"rollicking" poems
On flat bank’s where
grass runt reeds grow
waiting for rising tide,
A lone Heron stealths silently
while Gulls cry warning, and dive in to a cold sea air.
Phoenix Peanut and Pandora
stranded on wet mud bank,
wait for their chance to escape
but it’s bonds that need to be severed in their quest for freedom.
Estuary lights dim and flicker in the distance while closer to shore Mermaids sing on the breath of a storm.
Beckoning sailors "come ride the waves"
Siren songs of lost souls and shadows
“Come with us” on this bursting sea.
And they sing with a drowning charm
as fishermen launch vessels under a shawl covered wife's watchful eye.
And yesterdays widows weep, face rained bright from navigational lights.
Ships bell ring in time with a rollicking sea,
Pheonix Peanut and Pandora
still await their escape but not this night.
While the Heron has long fled this great swell.
No cries now from gulls nor mothers hurrying their little ones to the safety of their coal fired warm homes.
Just the rage of wave riding mermaids that will have their bounty
the heart and souls from a fisherman life.
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 9:34 AM UTC
Setting off a rollicking charge… like a waiting rocket to countdown
Solo pugilist in the ring… lancing darts at butterflies in cloistered air
10…. 9…. 8….
Boxed in from all sides… whichever way turning… meets unsettling walls
Notes unseen and unheard… magic windows stripped away… acrylic drips dry
7…. 6….. 5….
Tap runs on… letting of foundation-blood…no fear nor fret… yet exacts converse
Gentle persuasion to reach shores… hard credence yet so true… all in good time
4…. 3…. 2….
One vision
Two hearts
Three kisses..
Forever :)
No countdown needed....ever
Count to one…only
and breathe...
It’s all ok
all in good time...
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC
Candles, chocolates and a bottle of Chardonnay
Heralding the eve of Christmas day
Rollicking good fun is in the air
Icy outside but who gives a care
Surprises all gaily wrapped
To a song that someone just rapped
Mistletoe hangs in the hall
And the clock ticks slowly on the wall
Santa from Lapland is coming to call.
©Hazel
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 10:40 AM UTC
A curious thing to reset an old clock:
Turning, churning, winding, minding
The delicate craftsmanship, rollicking spots
And gears, gears, gears.
How children delight in the noises and sights,
Ticking, ringing, turning, swinging
The pendulum flowing, eternally slowing
And falling, falling, falling.
Tumultuous ticking, the timekeeper turning
For each little hour to come and pass,
'Til one fateful second, the governor reckoned,
The clock should surely stop.
Jun 2, 2012
Jun 2, 2012 at 9:58 PM UTC
About Soho we went before the light;
We went, unresting six, craving new fun,
New scenes, new raptures, for the fevered night
Of rollicking laughter, drink and song, was done.
The vault was void, but for the dawn's great star
That shed upon our path its silver flame,
When La Paloma on a low guitar
Abruptly from a darkened casement came--
Harlem! All else shut out, I saw the hall,
And you in your red shoulder sash come dancing
With Val against me languid by the wall,
Your burning coffee-colored eyes keen glancing
Aslant at mine, proud in your golden glory!
I loved you, Cuban girl, fond sweet Diory.
1.5k
Like a sloop in mid ocean toss
To and fro by a wind boisterous,
Whose fortune is past help and hope, seems he
Among the flotilla of his game--supposedly.
Remember i about two seasons or years
Agone, when it was bruited to my ears
By some analysts and commentators alike,
That the player probably might not strike
Home a Grand Slam at all in his career.
The critics, howbeit, this day wrong were
Proven for his fate changed, when the hand
Of heaven which, as it wills, doth command
The affairs of man, causes at once to cease
The waves, turning a seeming failure to success.
For there in that distant land of America did
That ever presistent and optimistic, avid
For, focusing on a title Andy Murray of Britain,
At last his first Open Tennis Trophy obtain.
No theory new doth his crown prescribe;
Only that a man should likewise subscribe
To those ancient proven principles: believe
In God and thyself, and sincerely give
To every pursuit of life thine very strength and
Power; and whether the occasion be a Grand
Prix or Slam, allow nay no rollicking pundit
Thy faith to cast down. For like a bandit
Are negative words; they do rob the heart
Of its courage and confidence for the most part.
Yea, at 25, the British boy berthed eventually,
Despite the storms, at the harbour of victory.
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 10:40 AM UTC
My birth was christened with a curse
but every year those parties were flurries
of bon fires and candle sparklers.
My feet didn't touch the dance floor
it seemed, not once, while
the orchestra was playing
a whirling dervish of a waltz
bangs cropped carefree
across the plains of my tanned face,
swishing and twirling the knee length
pink gown,
kicking off pinching white flats to steal
across the June-hot grounds
only to drift back to father’s feet
for another dance.
The orchestra packs up,
the courtly ladies yawn behind trailing sleeves
as I am tucked in
my bed of feathered down, only to wake up
thirteen years later, with cricks
nestled in the tendons of my neck
and rickety cramps twitching like
the seizure flickering of lightning bugs
through my thighs, as dust billows and rises
with my shifting in the strange light.
Sleeping Beauty wakes up
eighty-seven years ahead of schedule
in the suburbs, the curse a dud
with no prince to sweep her into syrupy swoons
with no words to name this coiling, clammy heat,
this suffocating musk.
I drag my weight
through the two-story house, teaching myself
a new vocabulary
so I can learn to breathe
through the ugly fits of orange tinted panic
at the spider webbed frailty of magic
the kismet pinprick of a spinning wheel
and the helpless sighs of my parents,
a King and Queen dethroned, overthrown
from their untouchable, eternal pedestal.
I couldn't dance
at my next birthday celebration,
when the orchestra was playing
a rollicking rondeau,
mostly because
my hair was too slicked and curled,
framing my fickle new skin,
sitting and twisting a silk napkin in my lap,
ribs locked in the powder blue grip of a whale,
resting poised to turn my toes into graceful
creatures, ten crippled wood nymphs.
To run I would have stumbled,
and it was impossible not to notice that
while we stood, my eyes grazed the top
of father’s thinning, speckled head.
I would break his feet with one more dance.
Dec 30, 2012
Dec 30, 2012 at 8:24 PM UTC
The breeze is forceful, but not stiff,
it is the tropical storm's long lasting,
Arthur's lingering kiss goodbye,
(like the ones taken and given at airports and train stations,
volatile, wild passionate)
the breeze is anything but stiff,
it flexes, gusts, whipping sleeves,
coffee coolant excellent
the waves are rollicking,
revealing their white underwear,
but wise sailors say no thanks,
the bay pure, no vessels surface contaminant this morning
the sun apologizes for its yesterday absence,
claiming the aquifer cried out very thirsty,
so it took July Fourth off,
but now the water table rising,
the sand colored soil dark, rich, wet,
the grass cleaner, greener,
but the lawn, branch littered,
the wounded of the weather wars
the sun, a bit embarrased by his absence,
waits patiently for that odd fellow
by that dock, in that chair solitary,
to do his best poetic explanation well enough,
so that all summer rainy days will be
past and future forgiven
and the odd fellow taps and tends
to the living crowd surrounding him once again,
recalling he once wrote of leaves frothy waving
like cappuccino foam, and was that not
years ago and how could that be?
though the atmosphere is modest agitated,
the poets heart now, leavened and levitated,
for rain must have its due day,
purposeful, somber, serious, endless repeating,
(some say cleansing, but not he)
laughing at himself,
outdoors he writes
differently,
lighter than air, crafting careful
a single sonnet of suntan lotion odors,
and natural songs of bass drums in ear thrum,
and one thought alone,
criss crosses repeatedly,
yes, that one,
"wish you were here"
and he goes inside to get fresh coffee,
greet the woman sweaty fresh from yoga.
she delayed, the ferry captains paying obeisance
to the self same breeze,
but the seagull observer,
stands in place of the odd fellow's guard and watch,
during his temporary absence,
bulkhead posted, cawing in his stead and on his stand,
in seagullese,
which the poet speaks oh so well,
mantra chanting the poets
and the breeze's refrain too,
wish you were here
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 10:39 AM UTC
Darling, it’s no spring yet
am going again to bed
no one problem to think about
please, don’t say it too loud
Of course am doing my best
rhyming excellently for the rest
of my HelloPoetry family
of course, scapegoats enough, ne’er my glee
Scapegoats what for?
writers' block and the more?
no muse ever drops in at mine
luckily the sun always shines
Am I the only one without a muse?
oh dear I am not amused !
must I hire or just call?
Wait, I just give a kick, and have a rollicking ball
© Sylvia Frances Chan
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 8:39 AM UTC
Stillness
All the trees stand *****
without a quiver in even
the smallest of their branches.
Yet, for what these silent elms
make up in quiet,
a rollicking robin
cannot suppress his excitement,
about the dawn of this new spring day
and the arrival of the morning sun!
With quavering voice,
he rolls out his rhythms.
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 8:25 AM UTC
fresh stripping decay
delicate and voraciously succulent
(on the meager rectangles
crammed with flaccid light
how grand thou art: pumping of the very stiffest asphalt garden
glinting relentlessly)
a comical filigree
spat by Mans most least clumsy
fingered mechanisms
; cLipPing the common strip of cobalt languid sky
i'm in it's jowls
the rollicking neon punch
of ***
and bricks
the addling conjure of moist trepidations
in clear or amber juice
of the fuddled *****
the barman proffers;with his grimy note
and assertive beard lined vocal shunt
"what,ll you have ?
"
Mar 6, 2011
Mar 6, 2011 at 2:00 PM UTC
His pack drifted into the brush and forrest.
Howls vanishing.Crisp morning snow.
Glistened and clung to low bending branches.bent low by the weight of beauty.
Low in the white meadow driven by whispering winds and the stinging cold.
The wolf stands stock still and sniffs the pristine air.
Gone the days of rollicking.. playfull disdain as cubs nipped in play. Small price to pay and willing.
Now..Hunter seeking higher ground...ancient hound.
Driven from security
With primal brutality
Driven from the pack.
Hunts the high and low lands. No longer bound with communal duty..a wild thing of beauty. Stands alone
Lone wolf.
Running prey to ground
From time to time.
Ceaseless wondering.
Loner,owns no territory but his instints and mmemories
Brother to the moaning night breezes...The howl and mimic as he priks his ears and grieves.
Laughter in the rustling leaves oh the moon high rises casting walking shadows on ground..startling primal hound.
Perched on craggy summit his baleful message from it. It echoes to his destiny.
Lone wolf.
Now and ever
Forever.
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 3:36 PM UTC
i think with a sometimes smile
meanders playfully filling the
erudite sphere comically of my
face digs with a small gape a
mouth where my voice comes
from in a slight eager wiggle
out on the air
it just comes and i can't stop how
it wants to say something that
of a new wholly unbelievable
incredibly unviolent softnot sharp
aching to touch somebody else
throat with small noose of muscles
rollicking with the small snow
of your fingertips hulking gorgeous
and barely
Apr 11, 2012
Apr 11, 2012 at 1:33 AM UTC
her pocket book of woes,
was left behind, for now, in her room
i presume,
near water she was a nymph
yearning to swim.
the moment rushing wave
kissed the sands
she fell over me, tumbling.
we rolled in the foamy
waves, rollicking .
we were heart beat close,
-for few more hours-
i was painfully aware,
strands of hair displaced, added allure to her face,
grains of gleaming mineral sand
on her lips, invited,
greedy for the salty sweet
of her partly open pouty lips,
i lunged, she met me half way
we kissed in a feverish pitch
still not forgetting
that her cup of woes awaits,
expecting us to part
O
Jan 4, 2012
Jan 4, 2012 at 12:21 AM UTC
At this point, I chase the white rabbit
merely out of habit/
My, what big blue beautiful eyes she has.
All the better to eat me with, my dear.
And
My, what lovely lips she has.
All the better to see me with, my dear.
And
Those big swinging hips,
All the better to ****** me with, my dear.
And
Her ringing voice in my ear,
dissolves any fear.
The tide ever rolling,
rollicking into the beach
As
we are high, frolicking,
into the undertow tide,
to hide, from death inevitable.
My, what hair, let down, wrung out,
without a care, and through
this tangled hair.
My, death hath no sting nor fury,
for a man such as this,
me as it were,
her love,
oh my,
is pure purgatory.
Following the rabbit to the abbot,
white wolf unknown, disguised in full
habit.
Like leading lambs to the slaughter/
Like leading lambs to the slaughter/
A love such as this,
won in a bar barter.
Reach beneath her dress,
toss back the garter.
.
I beseech,
I do not think it will land in my hand
And I will continue to chase the white rabbit,
purely out of habit.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 2:46 PM UTC
I’m sweeping up every part of myself
I’ll remember it all
Confusion on the dance floor
The pumping sounds from chairs that broke
So we put them back together
And everytime that someone else
Fell victim to it’s crumbling
We laughed and laughed and laughed again
Too hungover to care to dream
Of days that are less than cold
Over ourselves like long-lost sons
If every Sunday is prodigal
Leave it that way, it’s possible
That romance isn’t what we made it
Because the doctor called you out
For eating birthday cake on weekdays
Like a hooligan from Harlem
But we were all perched on the countertop
Hey, baked goods for brunch
Post-party depression
You said you preferred to wash the dishes
Because the local watering hole comes from a faucet
And mixes well with the dish soap
Sundays with rolling turning thunder
Rollicking under the floorboards
A trembling pair of washed-up dress shoes
But the trees stay silent.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 2:24 AM UTC
1.
I open Her stitches with the dullest screwdriver available in my horrid workshop
I ask her if she wants the agony to cease and she promptly responds “Stop!”
Her request is denied just as my affection was rejected through paper, red ink, and hollow apologies
2.
I assail Him with with a hammer until bony shards protrude from skin
The boastful **** is still breathing when I contort the lumbars of his spine
This gory peacock’s skeletal feathers display my anger in all essences of its awe-inspiring glory
3.
I dangle Her plump body over a chimney billowing greasy smoke
She attempts to strike deals for mercy and I respond with a choke
The bargaining persists all the way down until rollicking flames turn her mouth into silky ribbons of ash
4.
The Next frequently indulges in unspeakably awful chipperness
So, naturally, I make him gulp down a week’s worth of happy meds
While his heart sputters, depression’s taste wipes away all traces of the a smile on his face
5.
My work done, I casually stroll back home
I muse on all the wicked deeds finally expunged and take out a shining Magnum
The cold piece of steel turns around to face this peaceful victim, its trigger pulled in acceptance
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 5:14 PM UTC
Elder Gents studying their cards , a rollicking game of pinochle
on the lawn , Black Cavendish tobacco sweetens the air as they sip on RC Colas , dine on Moon Pies ...
Southern Belles reminiscing over coffee and shortbread cookies ,
young guitar players selling songs , gray pigeons making a living ,
hard at work on the busy sidewalk ....
Retired lovers window shop Main Street , a penny for their thoughts
today at Noon ...
Feb 24, 2016
Feb 24, 2016 at 7:37 PM UTC
I grabbed her fawning hands to mine
And we danced on the dish of the moon
Serenaded by a loon's rollicking tune
That could not keep up with
Our loud passion cries
Echoing hill to hill
Back and forth In and out
Crescendoing into ecstatic shouts
Easing us finally to love's little death
Nearly out of breath
As we watched the jokey sun rising in the west
And how our tired kisses
Were flying off our lips
Into the clownish banditry of the wind's harsh riffs
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 4:21 PM UTC
*Copious birdsong with candor along the windward lake shoreline
Natures electricity demanding conduit at the forest divide
Chipper 'Wrensong' , curious Ravens speak of the morn , rollicking gray tree barkers , southbound 'honkers' ride the blind of Autumn sun , diamond piedmont dew dabbled with new-day spices of black pepper , sage and English tea cinnamon
Brown cathead biscuits , warm sorghum syrup and peach butter breakfast
Cattle call bell tones crack the solitude , the thunder of hooves embellish the shine of rolling pasture , of thick spearmint beside gravel roads , steam collecting along quiet pecan groves , o'er fertile fields at rest*
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 10:55 AM UTC
Do you recall rollicking through cultivated country lanes ?
Playfully tromping down our gravel drive in the afternoon heat ?
I held you to prevent a stone bruise on your tiny little feet ..
Can you recall late Summer evenings on the front porch swing ?
I read you nursery rhymes until you fell to sleep ..
Do you remember tents in the living room , Captain Crunch cartoon
mornings dragging a gallon of milk to the TV ?
Playing hide and seek in the house , jigsaw puzzles and parakeets ?
Remember the puppies and kittens , lavender mittens and the Blizzard of '93 ?
What about climbing up Stone Mountain nestled in your papoose , just you and me !!
Jan 24, 2016
Jan 24, 2016 at 3:52 PM UTC
Welded 7 tomes and wrapped sacrament paper about the very thing; Somer tomes,
soldered to sacrifice and daylight running as
mercury off of adam’s bones honed to a south American river peak; Invenerate mammalia rollicking atop
she shocked herself to see another sun light in the blinds.;
He mended caverns and she hung across them, strung out.
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 9:19 AM UTC
He was a very naughty prince of the realm
he had himself a whipping boy
his boy was a very sturdy fellow
who could take a stern willow
When the prince needed a thrashing
he always would take his place
fifty of the best at a steady pace
he could take a right old rollicking
Many a dark day did that poor whipping boy see
he would cringe and shake every time he saw a willow tree
the prince would go out of his way
to make sure he was punished nearly every day
The whipping boy lived the life of a prince in pain
with the honour of being beaten again and again
the spanking in his ears would ring
knowing he was doing this for his future king
By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 5:08 AM UTC
there is a man of
gentle genteel nobility
who writes in quiet
anonimity
words that give the
soul wings to soar
an the is a rough and
ready workman
who writes his life
warts and all
with a pen that
drips literary gems
there are a couple of young guns
ready to change the world
one poem at a time
and one has nailed
the knack of the pithy rhyme
the other a thinker
gears grinding all the time
some, two or three, at life's end
or at least on that very street
that share wisdom, the art of writing
both joys and defeats
old soldier's in the war of rhyme
defending the bastion
against the tyranny of time..
then there is the man,
such a clever soul
that deals almost soley
in wit and folderol
his pieces have
such a rollicking style
and always cause a chuckle
and sometimes leave you
rolling in aisles
one who delves into
the art of the rondelle
his mastery of the form
keeps me underaliterary spell
I know of a man
to whom sonnets are bread
to him, I take off my hat..
to write iambic pentameter
just does in my head!
I find myself three shy of the dozen,
not of wont but becuase my head is full
of the many worthy scribes that could fit the bill
each man who writes of love won or lost,
each man who puts pen to paper
and has paper tossed, toward the round file or floor
each man who writes with simple eloquence
of what is out side his front door,
or inside a turbulent heart,
who tries with words to explain
the workings of life..
or the tumult of his brain.
could take a place in this dozen.
has already become,
one of this glorious coven.
he, who takes letters,
syllables, jots and tittles
and creates swirls of alchemy,
magic to the souls of readers
and to the hearts, cartograhpy
maps of fairy dust and well could be
so to these nine, and three more again
to all men who have placed the sign
'writer within these brain walls'
on their heart and in their minds
I thank thee all
Your work has been, an inspiration to mine...
Oct 27, 2016
Oct 27, 2016 at 6:08 PM UTC