"gambolled" poems
In futurity
I prophesy see.
That the earth from sleep.
(Grave the sentence deep)
Shall arise and seek
For her maker meek:
And the desart wild
Become a garden mild.
In the southern clime,
Where the summers prime
Never fades away;
Lovely Lyca lay.
Seven summers old
Lovely Lyca told,
She had wandered long.
Hearing wild birds song.
Sweet sleep come to me
Underneath this tree;
Do father, mother weep.—
“Where can Lyca sleep”.
Lost in desert wild
Is your little child.
How can Lyca sleep.
If her mother weep.
If her heart does ake.
Then let Lyca wake;
If my mother sleep,
Lyca shall not weep.
Frowning, frowning night,
O’er this desert bright.
Let thy moon arise.
While I close my eyes.
Sleeping Lyca lay:
While the beasts of prey,
Come from caverns deep,
View’d the maid asleep
The kingly lion stood
And the ****** view’d:
Then he gambolled round
O’er the hallowed ground:
Leopards, tygers play,
Round her as she lay;
While the lion old,
Bow’d his mane of gold,
And her ***** lick,
And upon her neck,
From his eyes of flame,
Ruby tears there came;
While the lioness
Loos’d her slender dress,
And naked they convey’d
To caves the sleeping maid.
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**Topsy and Turvy, hassled and harried
jostled among a jungle of jumble,
so busy they beavered, in search of a bauble
upon all the shelves, so deftly they delved,
... within the lair of the piffling frippary.
They ambled and rambled, so giddy they gambolled
and sought for that trivial trinket or trifle,
they rummaged and rifled, their eagerness stifled,
through struggle, they strived, from nine until five,
... within the lair of the piffling frippary.
Staunch but stressed, their zest so hard pressed
for until discovered, found and recovered,
they muttered and spluttered, and audibly uttered
within the lair of the piffling frippary,
... persuing that piece of paltry frivolity.
Now flagging, they floundered, not finding the foible
in shambles they rambled, revealing reluctance,
and ceding, conceding, they threw in the towel
on trembling, tottering knees they now tumbled,
... out of the lair, of the piffling frippary.
... ... ...**
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 10:42 AM UTC
my joy has found comfort
in its own routine
it has a smartphone,
a tablet and an email address
mornings, it drives to work
then smiles at the computer
all day long
evenings, it returns the smile
to the freezer and goes
walking in the neighbourhood
avoiding droppings
left by reverent dogs
it stays awake nights
muttering -
it argues math and logic,
yet comes to no conclusion
it drinks heavily
at the Ferret and Firkin,
falls down insensate
it awakens at 2:30 a.m.
creates websites
for non-profit organizations,
registers email addresses
at hotmail and yahoo
just to read the spam
that joy which hummed
and gambolled inside of me
(exploring and lighting candles
in each delicious
undiscovered corner)
now hides in its cave
rocking itself
my joy is considering a name change
by bonaventure saptel
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 11:29 AM UTC
We were lambs
When first we met,
Rubbing noses,
Getting wet.
We gambolled
In the meadow,
Lost our balance
On new legs,
Found our footing,
Earned our *****
Our future loomed
Before us.
We grazed on
The greenest farms,
Wove our way
Like knitting yarn.
But you,
Dear ewe,
You grew your horns.
Feb 10, 2015
Feb 10, 2015 at 12:29 AM UTC
75
She died at play,
Gambolled away
Her lease of spotted hours,
Then sank as gaily as a Turn
Upon a Couch of flowers.
Her ghost strolled softly o’er the hill
Yesterday, and Today,
Her vestments as the silver fleece—
Her countenance as spray.
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