"frolicking" poems
my fingers have become bored with
the quicksand of routine
they prefer to dance erotically over my typewriter
frolicking like naked ballerinas
over an ancient stage
spilling their secret thoughts
onto blank page,
after their day job
threaded together
over my lap,
or bending over to
reveal the contents
of my burlap sack
they have taken instead
to jumping over cracks
in the nothing of night
stifling the sound of silence
with assortments of clicks and clacks
punching in the perfect pitch of keys
to leave Beethoven blind
from this symphony of notes combined
and just like that at last
they have unfolded some rhyme
unachievable with ink and pencil,
without the stencil of time
dictating to work inside the lines
Nov 14, 2015
Nov 14, 2015 at 7:07 PM UTC
The Red Ants At His Picnic
Her pillow eyes gleamed
at his advances,
inching along slowly.
His anteater likeness,
rising,
coming to an anthem,
frolicking on her picnic,
on her mound,
hoarse and hungrily.
Rendevous antics to form.
Wave after wave,
the red ants at his picnic,
dancing,
dancing like there's no tomorrow,
seducing him in further.
He,
so antsy,
anticipating.
In his genre,
happily along,
on her trail,
like a hunter,
taking her welcoming little red colony,
to kingdom
come.
To ******* come,
where her castle and moats succumb,
relenting,
saluting to his anthem.
Where soon white clouds a bursting,
blue skies emerging.
The sublimity and antidote holding on,
holding on to her picnic.
And the rocket's did red glare,
the bombs bursting in air-
together,
to gather.
And there they were ... chaos, abuzz,
lyrical
then calm.
Sustenance drawn on their faces.
A slight breeze runs through the grass
the red ants at bay.
Logan Robertson
4/17/2018
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 6:15 PM UTC
Enchanted by spring’s
rustling whispers
... whistles swirl
in the pungent springtime breeze;
steeped with a bedazzling
cadence
heart dancing
to a hummingbird’s
whirs
waves of breath,
of little wings waft,
whooshing throughout
twining honeysuckle lattice
a
tiny manger
beset of hidden gold
precious speckled eggs,
silver lining of smallest hopes
fruits of fruition
continuum beheld prize,
concealed in interwoven rootlets;
potently perfumed flowers
while away
the waning dark hours;
swollen full flower moon
waxing yellow,..
heavenly fragrance
sweetly-scented suckled nectar
the one with eyes of a child,
wonder ― hidden inside,
marvel in the light of grateful eyes
imbibing an unholdable moment's
spellbinding elixir
... poetry alive
air so poignantly perfumed
with blossom
moonstruck
by spring’s frolicking cadency
a reverent moment's
edifying intoxication
a sobering beauty that just is...
someone ... May 2017
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 12:19 PM UTC
Watching wild unicorns, dance in the snow,
Whinnying, frolicking, as happy as can be,
As I hover high above, observing all below.
Such stunning beauty, makes my heart glow,
Mythical creatures, running wild and free,
Watching wild unicorns, dance in the snow.
They are seeds of dreams, we lovingly sow,
Rearing in acknowledgement, just for me,
As I hover high above, observing all below.
They begin racing clouds, perhaps for show,
Maybe I am a dream, one only they can see,
Watching wild unicorns, dance in the snow.
Amongst trillions of stars, one must know,
Unicorns live and play, with unbridled glee,
As I hover high above, observing all below.
Through layers of cloud, drifting so slow,
To unlock sheer bliss, I now possess the key,
Watching wild unicorns, dance in the snow,
As I hover high above, observing all below.
©Paul M Chafer 2014
Nov 1, 2014
Nov 1, 2014 at 10:36 AM UTC
Iridescent celestial being
An anarchic yet effervescent adolescent
Frolicking freely like a breeze throw the leave of an omnipresent forest.
Bare foot and star gazing, native and trail blazing.
Like a clever fearless fairy exploring the faraway night sky
She is the fantastic bit of magic on an otherwise static planet.
The captain of passion and best little hippie on the mountain
Formed by a volcanic fountain that caused a panic on our little oceanic planet.
Apr 18, 2016
Apr 18, 2016 at 7:28 PM UTC
why is it so hard to see you?
i crumble and i croak
hopeful words dance at the back of my throat
now i’m hopeless
now i’m in a mess
of you or her or him or me
it’s like moving to a new country
and getting the hang of their weird plastic currency
and why the **** is talking to you so hard?
i tumble and i frizzle
a glass smashed into shards
aggravation takes me over because
anxiety takes me over because
suppression takes me over because
i want ******* control over ******* everything
i want to ******* know what i’m ******* doing
what i’m ******* thinking
i tremble and i palpitate
the thirst never sedates
like a lion ******* blood or a needle weaving thread
so much to go around
too much to go around
i’m not sure how to go about
underwater is where i wish i was
underwater, everything is muted
everything is calmer and resentments are diluted
i long to feel less polluted
i long to feel less consumed by
that and this and all the ******* frolicking ****
it pulls and tears and rips in shears
still standing there
i am still standing there
why the **** am i still standing there
here
like a fish suffocating in air
like a statue stands with a smile it can’t wipe off
i sweat under smiles
i want to wipe it off
i want to turn it off
why won’t i just ******* take it off?
why is it so hard to know who you are?
seeing a glimpse of a break down is making me stick around for you
do you still want me to stick around for you?
i crush and i tamper
with anything i can get my hands all over
it really doesn’t matter
what or who or how hard i hit
cause nothing is good enough for this ******* *****
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 12:45 AM UTC
A petal haired army saluting the call of the skies
- it made my heart go to her
until I hope her into being
and I look into her eyes -
eyes that shimmer with every shade of springtime
with frolicking lambs and trumpeting daffodils
with the glint of her chocolate stained Sunday dress,
dancing and whirling with the matriarch blues of six generations
to know our dance, but to write her own song -
a song composed of notes she will fashion for herself in
flower petal perfume and dirt and birthday cake tummy ache
and she can write them in gummy bears or wiggly worms
in any way she might choose, on bill boards or in locked diaries
but it will be beautiful beyond words because its her way -
her way - choosing to skim cliff edges over mama's apron strings,
tearing frills on tree branches and turning back her watch to arrive home late
and you can bet when she dreams him in her sleep she won't be feeling that pea.
But so long as she takes her dreams to heart and cuddles them to life
and knows that she is perfectly imperfectly beautiful and remembers that -
that life is lived as much on cliff edges as it is in your own home
that dress tears and stains speak joy every bit as much as a photograph
that mama's apron strings stretch far and wide,
and that though the shades of seasons change, she must sing her song
and dance.
Jun 26, 2013
Jun 26, 2013 at 6:12 PM UTC
∙∙∙◦◦•◎•◦◦∙∙∙
Sitting at the balcony, a sunset to her face
a scent of chamomile, an elated memory rephrases
frolicking aster's in autumn color graced
the imbue of old feelings, her craft of curtain lace
Spinning a rustic harmony, the rustle of leaves
dips a chocolate pudding, her smile swept by me
a dessert like sky, the billow swirls in place
our grandkids tag-along to the hounds that chase
An old love song, a diary of stories we made
halcyon, even her face freckles and her hair is gray
she gave me fields that kisses spring and fall
our magic remains forever, even our time is called
Dec 18, 2017
Dec 18, 2017 at 9:00 AM UTC
Santa's Lazy Elf
Five more days till Christmas,
Santa and his crew
were working overtime making
children's dreams come true .
Singing carols, whistling tunes,
as the hours ticked away,
except for little Edison
the elf that went astray.
Instead of making toys
in Santa's assembly line,
he was hanging out with Rudolph
beneath the snow capped pines.
As Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus took
a look around,
they noticed lazy Edison
was nowhere to be found.
They decided they'd had enough
this elf will surely be fired,
scratched their heads and
realized another must be hired.
Dasher heard them talking
and thought this can't be so,
never in elf's history has
someone had to go.
He searched the winter wonderland
and under the Northern Lights
Edison and Rudolph were
frolicking in flight.
He said "Come down from there
your behavior's a disgrace,
Christmas Eve is almost here and
you're about to be replaced.
Edison soon realized his days
of slacking were done,
that there'd be consequences
for goofing off and having fun.
He knew he had no place to go
if Santa didn't let him stay
his heart began to pound,
as Rudolph ran way.
He hurried as fast as he could
to tell Santa he was wrong,
beg him for forgiveness
and show him he belonged.
As the other elves were caroling
he tried to sneak inside,
but Santa saw him coming out of the
corner of his eye.
He placed his hands upon his hips
and firmly shook his head,
"What shall I do with you
my elf," Santa firmly said.
"I see you when you're sleeping
I know when you're awake,
did you not read your history book
he said for goodness sake!"
Santa soon forgave him cause
his heart is made of gold,
and Edison became the
hardest worker I am told.
The moral of this story is
we all must do our part,
and jolly old St Nick has always
had a heart.
Merry Christmas to all of you
on this holiest of days,
may all your dreams come true
as you gather and celebrate!
Written By Kathy J Parenteau
Copyright © December 2013
All Rights Reserved
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 6:19 PM UTC
I sat on one of the park's two swings
With my left arm plastered; in a sling
I pushed the ground with my feet as I gazed at the sky
Through the air, wafted the delicious smell of fish fry
'twas the month of June and monsoon was upon us
Children were frolicking in the mud, as they got off the school bus
The sky was filled with clouds waiting to wash the earth clean
Hanging in the sky as if by strings unseen
A flock of birds flew down to peck on the scattered grain
To not run towards them and watch them scatter, it took much refrain
The lonesome dog seemed blissful, his stomach full for the day
Barking like mad and running in circles, on his own tail did he wish to prey
The trees swayed gently, their leaves still wet from the morning shower
I wonder how they've managed to withstand time's fearsome power
For millions of millenia, they've stayed rooted and spread their seed
Only to be turned to timber by man's single deed
I snap out of my thoughts as you place a gentle hand upon my shoulder
In that moment, I forget that the gaze I reserved for you was meant to be colder
You stand in front of me, frowning slightly and pleading with guilty eyes
I stand up, smile and walk away. I've never been one for goodbyes.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 2:08 AM UTC
*Always lingering, longingly
Like leaves frolicking in trees
Your gaze entraps me
Tempting me
Mesmerizing me
Engaging me in a lovers dance
Seducing my senses
Only you, only you*
Nov 11, 2013
Nov 11, 2013 at 4:30 AM UTC
the paper feels jilted
the pen seems to have abandoned him
he misses her tickling caress
she was always an adulteress
frolicking with the fingers that held her
***paper, pen , fingers
they were an exciting *********
if only he knew
the pen weeps her inky tears
she has lost both her lovers-
the paper lies too far off, too distant
in her sorrow she is spent
unable to touch him
she was first and foremost always his
the fingers were just a necessary flirtation
but now even the fingers have found
more fertile ground?
Meanwhile the fingers come
in ecstatic betrayal
sexting with the keyboard
wham bam thank you ma’m
and its done
-Vijayalakshmi Harish
26/10/.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish
Oct 26, 2012
Oct 26, 2012 at 1:34 AM UTC
*Between the night and daylight,
As twilight begins to shower,
Comes a lull in the day's preparations,
Cherished as the Kittys' Hour.
I hear in the kitchen beside me,
The patter of tiny feet,
Rumbles of varying motors
With "meow's" gentle and sweet.
Leaping from counter with agile grace
On my shoulder with a purr;
Sail grave Thomas and sweet Lady Jane,
And Susan of golden fur.
A "meow," and then a long silence,
I know by mischievous eyes,
They are scheming and musing together,
To vanquish my weary sighs.
With sudden dash from the hallway,
Tortie bounds into my arms!
Felines of all colours sit starring,
Delighting me with their charms.
Frolicking with skillful ease,
Tossing and batting their catnip-mouse;
If I run to escape, they surround me,
They appear to overflow the house.
Suffocating me with their kisses,
Furry paws patting my face;
And though they have torn the kitchen blinds,
They dazzle me with their grace.
I hug you all close in loving arms,
And will n'er let you depart,
Nor ****** you dears out to coyotes,
For you each have won my heart.
And here shall you dwell forever,
Cherished more each golden day;
Till this glad house fall into ruin,
And I in dust shall decay.*
~Hilda~
Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 3:07 AM UTC
In the context of today's supernatural energy,
The brains in which I inhale are forever spinning.
I bought my eyes from the black market
and cannot see clearly anymore.
Saint Hildegard lived in yesterday's supernatural
with purchased Germanic eyes of green and ivory...
as mine are.
She is the best friend that I have never known
and would never **** my vibe.
But all of the energies running around
are killing the vibe that races through my spine.
And I want to see life as a puppy does,
running and frolicking low to the ground...
digging up tennis *****
You can count on me, though,
to see life as a the gangsta I'm not,
and not as the hound I so want to be.
But I'm neither gangster nor *****
but only a Lupine plant leaving seeds to be eaten
by the breathers with brains who take all I have to offer.
And nobody calls me the lucky one,
but I know I could be if I had somebody else's organs.
And if I were to dance with you
I may call myself the lucky one,
but I settle for dancing for you
and I'm not lucky at all.
And I don't know how I'm at the end of the line
when there are no girls in front of me.
Can you tell that there are no girls in front of me?
This line goes on for miles,
and the stereo I listen to today's supernatural frequencies through
goes on for miles.
You're the dearest loving zombie I know,
so take me away in a helicopter
far away from the breathers and the bleeders.
And we'll be the only ones in the sky
and we'll walk about the clouds
and engage our supernatural ids
and create a make-believe empire.
But there are things to do outside the windows
and nothing can possibly be how I wish it to.
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 2:57 PM UTC
*how.the.simplest.of.things.swell
to
magnified.import*
1.
no more drawing lines in the sea-sand
frolicking with flirty fun-waves
(like before)
no more pure-playing in the fields
chasing magenta-and-green butterflies
(like before)
2.
Mama, come home . . . where are you?
Papa, it’s time to plant the beans
Sister …
Brother …
Gramps …
Grand-ma …
Cousin …
Uncle, aunt . . . ??
please . . . where are you all?
3.
all.not.well.on.earth
(like.never.before)
*even.this.small.voice.which.spake.wider.through.innocence
lies.silent.now
beneath.reddish.dry-mud . . .
its.melody.of.truth.heard.
only.in.a
field.of.butterflies
all gone*
no.more.butterfly
S T, 5 sept
Sep 4, 2013
Sep 4, 2013 at 5:35 PM UTC
The devil's speech say they:
Rolling, clattering, frolicking, hungry.
Billows of charred skeletons embrace the air
Black soot pumped straight from the pyres of Hades
Congealing to clouds of evil intent wherever it roam.
That charred old shell so terse,
Black as sadness and dead as a hearse,
Darling to death as he brings on the rain:
The dry rolling thunder of the funeral train.
In the coughing desert
Not a thing dares roam
Neither wind nor creature
And neither stick nor stone.
But then the silence disturbed by a horrible shriek -
The railway screams in horror and the train itself speaks, saying
"Tell me, thou innocent,
Why feel you special and best?
For when all is done I take you
And return you to my nest;
Your world is bright and happy
Full of high spirits and song,
Though soon you too shall step aboard
And join my faceless throng."
Hot saliva on the heaving engines:
Weeping, groaning, ghostly, parched.
Rusted joints spewed onwards grinding resisting
Movement spat out like a violently beaded string of curses
Sloppily uttered as incantations of a malformed mouth!
From that charred old shell so terse,
Black as sadness and dead as a hearse,
Darling to death as he brings on the rain:
The dry rolling thunder of the funeral train.
That dark train cries out and all around
A mourning whimper rises like slumbering fog-
Bleak and yellow it obscures the land
Seeping out insidious in strange locales all:
The old lonely fisherman
Sleeping on his wharf,
The frustrated hawker's
Windblown barefaced booth,
Silent streets crying for attention,
Dark places hidden at the corner of every eye.
That solemn train cries out and all around
Her mourning whimper rises like harrowing fog
Calling all to upright attention and fear.
Looming like a spectre but a breath-span from your window
Slowly closing cold dread claws-
Naked numbness dumb as ice-
Cold dread claws upon thy waist.
And you,
You poor old thing,
Shivering in your pitiful shack of bones,
You never had any chance!
You were only human.
You were only human, you poor old thing.
Barreling on with brimstone slang:
Clang clang! Dang dang! Beelz Bub!
Sputtering an ocean of curses from turgid goat-flesh
Born of sadness to cause even more, yawning great maw
Jowls clanking with fresh hot oil drool steaming stark and lewd, and yet
That charred old shell so terse,
Blacker than sadness and slain like a hearse,
Is all that gives meaning to our every gain:
The dry rolling thunder of the funeral train.
Oct 4, 2011
Oct 4, 2011 at 12:10 AM UTC
So simple, black and white.
Pages and keys make musical flight.
I approach the bench with so much ease,
Movement in my fingers begs for release!
I sit, I breathe. Ready myself.
My spiritual life to be ripped off the shelf.
For here, I unwind, relax, and be still.
My God is with me, praise him, I will.
There is no comparison to the feeling of ivory,
Beneath my fingers, music lively,
Or somber, or meaningful. Anything goes.
Painted digits, frolicking to and fro.
My worries and doubts from me vanish.
Between black and white. Moments I cherish.
Feb 21, 2014
Feb 21, 2014 at 1:45 PM UTC
Long ago when the time came for two of every animal to board Noah's ark to avoid the coming flood, every animal, except the Unicorns, made it onto the boat because the unicorns were too busy frolicking and playing in the grass. So when the flood came and the unicorns saw that they were going to drown they cried out "Oh Lord, please save us from the rising water that we may not drown!" On hearing their cries and seeing the unicorns in such danger, God asked them "Why did you not board the ark as you were told to?" And the unicorns replied "We were too busy playing and forgot. We are sorry! Please help us!" So God, having mercy on them, changed them into whales so that they would not drown and would survive the flood. And that is why the narwhal whales have horns and why unicorns no longer exist.
May 19, 2017
May 19, 2017 at 4:04 PM UTC
Welcome my brother said one snowflake to another
Let us paint the land with diamonds of white
Let us put crisp in the air and blanket despair
And brighten the hills with delight
Welcome my brother said one snowflake to the other
Let us widen the smiles of children enthralled
And kindle the aged with their youth
Let us vault from the clouds with a magical shroud
Let us decorate every roof
Welcome my brother said one snowflake to another
Let us dance in the street and stick to the feet
Of those frolicking in the snow
Let us fill up the sky with a brilliant disguise
And sequester the dark from the glow
Welcome my brother said one snowflake to the other
Let us cover the streets with glorious sheets
Until the blackness comes up melting through
This is the end said the snowflake to his friend
And I’m happy to melt here with you.
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 6:25 AM UTC
The grass was clear in the moist of the ruins moat
Twas dawn and all this hike, not even a city I could sight
The plains were sheer as the white satin coat I've seen
Clash, a clustering view from mountains down to hills
Shaking knees as I rise to pick up my bed of sheets
Then the breeze swept as I shivered to its grasping chills
Distant peeks; unbridled stallions are troubled free
The sunray spots the verge and brightens the darkest end
At lost in the moment, a nature's sage of imagery blends
A brown wren swiftly glides upon to rest at my tent
In the midst of the day like rain in June and blooms of May
Swans, Geese and white petals dancing to a bluish bay
Solitary to be, but with the rivers overflowing symphonies
We'd sing hymns to delight in an afternoon galore
A steadfast rhythm clinging as I walk with God alone
Euphoric army of billows cascading, a purple-orange scene
As I idle in the view of fields depicting a justful liberty
To smile and remember someone cared with all is please
Singing crickets and fireflies we're all a friend of mine
At eve I rolled endlessly, frolicking at the midnight meadow
Casting joys and crowns as the moon beams a silver line
To the hinterlands, life's a breeze and everybody twas at ease
An escapade I was wanting to get lost from life's reality
Meeting pauper's, gazing wonders, then we'd all fall asleep
Oct 10, 2017
Oct 10, 2017 at 12:11 AM UTC
How vibrantly she lives,
always moving, always walking,
dancing, spinning, frolicking;
a smile for strangers, a kiss for friends;
a touch on your shoulder, a tinkling laugh;
her soul shines in her face wherever she goes;
How vibrantly she loves.
Dec 11, 2014
Dec 11, 2014 at 2:10 AM UTC
open up my lungs,
set the soiled insects free,
the water is boiling,
and the vapor gathers too quickly,
too much.
“we are mortals”
are words no twenty something wants to hear,
i would like to think i’m some greek goddess,
frolicking forever and ever,
loving until i am drained
(but i am already, darling)
once i knew a woman who closed herself up.
i think i am her now,
i see lemon fangs instead of pearly whites.
i seek adventures within myself,
to find roads with tumbleweeds and empty
ideas
i wish i knew how to stop,
because my skin is frayed and tattered,
from your yanking and feeding.
i wish i knew how to be beautiful,
because that is all we want in life,
and i keep looking at my blood vessels,
“beauty”
yet i see none.
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 6:03 PM UTC
Running through ancient Appalachia
Frolicking without a care
She had never felt more joy-
Never felt less aware.
As they followed the waterfall trail,
There was no time to spare-
Time was irrelevant,
As they were breathing in clean air.
Treetops swirling into one another,
Breeze slow and soft,
Sweeping salty tears off of her cheek-
They were lost.
Lost in their own minds,
Nothing left to exhaust.
Inspiration was the mountain peak-
Floral scents aloft.
Driving in a spiral
Down the rugged cracked road-
They pulled off to the side,
Anxieties and heart rates slowed.
There they found two cement half-
Pipes peering over the mountain side
They climbed down, sat in their grasps-
Contently contemplating their lives.
She turned to her love
To ask what he was doing.
He said “writing down ideas”
There, she saw her fate.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 8:52 PM UTC
There was a time,
A year into the future,
when we used to frolic and dance in the sand.
Usually, I don't like beaches,
I hate large crowds,
Hate 'em hate 'em
and I will 'till pigs fly.
Sometimes I think I'm not like the others
even though I desperately wish to be.
I'd like to donate my shoe collection
to the Salvation Army, or Goodwill,
for them to be put to better use
instead of sitting unused
surrounded by crumpled tissues and overdue books.
Or I could build a time capsule
to be opened the next century.
Hopefully the future Ebenezer Scrooge
finds the Ghost of Frolicking Past
and actually learns to enjoy beaches.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC