancifully.
His pendulum's swings in the wrong direction.
A direction that nobody ever dares mention.
He's kicking at kerb-stones with dancing feet.
He borrowed her dress, it looked good on him.
Probably would have been better in blue.
It blew up in the wind, as you kicked off your shoes.
Love's lonely widow and the gay guy met.
They thought each other sweet.
(C) LIVVI
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 5:49 PM UTC
You're prettier than a tree
Nonchalant beauty alone
Up the bare hill
Reposes in the golden Beams
lightly warm and free
to placate the moody wind
in the abode of leams
far from the thirsty rill
and the doggedly crow
and all of it I can imagine to own
Far in the abandoned land
Beyond that bare hill
Where a lake mimics tranquility
A womb of life laden and still
Mirrors as your calm beauty
And all of it I can see
From my dormer window
From a portrait of me
A sketch unframed, unfinished
On an easel, fancifully colored
Waits frailly thy brush and hand
To accomplish my metamorphosis
To achieve thy miraculous guesses
Of the unity of pure whiteness
And colors of passionate kisses.
Written by
Jamal Abboud
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 10:15 AM UTC
Strike like a dove with boxing gloves,
And mop up the trepidation
That spills from your mouth.
Punch into the heart of fear
And leap from the cloud that cascades
Into thunderous rapture.
Dance into the bossom of peace
And let freedom be your compass;
That guides you toward enlightenment.
The plumage of your soul is ruffled
By the ecstasy of the marching wind,
And the comprehensive gallop of hope
that stomps in the psyche,
flows fancifully from the hip.
strike like a dove with boxing gloves,
Climb into your spirit and let her rip.
To dance, to feel, to love.
Sep 29, 2025
Sep 29, 2025 at 7:45 PM UTC