Give me but some music
- in heavens empty hours -
a piece of song, giddy-paced
and innocence for innocence
I’m a horse that never tires
While a cup of wine
makes light airs
and merry hearts
It too can unyoke the humour of the immature,
“So, wait, you think if you say a few right things
I’ll let you on it?”
Ha! No I won’t
you weak spirit
I see right through you
Oh, I’m not lily-white of hue,
I’m more the colour of blood red roses
But that one there, *pointing*
he relieves my passion
see this ring?
I frisk for him
.
.
Songs for this:
We'll Sing In the Sunshine by Thornbirds
Landslide (feat. Gwyneth Paltrow) - Glee Cast
Snowbird by Rani Arbo & Daisy Mayhem
This poem bares its teeth: a hyena,
laughter breaking in jagged bursts,
circling the margins,
menace felt in scuffling shadows.
From the dust it stirs,
half-laughter, half-watch,
a shuffle of shadows
breaking into frisk
rising upright: a meerkat,
eyes darting across horizons,
paws quick in sudden scurry,
a hesitant vigil before burrowing.
Between circling and scurry,
menace and play intertwine,
scarfing fragments into chorus
stretching across Savannah plains.
-
I take a little nap
it was accidental
but still wonderful
the dogs are lying on me
so I cannot get up right away
they are delightful
neither has any idea how big they are
my feet are both asleep
but it was worth it
when I can rouse myself,
they go outside to romp and frisk about
I am a lot slower, but refreshed
a little nap on the couch
is something I look forward to
now that I am finally retired.
Am I light or dispersed star
Scatter or straight to all earthly uneven
Whether the stray comet to unfollow
Chaos or chord to sundry upheavals
Mortal cry pebbles the enshrined path
Luminious moon guide where gleam
Wise that turn to sightless wanderer
Eternal furnace alloy even those flak
Whip of whims encage all beacons
Noble deeds dacay ,utterly numb
Trying our morale in turbulence of time
Comforts or clutter of needs ,indefinite
Men walk towards golden or grey gates
Surrender in mounting rungs and ropes
Dreams shatters like lifeless dunes
Homeless sands beneath benevolent sun
Arrays of aim pierce like pungent arrows
Win or wane for fit to survive in moor world
Featherless souls in sheer free fall;
Can there be ceaseless outbound fountain?
That fearless and frisk in favors
Solo my spirit sway all silos earth bring
Let mind sleeps sight on alpine snow
The genial breeze to free and glow
Altar the heart with care to unrest
Torch of mankind ablaze with brave
Holy human share blessings that unbent
Wish the nourishing rain to furtile and flow
Generous greats render and row.
Written: October 12, 2023
Cinquain Poetry Contest Sponsored by: Ink Empress
______________________________________________________
Guile gust
I grasp your gasp
goad grafts gently glowing
the gray grove greenery growing
glean grace
Skies Straight
I snared your sight
Schizoid swing of Steward
sewn souls spewing as oxblood stems
stark stance
Wince, wight
I've weaned your whiff
the world-wedged wink was wrapped
while not washing down the wild waft
when whet
Froth flow
your frisk frame flits
follow fall foliage
freshly framed flimsy fruity field
faint flame.
Sand stake
of smog steam sieve
you stride in silence steps
by slamming a skulker-shaped slope
spread string.
You sometimes remember but then forget,
that high fever causes your cheeks to flush;
The softest parts inside remain at risk,
pure happiness is a dangerous bet;
In the midst of that adrenaline rush
now you’re believing that it can exist;
So close to the accord that you deserve
careful that white flag is not an ambush;
Held prisoner subjected to a frisk;
To find someone not thrown off by a curve?
Hard pressed.
Don’t start a game ending in death,
Something there: forfeiture of breath!
Don’t mind Superstar Bruce Lee,
His Game of Death Kung Fu we see.
Next, the player lodged in some heath,
To The Living Death: Living Threat!”
Don’t think of a game marked by risk.
The sort guys start and taste the whisk
“You’re a rogue who’d begun to frisk:
You were breathing fast, your steps brisk!”
Great hopes from games lovers treasure:
Don’t think its pleasure a measure:
You wrongly measure its pleasure,
Games should often be for leisure…
Addressed I have one’s intellect:
A message for it to collect.
It is one hell of a risk
Away The Cops could Stan whisk,
By Jeff's window with a disc
They'll think he's there to things frisk,
Although, slow Stan's moves not brisk...
Stan means recording a rape;
He's gone there, too, with a tape
Any funny noise Clean Escape;
He's learnt to jump like an ape...
But Jeff has got a shot gun;
If he sees Stan, end of fun!
He, sure, shall blow Stan's brains out,
As he thinks of getting out
All gun's cartridges fire,
All idle killers hire!
The idea is damned risky,
Stan suspect of downed whisky.
Amber alerts light up my phone;
tornado warnings jar the mind.
But lately from a source unknown:
a notice of another kind.
There's grave concern for potted meat;
I wonder if they'll stop and frisk.
It really has me curious:
what's up with spam, and what's the risk?
The wave, a distant statement
“trust me, I come in peace”
The handshake, firm and strong
held just a bit too long
the hug, a gentle frisk
to minimize the risk
to those who must decide
to double down or let it ride
John G. Lawless
©11/14/2021
A few yellow leaves, diminutive bless.
The subtle birth of Fall— my eyes impress.
Verdant green—deep visual for my dreams.
The season’s frisk—Jack Frost snips at the seams.
Soon the froth of frisky leaves, everywhere.
The flamboyant tango, showering flair.
And oh…the burning Autumnal passion—
the sizes and shapes, bittersweet fashion.
I forget my bathing suit, bundle up,
vigorously jump into loving cup
of apple cider, pumpkin pie and leaves.
Season’s change, cheeky-warm, with knitted sleeves.
10/6/2021
They fling, frisk and frolic across my mind
one breath two breaths so on so forth
They romp, revel and rollick enshrined
one thought two thoughts so on so forth
They jink, jovial and joyful light as air
one idyll thought after another in my nest
They bounce, beg, behold without a care
perusing in my loft without a quest
They mate, mesh and move into me
one breath two breaths I let them flow
They sit, settle and seduce me their free
empty as a shell I yolk them, then let them go.
September 16, 2021
Sponsor : John Lawless
Contest Name: Idyll Thoughts
Yo ! , there’s an old floppy disk
The tunes in it will make you frisk,
The only thing is you gotta be brisk,
To let the tunes let you have whisk ,
This disk is older than a jubilee,
Listening the tunes will be glee,
You will feel like u wanna flee,
Like a caged bird was set free,
The disk have memories everlasting,
In form of photos, videos all casting,
With moments that were so blasting,
Disk is not only about copy, pasting.
Disks are not only about storage,
It is too precious for a exchange,
If it corrupts it becomes garbage,
And you will face a huge damage.
They ignore the wet cookie of Cardi B
But frisk Dr. Seuss strolling down Mulberry Street.
Burning of books is beyond bad
A Nazi night of broken glass
It's a simple matter of: freedom of Sneetch.
peter stole from paul
kingdom finally did fall
from hill which was tall
seemed to always crow
about things are always slow
going to and fro
much time did devote
so many poems wrote and wrote
about beach with a boat
wrote a eulogy
sinking ship with much debree
from shore we could see
while wild waves would break
hot sun my whole body bake
cool off jumped in lake
want to walk places
will needs shoes with two laces
truth some small traces
we would take a risk
while blowing winds had been brisk
to solve sand did frisk
would speak with a lisp
while wind was cold and crisp
to bathroom took trips
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