"romped" poems
An enigmatic smile she’s dressed with to chant mystery,
Poets and bards with their magical poesy tried the mystery,
Philosophers and thinkers broke their minds to unravel the secrecy,
Scientists and law makers built hypotheses and verdicts to read hers,
Painters and sculptors fatigued with their colours and clay,
Actors and directors enacted to unknot the thread of obscurity.
Odes and epics, long-written, attempted to sing Lisa’s Smile;
But reflections of their beloveds’ smile read in their verses,
Philosophies and thoughts expressed in huge volumes;
But less understood even the painter’s invention,
Theories and laws built around Science and Law;
But little is the outcome of their propositions sans the mystery,
Colours and clay played on mighty imaginative realms;
But Mona Lisa ne’er spoke of her mystery Smile.
Enactments on massive stages thrilled the collective audiences;
But Mona Lisa hid the mystery of her Smile.
I walked around the garden of poetry with fragrance of mystery,
I saw a poem in her distinctive beauty ruling my mind’s eye.
She smiled at my heart and in turn my heart smiled at her,
Her smile taught me a mystery and it took time to read it;
Yet there was a veil betwixt us, and I took my plume to write.
She took my heart unto her, and I romped in joy.
She’s been decked with melody and rhymes,
And the string of verses stretched beyond the horizon,
Where the mystery of Lisa’s Smile be found.
She took me with her beyond the horizon,
And I followed her with no utterance till our destination.
She laughed at me for my silence;
Yet she smiled unto me; but her smile looked unfathomable.
She smiled and smiled at me; yet she had no utterance for me;
She looked a little bit puzzling unto me, and I had no answer;
Yet her smile dwelled in me, and I invoked the Muse of Poetry.
“Thou art to be a silent lover, and her smile is the answer unto thee,
She’s the Mona Lisa; she can’t speak, but smile and smile.”
I lay on the soil of the kingdom of poetry, imbibing Lisa’s Smile,
I adorn her smile; I worship her smile; I revere her smile,
Let me not move away from the garden of poetry
Till Lisa’s Smile is translated unto me.
I waited and waited and I found the answer:
Lisa smiles and her smile is the love of silence.
My heart rests in silence that her love is felt within.
She uttered into me:”Speak not, but love with smile,
And that the mystery of my Smile and my Smile lasts.”
I know why Mona Lisa smiles.
She loves me with her silent Smile.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 5:17 AM UTC
An enigmatic smile she’s dressed with to chant mystery,
Poets and bards with their magical poesy tried the mystery,
Philosophers and thinkers broke their minds to unravel the secrecy,
Scientists and law makers built hypotheses and verdicts to read hers,
Painters and sculptors fatigued with their colours and clay,
Actors and directors enacted to unknot the thread of obscurity.
Odes and epics, long-written, attempted to sing Lisa’s Smile;
But reflections of their beloveds’ smile read in their verses,
Philosophies and thoughts expressed in huge volumes;
But less understood even the painter’s invention,
Theories and laws built around Science and Law;
But little is the outcome of their propositions sans the mystery,
Colours and clay played on mighty imaginative realms;
But Mona Lisa ne’er spoke of her mystery Smile.
Enactments on massive stages thrilled the collective audiences;
But Mona Lisa hid the mystery of her Smile.
I walked around the garden of poetry with fragrance of mystery,
I saw a poem in her distinctive beauty ruling my mind’s eye.
She smiled at my heart and in turn my heart smiled at her,
Her smile taught me a mystery and it took time to read it;
Yet there was a veil betwixt us, and I took my plume to write.
She took my heart unto her, and I romped in joy.
She’s been decked with melody and rhymes,
And the string of verses stretched beyond the horizon,
Where the mystery of Lisa’s Smile be found.
She took me with her beyond the horizon,
And I followed her with no utterance till our destination.
She laughed at me for my silence;
Yet she smiled unto me; but her smile looked unfathomable.
She smiled and smiled at me; yet she had no utterance for me;
She looked a little bit puzzling unto me, and I had no answer;
Yet her smile dwelled in me, and I invoked the Muse of Poetry.
“Thou art to be a silent lover, and her smile is the answer unto thee,
She’s the Mona Lisa; she can’t speak, but smile and smile.”
I lay on the soil of the kingdom of poetry, imbibing Lisa’s Smile,
I adorn her smile; I worship her smile; I revere her smile,
Let me not move away from the garden of poetry
Till Lisa’s Smile is translated unto me.
I waited and waited and I found the answer:
Lisa smiles and her smile is the love of silence.
My heart rests in silence that her love is felt within.
She uttered into me:”Speak not, but love with smile,
And that the mystery of my Smile and my Smile lasts.”
I know why Mona Lisa smiles.
She loves me with her silent Smile.
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 3:07 AM UTC
He was lean, his aesthetic back stretches
Into neat trunks tied at the waist with cord
Sand sprinkled dipping in the circular pool
Where the shells and seaweed floated about
Like newly washed hair his shade of brown.
And this is how I remember him next to me
With our spades and colourful beach towels
Our clothes draped across rocks in the sun
And those plastic sandels with the salty buckles
Cutting into our fleet especially when new.
We were not very affectionate but occasionally
Romped the floors in our nightclothes at bed
Dragging the eiderdowns, downwards in disarray
And taking a length of string between bedrooms
So that we could keep connected by a joining tug.
This was childhood at its most fierce and beautiful
Before adolescence set its patterns on our forms
Marked us out for education and dress codes
Until then we were still securely latched in time
Asking each other, now and then, for piggy backs.
Love Mary for her brother ,Richard.
Apr 13, 2018
Apr 13, 2018 at 6:59 PM UTC
The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.
We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mother's countenance
Could not unfrown itself.
The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.
You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt.
2.5k
It is the mundanity of the act,
of envisioning your hand gently wrapped around the copper kettle.
Obstinately gripping the pen, while you wring a sheet of paper dry for the right words.
You, cupping my face as if you were holding something precious.
As if I might slip through your fingers.
It is this devastating simplicity that obliterates every shard of my being.
A brick wall, left at the mercy of a gleaming sledgehammer
that is determined to turn everything to dust.
I see your hands everywhere.
In the haze of steam and shower curtains,
the lines dragged in velvet throw pillows,
the cloudy smudges left on a glass of water.
They run faint paths through my hair, their touch ghosts against my eyelid.
If I stare long enough,
your palm is right there, pressing into mine.
Silver cuts through the air and delivers a redundant blow.
The dust scatters once more.
You did not leave a hole
the way everyone said you were bound to.
Empty space cannot exist without everything that surrounds it, yields to it, forgives it,
validates its gaping hollowness.
Empty space is a needle and thread on the dresser, a sellotape dispenser on the desk, a container of soup left on the doorstep with a get-well-soon scribbled on the lid.
Empty space is where you can see remnants of what once was whole.
The faith and conviction that bit by bit, you will put your fragmented pieces back together again.
The nothing you left was so thick and suffocating
that it permeated every room,
filled my lungs to bursting capacity and left me gasping for more.
Its sickly, bitter fragrance danced relentlessly in my nostrils,
as though my suffering was the sweetest symphony ever heard.
It waltzed until I could feel it rising in my throat and leaking from my eyes,
twirled until my head spun.
The nothing you left insisted on making its presence known my every waking moment
and then gleefully romped its way into my nightmares.
It was so quiet, though.
A resigned quiet, like that of the ****** swinging in the gallows,
when everybody holds their breath to watch the pendulum sway.
The crossbeam glistens with last night’s rain and
they trudge back home, muttering to themselves as the dust settles beneath their feet.
I sink into sheets creased by your fingers and watch it sway.
Aug 21, 2021
Aug 21, 2021 at 6:45 AM UTC
I've won a day at the races
For me and my friend Doreen Maguire
Posh frocks and new hats
That's what we require.
So off we go shopping
Hair and nails done on the way
Well we girls want to lookj our best
For the big race day.
Now Doreen's buxom and curvy
Me I'm thin as a latt
Or you could say slim and slender
And Doreen's just fat.
We went in loads of shops
Nothing seemed to fit the bill
Everything was kind of frumpish
And we're definitly not over the hill.
Then we came accross this shop
In a side street in the town
It's called Reds Closet Boutique
And we both came out with a gown.
We got fascinators to match
Shoes, accessories and bags too
Doreen got something in pink
I got something in blue.
It was the day of the races
We were up with the lark
Had our lunch at Tom and Jerry's
Then off to Haydock Park.
The horses are under starters orders
And I'd backed the grey
Well it came home last
But it was winning all the way.
Now we came to the last race
And we're digging deep in our pocket
Doreen said put it on this
It's called Super Rocket.
Well it romped hom at 50/1
This horse called Super Rocket
And me and Doreen Maguire
Went home with brass in our pocket.
© Hazel
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 2:27 PM UTC
Since the time I was born,
I was nurtured as a fawn,
My governess looked after me,
As my mother had then been a busy bee..
When I grew a little more,
Like I was around three or four,
I whined and nagged all the way to school,
All wrapped up in muffler and wool.
I romped,I played, I learnt
Through all the years that I grew,
Life whispered new lessons in my ears,
And everyday I grew into someone new.
And now I'm in my adolescence,
Too swayed by emotions, impulsive in nature,
Vulnerable to the torment of words,
Chasing after fame and stature...
Yet this is not what I want to be,
Let my wings develop completely,
One day I'll be soaring up in the sky,
Dear Mamma, that day you'll be proud of me!
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 8:15 AM UTC
If spirits can walk the earth after life ends,
Or even before, to soar in flights unhindered
By physics, let me dance then!
To reel, arms out, on a vivid green lawn
In a garden before a comfortable house,
Where lush flowers grow and summer reigns,
Touching rows of Constable trees that tower, emerald,
And violet-shadowed even at noon or painted
In twilight, soft before a rising moon.
I would skip over roads and find that field
That lies, protective, above the Connecticut,
Watching as it winds lazily northward.
Then, being sure that all is right,
That the corn is tall and full,
I would speed up to a rounded hill
Above a Victorian barn in Leyden,
Ten acres of rye grass for the cows.
I would stand at the summit and gaze
Far away, down the sleeping valley in its haze,
To the little towns and glittering in
The sun, my alma mater, towers
Of attempted wisdom, of spires and dreams.
Then I might then bathe in a little lake
Where I once romped with friends
After a wedding, **** and laughing
While puzzled farmers watched and leered.
As before I would flee to the river that wound
Down between the hills, splashing through
Pools in shade and sun, basking on smooth stone
Whose marbled veins glow in the canyon light,
Remnants of an ancient era, of pressure and time.
Then on I’d go, bounding from one hilltop to another,
Turning north from the cesium-laced Deerfield,
Passing Vermont’s border to stroll the streets
Of Brattleboro, Putney and Newfane.
I might find a canoe and glide up the West River,
Somehow floating above the rapids and dam,
To rest on the flat water as the sun sets,
Skimming lightly, watching the trout rise
To sip dancing insects or hear the splash
Of a bass as it flicks the surface with its tail.
And then I would sit with the ones I love,
Silently, breathing in the mist that rises
As the sun slips below the hills;
Sunset-colored, elliptical echoes
Catch the low swells like waving glass.
I would wait here until morning returns,
Not ready to leave this beauty or the world.
Sep 8, 2018
Sep 8, 2018 at 12:09 PM UTC
When I was a child
Fireflies romped and played
In the night skies.
But that was before DDT
Wagtails strutted on green grass.
They drank from pools and made me laugh
That too was before DDT
When I was a child
Forested mountains grew high
For us to climb up into the sky
But now new mountains
Of plastic and garbage grow
And so they will stand
For they decompose so slow.
Trees on the mountains
Are all chopped down.
The birds and the animals
Who lived there before
Are gone and many will be seen no more.
We’ve ****** the underground rivers
Of oil almost dry
And polluted the air
Until you can hardly see the sky
We've dirtied the rivers
With our waste that piles high.
Proud mountain lions, tigers,
Elephants, gorillas and monkeys do flee
To the last few places
Where they can roam free.
I fear what will happen
When we destroy them too.
What kind of world
Do we leave for our children
Tell me please do
When are we going to realize
That we are running out of time.
The earth, birds, animals, air, and sky – cry.
Who is listening?
Who cares?
Who will try to change
The course we are moving along?
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 12:58 AM UTC
No me contéis más cuentos,
que vengo de muy lejos
y sé todos los cuentos.
No me contéis más cuentos.
Contad
y recontadme este sueño.
Romped,
rompedme los espejos.
Deshacedme los estanques,
los lazos,
los anillos,
los cercos,
las redes,
las trampas
y todos los caminos paralelos.
Que no quiero,
que no quiero,
que no quiero,
que no quiero que me arrullen con cuentos,
Que no quiero,
Que no quiero,
Que no quiero,
Que no quiero que me sellen la boca y los ojos con cuentos,
que no quiero,
que no quiero,
que no quiero,
que no quiero que me entierren con cuentos,
que no quiero,
que no quiero,
que no quiero,
que no quiero verme clavado en el tiempo,
que no quiero verme en el agua,
que no quiero verme en la tierra tampoco,
que no quiero, a su ovillo, como un hilo de barba sujeto.
Quiero verme en el viento,
quiero verme en el viento,
quiero verme en el viento,
quiero verme en el viento...
quiero... ¡quiero!... sueño... ¡sueño!
Soy gusano que sueña... y sueño
verme un día volando en el viento.
775
~ BY THEODORE ROETHKE
The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.
We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mother’s countenance
Could not unfrown itself.
The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.
You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt.
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 11:23 AM UTC
Three pigs sat in a tree
wondering which was best
gorging down a meal
as quickly as can be
A toad looked up
and was afraid.
After a frightened 'ribbut'
it jumped away.
The first pig ate all the leaves
and bark and bugs too,
it ate everything, leaving
just the second pig's hair-do
The sound of the pig's gluttony
echoed throughout the forest
and all the small critters
ran away to buy insurance.
The second pig did not fret
in fact all he ate was a
twelve-year-old baguette
That's when the old bear
could smell his next meal
he romped around looking for bacon
but exerted himself too much
for he keeled over;
for real.
The third pig starved
and fell out of the tree
it landed on its back next to ants
smoking ****
The pig was saved
for it had a feast.
That's the story of three pigs in a tree.
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC
Dog, you are just as old as me
Our mind in one purview,
When I was young and did a lot
Dog dreamtime cradled you.
When I had ripened to a fault,
Growth full, next stop decay
You tore from tree to me in glee
And romped all day in play.
From that, we both decline in one
To sit and listen now,
Our ball is caught, our song is sung
And we wait the hour.
My flesh and bone is well and strong,
The mind is loth and weak
Beginnings new the loss among
Happy now to seek.
Break out O Sun from that swift cloud
Sailing the Heaven free,
Warm up Earth’s stones and my bones proud
To embrace what is not me.
A dragonfly inspects my garden
In a fleeting blaze of sun,
Huge and dusky, like a dancer
Whirling wings of filigree spun
Beguiling sweet my spirit faint
Tips new-dipped in golden paint.
Sep 13, 2014
Sep 13, 2014 at 5:19 AM UTC
An interesting thing happened before the election,
both parties were rooting for their chosen candidate
with fever pitched excitement.
David and I favored the
Biden/Harris ticket.
in fact, first time ever we planted
a sign on our front lawn.
Everyday felt like a horse race.
Then one evening as we went
for a relaxing stroll,
we ran into a neighbor who was
an avid horticulturist,
he was perched on the side
of the road examining wildflowers
he looked at us and
said, "I don't mean to be political
but do you know what this flower is called?"
I said, "Daisy?" It was a small
dainty daisy looking blossom
he said, "It's called the
Biden family Daisy."
Both David and I gasped with delight
What an auspicious omen,
all was boding well for Biden/Harris.
Then post election, after Biden/Harris
won the presidency
and the fervor and tension calmed down,
I noticed on a morning jaunt
Biden Daisy families exploding in size.
They romped through
urban street meadows, neighborhood lawns
sides of the road,
their jolly miniature white and
yellow pinwheel faces
bobbing in the breeze.
Suddenly my eyes caught
something quite unusual,
the white pearl petals on some of
the Biden family daisies
had transformed into
vibrant purple amethyst petals
"How Royal!" I thought to myself
and befitting our new leaders
Mar 20, 2021
Mar 20, 2021 at 7:38 PM UTC
When did the day turn into night
while we sat idly by?
Horizons slipped beyond our sight
before we blinked an eye.
When summers came we romped all day
there was no end in sight.
Then winters we would slosh away
with nary a respite.
When late-day sun felt limitless
our hearts were always filled.
We had no plan to acquiesce
and yet the evening chilled.
When do we douse that single spark;
that joy to be alive?
Just as the twilight turns to dark
we lose the will to thrive.
When is the last time that we laugh
or take our final sigh?
From frolicking to epitaph
the crows no faster fly.
When does our soul take up in flight
across the narrow glen?
Up to a place so warm and bright
where we all meet again.
Sep 15, 2024
Sep 15, 2024 at 6:02 PM UTC
William Blake and wife played Adam and Eve
In their English garden, totally ****
His neighbors were shocked and morally peeved.
Such escapades proved outrageous and rude,
Till his poems made his scared public believe.
He showed their mind-forged manacles were crude
Facsimiles of mankind’s true freedom.
His strategy, both Romantic and shrewd,
Found Eternity in sand’s finest sieve.
The doors of perception caused him to brood
On the spirit’s want in a world bereaved
Of sustenance. Infinity: soul food.
From Heaven and Hell, he would never leave.
Adam and Eve romped, always without shoes.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 3:08 PM UTC