A stranger among reams of proposals
the original thought bided its time
Counting sheep while very much awake
the sheep eventually sheared
As the thought turned inward
not the least bit frantic
In search of meaning
where none might be found
The not so silent,
Frantics on the march.
Hovering over,
Waiting to pounce.
Because we forgot what life is all about.
Sending force full screams,
Too move people out.
Makes room for many more,
Who pay too land on our greener shores.
Not enough room?
Not enough work?
Not enough,
To share with everyone?
Who chooses,
Which will be the lucky ones?
Only the same,
As what we see.
Too much money,
Addicted to power.
Continues to look.
For people that are the same color.
Views their persecutions,
Are better than honey.
The bees don't agree,
Continue to die off.
At least they are free!
There’s a lot of heat when all eight
of us suitemates are together.
I might have mentioned it somewhere.
We’re like surround sound,
or eight car alarms going off together,
it’s jabberwocky by an established team.
It can get frantic and frightening
for the uninitiated or inhibited.
Some of us are pretty boy-crazy
and there’s a mix-in of twinkling girl-crazy too.
We’re basey, bugzee, spaceheads and freaks,
yeah, we're the whole emotional spice rack.
“She’s a good person to kill time with,”
is pretty high praise around here
because we have so little free time.
But these are good people to kill time with.
And they’re portable, we travel, we invade,
we’re crazy young women who’ve got it made.
So if you’re coming at us, trying to enter our enclave,
you better be brave or a situational upgrade.
.
.
Songs for this:
No New Friends (feat. Sia, Diplo & Labrinth) by LSD
Lysergic Bliss by of Montreal
Freedom Is Free by Chicano Batman
.
.
slang…
basey = a cool loser, nice but a bit odd, a weirdo with style
bugzee = slightly crazy
spaceheads = people who talk about weird things
.
.
Webster: Jabberwocky = meaningless speech or communication.
Chaos reigns, oh, such a sight,
Kids are screaming, parents feuding fight.
Turkey is spoiled, oven's on strike,
Lightning struck, there's no light.
The Bliss is so forlorn
The Bliss is so forlorn
The dog pissed on the presents
One of many such awful events
The cat's stuck to the star
Its fur has begun to char
The night of hell is born
The night of hell is born
Tommy was chased, the table felled
All the food scattered expelled
The entrees landed in Granny's lap
Just when she was taking a nap.
Silent Night is torn to scorn!
Silent Night is torn to scorn!
Still the tree lights twinkle
A glitter of joy a sprinkle
Despite the wrinkle and crinkle,
I hear Kris Kringle's tinkle
Frantic Night, Chaotic Night!
Frantic Night, Chaotic Night!
The wind howled like a banshee, through the trees it did moan,
As rain lashed against the window, a rhythm all its own.
Inside, a heart was breaking, a soul was filled with dread,
Frantic tears streamed down her face, for hope had long since fled.
Her lover, gone, a sailor lost, upon the raging sea,
His ship, a shattered memory, a phantom in the spree.
She clutched a faded locket, his picture worn and thin,
And whispered words of longing, a love that couldn't win.
The fire crackled softly, a flickering, dying light,
Reflecting in her tear-streaked face, a sorrow, dark as night.
Each gust of wind, a mournful cry, each raindrop, a despair,
A symphony of heartbreak, a burden she couldn't bear.
She paced the lonely chamber, a shadow in the gloom,
Her thoughts like tangled seaweed, lost in the ocean's tomb.
Her voice, a broken whisper, a plea to the unknown,
'Come back to me, my love, come back, and be my own.'
The night wore on, the storm abated, the dawn began to break,
But in her heart, the darkness lingered, a wound that wouldn't shake.
For though the storm had passed, the sea remained her foe,
And in her frantic tears, a love she'd never let go.
Let me fall asleep
The North wind is fanning me
Grip my soul too deep.
In caves prehistoric
Static from minds ecstatic
Lively from minds elastic
Passion from minds romantic
Impression from minds pedantic
Bizarre from minds frantic
From Cro-Magnon to Warhol’s antics
Art pleas images and not semantics.
The thread between him and me feel synthetic,
As he weaves its fabric with rush,
As he makes frantic efforts to chop the distance off,
As his desperate hands tighten the clasp,
He craves and drools over the smoothness of my skin,
My raw body feels it's pressure,
Bruising tender arms and muscles
I wake up to deep scars and marks,
And wonder to myself if that's what love is all about?
Every time I try to remember-
A new memory is formed from the old one.
As if the past is made up of possibilities.
But the past is stable.
It is me that is not.
Or so they say.
Sometimes, I feel like I am being floored by revelations.
Revelations so simple-
But everyone else is trying to trick me!
By asking their questions.
By complicating things…
The rumors are all connected!
I can see it now.
They are trying to distract me with rumors now…
They are trying to make me forget the revelations!
I guess it is night again.
Or so they say.
Or maybe they are trying to trick me into sleeping.
Because sleeping is destruction.
Foxy Frisky Feline Forecaster Frantic Fay
Wished good weather would come their way
Saying stiff swishy, sadly serious storms will stay.
She was booed out of the newsroom and far away.
They are frantic
These women who have to decorate for holidays
I am too busy painting to notice
They are getting crabby
For they have back aches and neck aches.
I bother myself in no way.
My husband is a gatherer,
he can gather his own meals.
I sit and paint, until I have my own back ache and neck ache
I take a nap, feeling no guilt
it is my vacation, and I plan to keep myself calm
Not crabby or frantic.
Suddenly I realize I am painting in a frenzy.
Maybe I am as frantic as all the others.
Hmmmmm
Am Frantic with Another Antic
have become frantic
there was another antic
possibly panic
Cut somebody some slack,
No critical attack.
cliff erosion hurtling down kids play unaware - frantic shovels dig
Written 3rd March 2019
Contest Name: A SCRAPING OF SHOVELS
Sponsor: John Lawless
Contest: Week 3 March 19
Sponsor: Brian Strand
News Said Trump Was Frantic
Trump is fool who they found to be frantic,
Definately in mode containing much panic;
Sense no grain;
Without brain;
No bells in belfry and empty has been attic.
Jim Horn
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