"romping" poems
I saw a little lion cub roaming in the wild
romping through the grass a lionesses child
jumping up and down roaming through the shrub
lovely as can be this little lion cub
he was very happy as happy as can be
roaming through the jungle oh so wild and free
some day he will grow and he will have a pride
then he will settle down with his lion bride.
May 30, 2010
May 30, 2010 at 7:30 AM UTC
Ah, paled and faded leaf. of spring agone,
Whither goest thou? Art speeding to
Another land upon the brooklet's breast?
Or art thou sailing to the sea, to lodge
Amid a reef, and, kissed by wind and wave,
Die of too much love?
Thou'lt find a resting place amid the moss,
And, ah, who knows! The royal gem
May be thine own love's offering.
Or wilt thou flutter as a time-yellowed page,
And mould among thy sisters,
Ere the sun may peep within the pack?
Or will the robin nest with thee
At Spring's awakening? The romping brook
Will never chide thee, but ever coax thee on.
And shouldst thou be impaled
Upon a thorny branch, what then?
Try not a flight; thy sisters call thee!
Could crocus spring from frost?
And wilt thou let the violet shrink and die?
Nay, speed not, for God hath not
A mast for thee provided.
4.2k
old school rap,
you always tried to tell me and i couldn't listen until you were gone.
sunny open window naked romping music
moving forward from your empty body music
pale skin but not as pale as yours
was.
when i met this new
person
, he said
it's time for new songs
something to mark this page with
but i just keep rereading your obituary
Jan 11, 2012
Jan 11, 2012 at 3:40 AM UTC
Here are the names of my lovers,
The women I sleep with, whom
I use, like they use me.
Spent, they discard me, for when their pleasure needs
Satiated, they climb aboard another man.
What they do not know,
Is that in my mind, in my ears,
everywhere,
I did not let them, or you go,
We are still romping,
For I
Take them as needed.
I need them all,
For my pleasure needs, like my unshaped heart,
Addictive, endless.
If your is name is here, I do not
Apologize.
Pink
Adele
Lilly Allen
Anna Nalick
Bess Rogers
Beyonce
Brandi Carlisle
Cat Power
Colbie Callait
Duffy
Eva Cassidy
Evanescence
Alison Sudol
Fiona Apple
Florence Welch
Grace Potter
Ingrid Michaelson
You
Joni Mitchell
K.D. Lang
Kate Nash
Kate Voegele
Leona Lewis
Lizz Wright
Madeline Peyroux
Marie Digby
Mary Wells
Norah Jones
Regina Spektor
Sara Bareilles
You
Sara Haze
Taylor Swift and Tracy Chapman
Tristan Prettyman
Vanessa Carlton
So many others, used so long ago, I can't remember the faces,
Which can't be googled.
Use them hard, use them often, more than daily.
Bluntly, I tell you
Your name is on my list,
Even if I do not disclose it.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 9:31 AM UTC
me and scarlet came down the coast
she sat window seat
pressed to the glass watching the world flow
from rocket ships headed to the skies
and beach bunnies romping in sunshine
what a strange world this place is
filled with magics and mystic tides
a Spaniard stood here with his wooden ship
like he had just conquered a new world
but time left him just a set of footprints in the sand
and away to sea once more went he
falling off the edge of the world somewhere out there
scarlet and me stopped in small town
shared a plate and a cup
sitting at the feet of a stone saint
holding his own cup so we poured him some soda
and laughed as we ran in the rain
what a strangely wonderful place this florida
a moonlight dream paradise
the far shore we had always dreamed
Sep 9, 2014
Sep 9, 2014 at 10:46 AM UTC
I saw a little lion cub roaming in the wild
romping through the grass a lionesses child
jumping up and down roaming through the shrub
lovely as can be this little lion cub
he was very happy as happy as can be
roaming through the jungle oh so wild and free
some day he will grow and he will have a pride
then he will settle down with his lion bride.
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 9:03 AM UTC
Consort shadows
Nakedly romping to mirage of sunset sun
Celestial beings encountered
By druid's they've just begun
They dance around the stonehenge
Whilst speaking and chatting verses
They've left the inner world
Trampled the duney surface
They write upon those stones
Ogham scripted writing
Leaving marks amongst moss
Their heaviness of sweat inviting
Though one cameth from Spain
A foreigner to the stonehenge barbarian
Her moonlight giveth him warmth
On the shores of valedictorian!!!!
Jun 25, 2015
Jun 25, 2015 at 2:59 PM UTC
that’s the thing with those trophy wife types,
never really mandible in *** like a jaw ought to be,
too stiff, too anorexic model type:
pooch pooch a handbag full of duck quack pouts of the lips.
i like mandible women, scary scarred women,
the types that will grow into fond babushkas
and cook you a broth.
ah all this crap with daddy longlegs walking into a paparazzi
web of flashes is ruining the red carpet,
i was about to frizz it up into cushion afro softness
that would be quicksand for high heels.
i need blotches i need survival skills that hold the skin together,
every wrinkle, every passing jest of “irrelevance,”
every amulet glow of feeling through the kaleidoscope of depression,
jet-lag i call it, although i rather call it trombone,
with the numbers it was bound to happen, leaving the mammalian
kingdom and entering the insect kingdom, it was bound to happen,
the lost identity tiling the earth, ploughing the eardrum for symphonies,
it was just waiting... just waiting... like a spider waiting
with the flies of the urbanisation of green & green...
can’t change my mind... blotches on skin and bulges of missing protein
on the hips... perfect girth for child rearing...
i don’t like perfect... it’s supposed to have an aesthetic aura of an art
gallery... instead it has an aesthetic aura of hygiene of a hospital;
i arrested all the beauticians while talking to the paediatricians
painting my nails with u.v. liquorice in this hospital of hygienic looks
but unhygienic romping pompoms that swayed man to chlamydia.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 11:14 AM UTC
**"His mind would never romp again like the mind of God."
The Great Gatsby**
Does he fret,
Does he sweat,
Does he pay his bills
On Time,
Even tho his personal stash
Of anything,
Inexhaustible and
He bills himself?
Is he lonely,
So when he romps,
His greatest pleasure is
Inventing new kinds of pain?
Does he like to watch butter
Snowmelt,
Does he turn the honey jar
Upside down
Because viscosity is
A turn on?
Is he lonely?
Of course he is,
Is that why he endlessly
Tinkers with creative destruction?
Does he put strawberry jam
On his watermelon?
Salt on his wounds,
Caramelized onions in his
Cologne and parfumes?
Does he watch reruns?
The bombing of Dresden, Hiroshima?
The shaving of the heads of the French women?
What's his fav. late night host,
When he can't sleep
And. his damaged dreams
Become our unfortunate realities?
Acting childish, a métier,
So he can scold himself?
Does he keep score,
Ever say no more,
Contemplate suicide,
Or just murdering his sons?
Did he kiss Shakespeare's lips,
Or just his fingertips?
Does he sing a Capella
With Holly and Cooke,
Let Beethoven play rock n' roll?
What is he best excuse
For playing with
Tormented souls,
Making so many wonderful things
Forbidden fruit?
Does he worship regularly at the altar?
Irony his faith and skin his vestments?
Are his twisted straight,
His late, early?
His order disordered and when bored,
Does he just close his eyes and
Let us live in peace?
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 4:46 PM UTC
She's an enchanting little Israelite,
A world of hidden dimples!--Dusky-eyed,
A starry-glancing daughter of the Bride,
With hair escaped from some Arabian Night,
Her lip is red, her cheek is golden-white,
Her nose a scimitar; and, set aside
The bamboo hat she ***** with so much pride,
Her dress a dream of daintiness and delight.
And when she passes with the dreadful boys
And romping girls, the cockneys loud and crude,
My thought, to the Minories tied yet moved to range
The Land o' the Sun, commingles with the noise
Of magian drums and scents of sandalwood
A touch Sidonian--modern--taking--strange!
2.2k
flesh smirks cautiously
silent beehives squelching elk
leaps glumly, mules snarl
bluebird builds, rigid
foundlings disappear lamely
incarnations peck
raw conjurers acts
devious shady agile
rosemary boasts, stare
starflower hovers
depression gives birth snidely
harps romping mustang
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 5:22 PM UTC
Got grabbed tight by a grizzly bear.
He rumbled and mauled me.
My screams went unnoticed.
For a millisecond in time.
I held my breath and how I prayed.
He pretended to chuck me down the stairs.
That wild rampant grizzly bear.
Six foot four and very scary.
Extremely hairy.
He's a caring grizzly bear.
He's my grumpy son.
He thinks it's just a giggle, seeing his frightened mummy wriggle.
He's only romping around in fun.
He'd never really hurt his mum.
Normally a gentle giant, who stepped straight from fairy tales of old.
He doesn't bite at all.
In teenage days of idiocy, he wasn't always quite so choice.
Now he plays at mummy chucking, 'cos he likes to hear my voice.
(c) Livvi
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 7:04 AM UTC
the oldest profession
doth bring much needed funds
housewives and mothers walking the streets
to supplement the household income
Mrs Jones is plying her female wares
in a motel suite somewhere
those extra dollars
shall pay the education fees
for her daughter Claire
as day to day living
isn't cheap
mothers and wives working the pavement
at any given time
the money they receive is a bonus
a nice little earner
a few bucks can be most helpful
as the family budget oft sinks in a well
these women don't haggle
with their clients too much
they give them what they want
and in return get what they need
a dime is a dime
it can be so useful
when the fortnightly paycheck
is so skint
the ladies of the night
aren't always in the game for the purposes of romping
they're lying on their backs
to fill the hole
in the domestic
piggy bank
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
Harley Davidson motorcycle song
By David John Clare
My elektra glide had to find her
Shes got the key to turn it on
Street wheels are spinning
Now were are wining...
When she sez go let's get it on...
Harley love will get you racing the street bike you'll be a chasing
So ride the wind with Harley Davidson
the machine for you...
Now my baby said to me boy now don't be slow let's get over to the Sunday cycle show
our fat boy was still looking the best
Want my advice? Here's what I suggest.
Chorus
Well we don't talk much so to hell with a car
Romping in the country under Texas stars
She rolled out the blanket on the grassy dew
We started drinking Jim beem right out of her shoe...
Chorus
Harley Davidson motorcycle
Milwaukee Wisconsin
David John Clare
Dec 1, 2014
Dec 1, 2014 at 7:27 AM UTC
Cicada shells and sunshine a southern summer brings.
Mason jars intended for storing crops through winter
line a porch filled with tea candles and hemp cords twined up
through the lids to the ceiling of a porch. Birds fly over
a view of the graveyard across the road where May is
buried year round. The grass, green now, is crisp as gin
and sharp as black umbrellas and hushes at a wet grave
he saw through a cracked window. Once pearls and suits were wet
by bubble bath romping, perfume, and drunken wine stains
in the corpse's own home. It happened in November
over a swirl of cream in black coffee-the cracking
of the glass. A sparrow's body on the porch outside
and the fearful pottery shattered on the white floor
around bare feet. Cicada shells were long buried but
night gin was still crisp in the face of new death and old
truths: death and taxes, morning breath and sharp hangovers
are a part of the unraveling of becoming.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 7:58 PM UTC
jumping jumbled thoughts
hop-scotch, double-dutch, criss-cross
getting lost in mish-mosh
scratching a vinyl
stuck constant skipping,
unfinished rounds of loop-de-loop spinning
speeding down stream
leaping across time warping lilypads,
memories interrupted by what-if daydreams.
my brain places haphazard bookmarks
when it runs into a lump,
then hops on a new train
ka-clunk ka-clunk-clunk ka-clunk,
tripping over decaying stumps
and mountains of over-processed junk.
always falling back to distraction,
instant satisfaction
was taught to me habitually,
so i look the other way when
my will bends instantaneously
at the mention of insane
raucous romping renegades.
i throw hand grenades
to prevent unfinished fragments
of insight from cementing.
wishing my words would
spit themselves out,
or dive off a cliff to utter calamity
cause effort is lost on me -
passionless revere
and bottomless see-sawing.
just stick me slack-jawed
in front of any cookie-cutter size of
plastic rectangle-god,
they all repeat the same chant
commanding me to stare endlessly at
screen after screen after screen after screen after screen -
my screaming pacified by flashing lights
and buzzing jibber-gabber.
infinite scrolling consumes isolated nights,
meticulously crafting a self-projection
made from inverse other-reflection
to deflect nagging fear of
detection and rejection.
can you really hear my inflection
from this typeface
and condensed pre-packaged mind-space?
i feel like i'm speaking,
but feedback is empty and misplaced
only muttered out by thoughtless mistake.
well once i pin me down
ill stick you beside,
and we can melt into cork board
a collage of disintegrated insides.
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 9:13 PM UTC
8AM strikes like a *****
And romping the losing street -
The engineered reptile stalks the hound we are.
The soldiered army, oozing molten pride,
Spike me in the side with their knees
Lifted to caution, so-so below the chin
The cold, dead breath bullies like a child
Never been taught, never have they ought;
I give them pity like spit, the drool reared.
The glands of my sodden state are nucleic
They spark and fizz and pop at the slightest fix
And they mount the green turf as they say the things they say
They say them in spite
Their eyes to register a flat-line, the pulse of my eyelid
Froths staring into their granite granules, you call them eyes
I do despise, I do despise,
The heartless range of those hunter-deers,
The wet pathos that criminals invoke
And then, I woke, the rage, the rage!
A mountainous affair, cracked into your skin
You wished I were dead so you could be thin.
And when I am not hot,
Risen, aired by the microwaved Monday dawning,
I can almost laugh about the spaces between your eyes
The slight disgust, the frozen musk
Awns over me, little fist tight of pink
Ears rabbited off -- a sharp, twisted empale
And then, you are there--
Frozen and dominating, your coffin spooks to me
A spoken longing and then all we know wilts
A running red cloak of tartan regrets
Jades the illicit wail bespoken after the instrumental twist
The torture device you call your words is broken out
I ask for one thing, beg for it, screech it
To the solars like I am owed.
Knowing Death, if not heed, the spited greed--
Give me strength, for the thoughts
The thoughts, that blow through me
Windswept, gliding the dead human ash through my marsh
Do not upturn the limped greyed grass
And blow through, a harmless storm,
With nothing to say about how I carry my day.
Move on to your homeward-bound, your
Concentration plantation, reeling off dead spinners
Like your words, your cold ******* words.
You slimy ******* you ****
I have spoken, one million syllables,
For your satisfaction.
You lord it over me like a raw-meat hand
Of the disciples. Well, well, Judas, Judas --
I bite my tongue. I bite it so it jades.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC
Blooming with happiness
The sun stroked and I smiled
The park adventurous and prided
The grass was soaked with dew
The wasp befriended my notepad
My face was pretty for you
Hands in my pockets as I waved a dog
A shy hide away in the open space
A French book on my minds fence
.............je veux la paix...................
A bench with grounded families
Young hobbits playing ball
Young couples indulging thigh on thigh
The romping poodle and German shepherd
The pond with the calm natured ducks
Underage puffs of clouded cigarette fumes
My awakened spirit opened it's legs
It flew to the overwhelmed senses of hope
.............je veux la paix......................
A scoff of falafel parcels and fizzy muscles
The stalker sat on the aligned bench
A season to figure out what life is
A strange woman on the bike in amusement
The Portuguese cafe full of beautiful souls
The world revolved with a cleansed sheen
An Eastern Europe parade of basketball novices
A melodious day that though of you babe
.............je veux la paix......................
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 5:31 PM UTC
With a whistle the beeper shrieks 6:45
once a day every day all today
blaring, beeping, beating
Stop! Breathe.
Steaming water hisses into the house
weighed down by romping kids
grabbing, grasping, gathering
always on the go.
I smother my day with febreeze,
and mix, stir, boil my life into simplicity
choking, gasping, breathing
Stop.
Breathe.
Go.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 1:37 PM UTC
It didn’t really happen. I was awkward,
a sloppy crocheting of clumsy hands.
I was scared of my body; or maybe,
I was scared of her body. Foreign,
but bright from the veil of curtains
slighting a late spring light. I kissed
like a maniac, but when it came down
to the business of pleasure, I could not
make a transaction. She later told me
I could have gone on longer
than my half-a-minute slow grind before
I chickened out. Even now, after
my fifth major relationship and plenty
of romping and dancing atop mattresses
mine and not mine, I feel my first ****
is how I approach love. Tentative,
too contemplative, and none-so-bold.
Perhaps it is because I learned early,
to hate myself, this body that is still
so new to me: twenty-five years owned
and I still don’t know how to love myself.
I just hope that one day, I will be that light
streaming into the room, touching everything
around it, feeling with tender warmth
the goodness of what soon hinders its path
casting shadows behind what I come to kiss.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 9:08 AM UTC
Falling with shoe laces undone,
Only whispers, the quietness amidst grandiosity, majesty life beyond me
The tragedy is, I am melancholy, the family
Who don't know quiet, they judge often, they
Need control over each other, competition is so powerful
No silence, so love cannot grow, it is cheapened by talk, talking, exhchange, The children crave approval
The parents crave limitless pride,
Everyone is disappointed, the gift merits more control
The mountain is not of character, rather it is God, only understood
Amidst the silence
I can feel the poem in my forehead
Stop editing, pull it out of you
Ermine dire Sanctus, Jesus burning in cackling solidarity tainted , save me, I surrender, take it, tear off the sarcasm, show me your light, your beauty
Too intense for the public, only known in silence, the majesty of great nature, the objective world, the spirit of chaos, ******** and spitting, unwrapping, giggling, ******* ******* sizing, ughhh putrid ugly hierarchical idiocy act, urching and lurching felt so secretly, brutality, eating its way out of the stocking, crispy toffee, Buddhist books that will never be read, shaving kids, raging! Hurting, false gratitude, let it out! Romping, stomping, groping for lustrous pious godless lurch, ****** through my pallet, based on experience, wreaking, cleansing
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 9:46 AM UTC
round and about discovering
the hidden mosses and evergreen
mosses lichens
down on all fours recovering
the bides of soft scenes seen
tosses like soils moist
brown and rich recalling
the times of a youthful dreaming
spent
discovering the
doe romping fertile in her young
youthful nature growing
seeds sowing
this
remembering.
Oct 15, 2014
Oct 15, 2014 at 12:48 AM UTC
I grew from this earth,
green as a sprout,
to grow and grow and
touch the sky with
my puny shoulders.
I do as the Sun above
commands of me,
to keep stretching and
bending my spine,
arching my back to
its plans for
my overarching canopy.
They wish for me to
lie beneath them,
absorb their every
ray and word,
to believe fully and totally
in only them.
However,
these Suns do not shine
quite bright enough
and my nourishment
supplements itself.
I help myself to grow,
to bear the responsibility above
that I can never handle;
far too much to handle.
They don't know that
I am so tired,
so sick and weak
deep, deep, deep
down in my roots.
I haven't slept
in years,
years and years of
open eyed nights,
empty thoughts and
alternative music
to fuel and feed my
roots and trunk.
This could never suffice,
as only the Sun may
lift up the heavens,
may hold the sky aloft and
force the clouds to dance,
sending glittery raindrops
down towards me,
sweat running wet from
the pores of the wild
storm fronts.
I am too weak to handle
their high heeled kicking,
heavy foot stomping,
black cloud romping around;
I'm too far down,
down, down on the ground,
covered by dirt and
having only grown
a quarterway up.
It won't work,
honestly;
I can't be who you
wanted.
After all,
such small shoulders
could never hold
such large sky.
Aug 12, 2011
Aug 12, 2011 at 12:06 AM UTC
Chiming a dream by the way
With ocean's rapture and roar,
I met a maiden to-day
Walking alone on the shore:
Walking in maiden wise,
Modest and kind and fair,
The freshness of spring in her eyes
And the fulness of spring in her hair.
Cloud-shadow and scudding sun-burst
Were swift on the floor of the sea,
And a mad wind was romping its worst,
But what was their magic to me?
Or the charm of the midsummer skies?
I only saw she was there,
A dream of the sea in her eyes
And the kiss of the sea in her hair.
I watched her vanish in space;
She came where I walked no more;
But something had passed of her grace
To the spell of the wave and the shore;
And now, as the glad stars rise,
She comes to me, rosy and rare,
The delight of the wind in her eyes
And the hand of the wind in her hair.
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