"frisk" poems
Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year’s pleasant king;
Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring,
Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing—
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The palm and may make country houses gay,
Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,
And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay—
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a-sunning sit,
In every street these tunes our ears do greet—
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
Spring, the sweet Spring!
11.8k
Do you know the meaning of "stop and frisk"?
I'm sorry black brother, you do.
Have you ever had to change your voice in order to get a job?
I'm sorry black sister, you have.
Have you ever had to remove your hijab because you needed to take a flight?
I'm sorry brown girl, you have.
Has anyone ever insisted you have extensive knowledge on every school subject?
I'm sorry yellow friend, someone has.
Have you ever been told to go back to your country, despite the fact that you're already there?
I'm sorry red man, you have.
Have you ever been called and illegal immigrant, but you were born in the u.s?
I'm sorry Latino friend, you have.
Have you ever been told that racism doesn't exist and, by someone with pale skin?
I know I have.
So this is to the ones who have been told that they "aren't black enough" because they use proper grammar and their pants don't sag.
The brown boys with beards that get called "towel heads"
To the Asian kids that are just as smart as the next guy.
To the native Americans that still get called Indians.
To the brown girls that get told that they don't have to wear their scarves because "we're in America"
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 10:07 AM UTC
70
“Arcturus” is his other name—
I’d rather call him “Star.”
It’s very mean of Science
To go and interfere!
I slew a worm the other day—
A “Savant” passing by
Murmured “Resurgam”—”Centipede”!
“Oh Lord—how frail are we”!
I pull a flower from the woods—
A monster with a glass
Computes the stamens in a breath—
And has her in a “class”!
Whereas I took the Butterfly
Aforetime in my hat—
He sits ***** in “Cabinets”—
The Clover bells forgot.
What once was “Heaven”
Is “Zenith” now—
Where I proposed to go
When Time’s brief masquerade was done
Is mapped and charted too.
What if the poles should frisk about
And stand upon their heads!
I hope I’m ready for “the worst”—
Whatever prank betides!
Perhaps the “Kingdom of Heaven’s” changed—
I hope the “Children” there Won’t be “new fashioned” when I come—
And laugh at me—and stare—
I hope the Father in the skies
Will lift his little girl—
Old fashioned—naught—everything—
Over the stile of “Pearl.”
4.8k
There’s a lot to be said for this place.
A near-perfect pitch for diversity,
Diversity: a neurolinguistic term;
A quaint way to say: miscegenation.
No, just kidding; I meant the melting ***
A fine blend of Anglo, Hispanic & Indian blood—
That’s Pueblo & Plains Indian blood--
Not that **** masala, chapati & dal Indian blood.
My apologies to "Who's the White Guy?" Bobby Jindal.
New Mexico: “The Land of Enchantment.”
Where 310 sunny days per annum,
Are like money in the bank, earning
Double-plus compound interest for those
Suffering with seasonal affective disorders.
A land of sunshine without the orange juice,
But substitute chili, red or green?
An equitable offset to be sure.
310 days of sunshine:
Even the white people are brown here.
Which does a lot for my self-esteem.
Back east—New York, Chicago & Philadelphia e.g.—
People that look like me, i.e.,
People with dark brown hair, eyes and skin,
Get stopped/ass-cheek spread/& frisked, routinely.
Stop & Frisk: NYPD’s spectator sport for decades.
Stop & Frisk: Mayor Bloomberg-defended
Crime-stopping Godsend,
Getting guns off the streets.
Getting homicides down.
Everything’s cool until some slick race baiter,
Starts yelling: RACIAL PROFILING.
Forget for a moment that people that look like me,
People like me with dark hair, eyes & skin,
Commit 78% of the crime in most cities.
“It’s not racially driven profiling,”
Said Newark’s police director recently
Referring to stops carried out by his officers.
“IT’S CRIME-DRIVEN PROFILING!”
But, again, political-correctness trumps common sense:
August 2013: Judge Rules NYPD
Stop-and-Frisk Unconstitutional.
Well I’ll be a monkey’s *** ******
I moved to New Mexico to blend in.
My complexion a shoe-in for
The Witness Protection Program or
Any other public or private,
Domestic or international rendition site.
But I digress.
New Mexico: no passport necessary, Babaloo!
New Mexico: be you white or black, Hispanic or Indian,
Or even Roswell extraterrestrial,
The cops here will beat the **** out of you.
Or shoot you dead, Kemosabe.
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 1:44 PM UTC
The world is full of shade and prose
And I don’t know what to do anymore
Audre Lorde said “silence will not protect you”
But I been weaving my silences into a survivor’s quilt
Because I’m tired of surviving
And I’m cold and want to use it as my blanket
Out there in that cold *** world
The world is full of shade and prose
*** workers on boulder highway
Wanna be poets writing in spanglish
White privilege, patriarchy and all
I kinda wish I’d write songs instead of poems
You know, songs about love
But no
Cuz the world is full of shade and prose
Bus stops/stop and frisk
Judgment day enthusiasts/Holocaust deniers
I am tired of “it happened before I was born”
And “I feel guilty but I did not ask to be privileged”
And when I say: Then do something
They ask me “what?”
I reply: NO
The world is full of shade and prose
The chicken never made it across the street
There is so much deconstruction
And so little relief
We will soon end up homeless
And will have to pawn the master’s tools
Or maybe just sell them at the swapmeet
For a dollar or two
I mean who cares as long as we’re in love
If at the end
The world is full of shade and prose.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 5:14 AM UTC
"Under a Mountain of green and a Sky of blue,
Lived a race trapped behind a Barrier forgotten after so many years,
Slowly their hatred over their predicament only grew,
Lost and Forgotten, Hurt but not Broken, some wept their last tears,
They heard them say, 'It's been four years since an Angel fell',
But the wary Traveler knew not what that meant,
It was up to the race to explain to the Traveler and tell,
Of a Tale long ago Dreamt,
Tale of a sun, and of a world Beyond,
Where two races once lived in Peace,
A world where both races could bond,
Where fighting could stop, where hatred would cease,
The Traveler knew then what to do,
To free these people of their Fear and Hate,
Some wished to help the Traveler, others where hesitant to,
This Traveler - however much they faced - promised there wouldn't be anyone they'd berate,
The Barrier was a force none had broken thus far,
But this Traveler - too kind, too determined - couldn't give up,
This Barrier they broke - an obstacle they hurdled like a highset bar,
The Race rejoiced for now all where free - even Jerry and that Annoying Pup,
This Traveler - who called themselves Frisk - was no more than a child,
Yet a new Ambassador had been set,
They told any and all that the journey had not been hard but mild,
This child was greeted with a smile by whomever they met,
'A new family born,
A past left to rot,
A new treaty sworn,
A kind present this lot!'
This child thought with a smile upon their lips,
As they moved forward with their friends,
A skeleton too smiles as out of sight he blips,
'there will be time later - he thought - for the kiddo and me to make amends'."
Continue Reset
Apr 9, 2018
Apr 9, 2018 at 7:29 PM UTC
--To C. M.
Fountains that frisk and sprinkle
The moss they overspill;
Pools that the breezes crinkle;
The wheel beside the mill,
With its wet, weedy frill;
Wind-shadows in the wheat;
A water-cart in the street;
The fringe of foam that girds
An islet's ferneries;
A green sky's minor thirds--
To live, I think of these!
Of ice and glass the ******
Pellucid, silver-shrill;
Peaches without a wrinkle;
Cherries and snow at will,
From china bowls that fill
The senses with a sweet
Incuriousness of heat;
A melon's dripping sherds;
Cream-clotted strawberries;
Dusk dairies set with curds--
To live, I think of these!
Vale-lily and periwinkle;
Wet stone-crop on the sill;
The look of leaves a-twinkle
With windlets clear and still;
The feel of a forest rill
That wimples fresh and fleet
About one's naked feet;
The muzzles of drinking herds;
Lush flags and bulrushes;
The chirp of rain-bound birds--
To live, I think of these!
Envoy
Dark aisles, new packs of cards,
Mermaidens' tails, cool swards,
Dawn dews and starlit seas,
White marbles, whiter words--
To live, I think of these!
3.9k
sink into the silence
nothing left by nothing
a silent trip adviser
to blame the past on
levels of induced mindless
consumption that dealt
with the singularity breath
ghost located in page
after page after page of longing
caress and sniff and smell
the burning rubber sensation of
ice melted fire drops
dealt to deal with dealing
memories forgave in the think tank
calm in the blue raindrop
frisky frisk touch of soul
felt with eyes wide open
and a heart made of gold
to last ever last in the synaptic
convulsion that twitches and squirms
of a mental addiction love and pain
and parlor trick injections
did i mention the hopeful twist
of a sudden quick thinking passing
love is love actually and codeine is
a moment of unloved passive regret
o d on your section of unblinking
overwatch i snorted the powder
to happiness everlasting
cuddle with my corpse
i want to be the little spoon and feel your heartbeat in my back pressed selfishness to hold my soul and revel in the passiveness of unthinking
let me lick your inner soul and taste
the salt of a lie left on cracked breathless lips
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 8:14 PM UTC
These feet have been around
Plodded in puddles
Clogged and clicked the ground
To you they're safe
To me you're sound
To run round to you
Oh crave I could now
Golden hair
Cartwheel flair
Peppermint breath
Fly in fresh air
Not once whistled
Not even splintered despair
Since good girl
Oh she's been there
Since Queen girl
Oh she's proved rare
Cornish Piskie,
Frisk me
Arrest me
Glisten glitter
Blind my gaze
Can't resist to see
Split open apparel
Dizzy me as does Jimi
Screeching and peaking in a purple haze
Precious stone
Clustered diamond
Element formed in golden flame
Gotta shade my eyes to save
Sight to see, pupils in prime
Condition to view you ripe and shine
Voluptuous mahogany, statue in mind
Polished marble, Amazon ripe
Almond smoke, velvet scent
Dusk swept sun, satin night
Will always be, your favourite gent
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 4:28 PM UTC
Like a flame igniting an old engine
A frisk of energy sparked
Turning my rusty, frozen gears
And restoring my memories of you.
In a hidden corridor in time -
A dimension since locked away
We two share an instant -
An unobtainable, infinite moment.
Like a fog creeping in on my soul -
An ironic, melancholy nostalgia;
I dream of sunlight on canopy roads
In a place I once called home.
Trapped in a reality without you
We've since broken our promise,
Extinguishing the embers
We swore to smolder forever.
This life is a sort of purgatory -
A spiritual test and journey;
A short waiting period before
We again walk hidden corridors.
Nov 17, 2018
Nov 17, 2018 at 12:39 AM UTC
You empty your pockets and remove anything metal.
Walk between the metal detectors and all
The lights and sounds go off. They pull you aside and
They frisk you for
Your cellphone, iPod, earings, rings, wallet, headphones, coins,
Privacy, and dignity.
They find nothing and let you walk to the terminal but
You remember that they forgot to take something. You spin
Around and give them the finger.
Oct 10, 2011
Oct 10, 2011 at 2:01 PM UTC
This was once all that we knew.
A world in parts before we knew
it
as such subdivisions as this, that and
more beneath that still: there was
once good and evil, god and them,
the rest of us, and
Jesus, simply looking upwards after
he flung himself forth from the dust
to the sky and the light was bleached
off and the colours leaked from our
eyes to our canvases. What more
can I say before we take more
of ourselves away from each other? What more
before you implant me into some other's
body, and the prayer completed,
and I am finally a computer? In
the meanwhile my eyes will look and
my neck will strain as the sun sets and
so does my little life: how long have I
wanted to see you again, o lord, since
my first scream of myself all so long
ago when I left my mother's salt
and was flashed into the flood of your
world?
How long, o lord, will you have me here
to see your work through these ceiling
songs, such sonorous ringings, fleshy
twists and turns of paint as muscle
and what's that behind the cloud?
Your finger
appareled in such golden rays?
Endless. When your ships brought such
dark skin as mine across these
times and spaces, what?, where you
surprised of my dreams to see it,
this,
all engulfed in flames? And
yet here you are and here I am and
here is the quiet my birth your
glory your joy the brushstrokes
the colours and the full fleshy taste
of my non-belief, leaking into my fingers,
sticky, frisk, and always.
When I leave these, they will fall
and crumble. It will all go. In the hallways,
as I walk away: several big windows:
Rome, sunset.
When I leave these, they will go
and disappear. Into salt. Those large windows:
blue-shadowed branches begin some small slow dance.
When I leave these temples they will dust
and return to dust the soil of our hands.
And the trees remain beautiful.
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 3:49 AM UTC
Folklorico serenades the street
from an open third floor window
a rhythmically refreshing sound
compared to the silence
the calming silence
of south 2nd street
in Brooklyn
hardly escaping the shadow
of the metropolitan center
this little pocket has escaped
the hustle and bustle
that traditionally defines New York
the chatter from the stoop
three gentlemen discussing
'stop and frisk' and 'being processed'
the corner store as old
as the neglected blue mailbox
that now serves as a canvas
for local taggers
new eateries and humming bars
full of new immigrants
out of staters, artists
from places not so welcoming
to their brand of queer
here on this quiet street
I watched the new grow
among the old
this place was a garden
of concrete, culture
and dreams
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 2:02 AM UTC
20 minuter av frihet känns det
den härliga, kyliga brisen är renande.
Små fåglar delar glädjen av en ny dag.
Solen småtittar genom träden som släpper
små löv som liknar snö.
Trädens vaggnade och vinden påminner mig
om havet. Det känns fridsamt,
Jag vill stanna kvar.
10 minuter kvar av frisk vind som blåser
genom mig, känns helande. Alla tankar
försvinner.
Jag vill stanna kvar.
5 minuter kvar av otrolig harmoni av
öppet sinne for skönhet och inget annat.
Av känslor som flödar genom mig, av att
vara en del av det hela, av att vara
älskad och uppleva detta med all sinnen öppna.
Tiden är ute men jag vill stanna kvar. Nostalgi
May 16, 2011
May 16, 2011 at 1:36 PM UTC
Domen for mine visioner
Det er dine bløde læbers bevægelser
når du taler flydende
Ser stemmen i lydbølger som rammer strandkanten.
Virker lige så smukt som solens lange stråler
Rammer tippen af græsstråene
I en form for sommerlykkeland
En søndag morgen hvor duggen er frisk.
Du får mine øjne til at løbe i vand
Bliver het fanatisk, elektrisk, allergisk
Så du må gå væk, når du kysser mig,
- men bliv ved.
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 4:58 PM UTC
You've heard of the children of the corn
This my friend is much scarier than that
Here to make sure you eat all your vegetables
Adults of the Asparagus
Set in a quaint New England town
Could be in any novel by Stephen King
Making sure both the young and the old
Eat their veggies raw, sauteed, or steamed
They'll make you sit by yourself at the table
With the dog behind the door when they lock it
Before you leave the table they'll frisk you
And have you empty out all of your pockets
You will shudder with butter on the side
Salting to taste if you must
Making sure you eat every last bite
Adults of the Asparagus
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 8:54 PM UTC
She answered the door half naked and almost woke. As I closed the door behind me slowly, she attempted the route to her bed until I interrupted "Stop right there! Put your hands up and place them against the wall. You look dangerous and I'm about to frisk you". She surrendered.
Oct 15, 2016
Oct 15, 2016 at 5:39 AM UTC
There was this annoying noise in my head,
It was the alarm, made me get off the bed,
A sight at the clock threatened me,
Being late that I didn’t want to be,
A sigh of relief as took my seat,
A race against time, now that I had beat,
A cup of latte, now that I need,
And power to my comp that I must feed.
Clanking and rattling that’s all I could hear,
It was my comp and I feared to go near,
I called for help and hoped it would be frisk,
To my horror all he found was ants in the hard disk.
I have a clean slate, because ants ate the hard ware,
Lost five years of hard work.
Ants in my hard disk, no data there,
Ants in my hard disk my computer is bare.
By
Venkat Raghavan
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 8:16 AM UTC
I met a girl last night
Her hair a fluid lucid illusion
Her motion a brisk frisk crisp
I met a girl last night
A girl called Sri Devi
With her brush she danced
My skin, her stage
With her brush she swooned
As my heart, to her, crooned
She drew a sun, and a musical note
In black and red, with heart she wrote
I met a girl last night
A girl called Sri Devi
Shyly, she held my hand
As the music grew louder, O the band
She wet her brush, dipped in paint
Let go of boundaries, all restraints
I met a girl last night
A girl called Sri Devi
Her hair a fluid lucid illusion
Her motion a brisk frisk crisp
She drew a sun, and a musical note
In red and black, with heart she wrote
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 11:45 AM UTC
I play my favorite song and i grab my pen
I wanna empty my chaotic head
Words frisk around words. Thoughts scream to be heard. Memories weep to be replayed. Dreams stir to be noticed.
So many colors to choose from. So many blues, so many reds. Too much black and too much purple. But my page remains as white as snow.
The contradictions are embedded everywhere. I cannot tell where the storm is headed anymore. What is it that im feeling, and what is it that im forcing myself to feel?
I lean back and i let the lopsided waves of my head wash away all the pretty words i had summoned. And once again, i am left with incomplete sentences and empty words.
Jun 2, 2018
Jun 2, 2018 at 1:46 PM UTC
I wished you a goodnight.
Hoping you'd dream of something that would make you blush
when I asked about it the following morning.
I'd lie awake in bed
for another hour or so,
(writhing)
having idealistic daydreams
of tickle fights that turned to frisk fights.
Not that I'd put up much resistance.
If you play the part of the naughty lab professor
I promise I'll find a way to end up in detention everyday.
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 2:48 AM UTC
I giggle,
I smile,
I laugh,
but inside I am broken.
I move,
I walk,
I run,
but inside I am frozen
I dream,
I hope
I believe,
but inside I am losing
I frisk,
I jump,
I bounce,
but inside I am falling
I go,
I find,
I open up,
but inside I am lost
I am,
I will,
I do,
but inside I am hiding
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 9:13 AM UTC
Take my gold and frisk my crown
Pull jewels from my neck and scrub the expensive oils from my skin
Burn the fine linens and strip me of my silks
I have no need for such trivialities.
Turn your face from me and harden your heart
Cast me out from my home, my sanctuary
I shall die in a shelter rather than a palace, but all the same,
I shall be just as dead here as there.
Lose me my birthright, my title and my throne
Change the name on the scroll of the fate I was born for
Sell your right-hand seat to the prettiest bidder
I will die knowing I would not sell out.
You, the one I held in my foolish heart so dear,
Can take away from me everything I gave you
But you cannot take the strength with which I was born, for
I represent the one virtue you cannot own.
Replace me if you must but know that I will lie in peace
Forget me if your heart allows it, but never forget
That I-- the woman who dares defy the king--
I hold more power in my will than you have in your court.
Dec 11, 2018
Dec 11, 2018 at 2:18 PM UTC
i let you have him
frisk him in front of me
i gave up my inhibitions
set myself free
so shall i tell the truth?
or help spin the web of lies?
you and him began to create,
while i loved myself
and LIVED my life.
rather pathetic
a pitiful cry of help
only thing i do to try
and you make him leave for someone else?
how much more **** can i throw
so that this blood rage
goes away
because now do i wonder
"how could you?"
and know this
im being good.
i havent called
whilst you have
yes recieved, and deleted
that WAS the life i had....
i will keep the memories.
the moments shared
but these last two years
a waste
because now
i am free
i can sing
having friends who care
whom honour you tried to tarnish
if they didnt like it
they would have said it to my face!
but i will make you see
through poet-tree
little words
little time
im living my life
start living yours
my verbal assault
ill spin the web of truth
and catch you inside
devour you with grace and
clever disquise.
set your **** ablaze
and have your days...
numbered.
wondering.
non-conforming.
***** please
im free
one mans trash
another treasure
but rotting like compost
ive recycled
what i lost
what i gained
knowing that i wont take the name
a cheerful wish
i am over this
your silly refrain
"We're just Friends"
i'll say it again
with the truth spun in
"We Were Never Really Friends"
thanks for setting me free
i must thank you
but -- you're
dust in a swift breeze.
Apr 8, 2012
Apr 8, 2012 at 8:12 AM UTC
You've heard of the children of the corn
This my friend is much scarier than that
Here to make sure you eat all your vegetables
Adults of the Asparagus
Set in a quaint New England town
Could be in any novel by Stephen King
Making sure both the young and the old
Eat their veggies raw, sauteed, or steamed
They'll make you sit by yourself at the table
With the dog behind the door when they lock it
Before you leave the table they'll frisk you
And have you empty out all of your pockets
You will shudder with butter on the side
Salting to taste if you must
Making sure you eat every last bite
Adults of the Asparagus
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 1:46 PM UTC