Giddily Poems | Examples

Letter from a Wishful Lover - Feb 22

To let my wanton gaze go wandering
And graze giddily your saintly silhouette,
With wonder watching you and pondering 
What wild pensées through my fancy pirouette;

To glimpse a glimmer gleaming from your gloss,
A sparkle shining gaily on your smile,
To steal the lipstick from your lips, to toss
Your weight my way, a soirée worth your while;

To feel a frisson flitter through your skin,
With luster shivering between our senses,
And see your face flush scarlet, our shade of sin, 
All this I long for and lust, in secret glances;

So with my pen I wink at you, pining 
For your sweet permission. And now signing,

X

Felix Felicis

Golden drops leapt from the pot
A mist of thyme from amber swirls
Behold! Fortune's favour made to clot

Giddily, I imbibe the gleaming pearls 
Reaping blessings from Lady Luck
The limits break, the sky unfurls

Dancing to the beats of the shimmering drug
Gone is the fear of impossibilities
Lightning-powered, I'm thunderstruck 

Now standing in the land of opportunities
Leading passions into their full fruition
I relish in my newfound indomitability

But bottled luck don't bring true discernment
As the magic fades, so do fate's directions

Family

A desire, a wish, a simple dream—
Of us together, laughing giddily,
At Dad's oh-so-lame PJs,
At Mom's sweet little complaints,
At Bhai's sharp, witty comments,
And my endless fussing over them.

I yearn for this tender, tiny wish:
To laugh with them, carefree and blissed

The Wuthering

The high moors slant giddily over gritstone edges
where torrents overflow gallons of sky.
Grouse are blown sideways
by a bone-twisting gale.

The land is harried by fishtailing winds,
a sparse tufted earth blown beyond its roots.

In the valley, cats crouch; dogs snap the air
their barks as full as storm-drains.
Torrid echo’s outrun stampeding frights.

In the village pub,
locals move away from the smoke grimed
rattling windows,
gather around a coal fire in the taproom,
speak about past storms, compare and contrast.

Street sparrows survive
by doing what they always do,
though nobody knows how, what or where.

A Very English Poem

The daffodils are never flattened by tornados,
the little lambs always enjoy a pleasant Spring,
and oft they giddily gambol.
The sun is not too warm nor cool,
the sky steadfastly blue.

Wordsworth took a walk
and wrote yet another pleasing poem
regarding the green grass and
softly rolling emerald hills -
no mention of rainstorms
or hurricanes.

In America, we read
of such pleasant,
pastoral perfections,
but most,
sensibly,
refuse to believe them.

Sunday'z Testimony

.

         'tiz the way my blushes
              when the coffee
               wantonz mine
                    tongue

                   cauze'n    
                 mine mawz
            respond with kind
                 
                    giddily

A Very English River

This woodland stream could be a small English river,
it dibbles and dabbles, it meanders, and has the air
of an old water way, one that never saw the need
to rush or gush.

The small ripples pace themselves; a sepia rivulet
that tugs at a nutrient silt, carrying it down gently
to green pastures.
In autumn the fallen leaves add ocher flotillas
that sail into valley mists, never to return.

April showers refresh the brook,
it waltzes between tufted hillocks,
glides almost giddily between sky and earth.

If the path of the water flow has a name
it is known only to grazing cattle,
that drink of it,
and the meadow lark
that hovers high above the little beck
to sing of its native wandering ways.

Breakdown

the news breaks
the world breaks down
the sky screams savagely
the war dogs maul mercilessly
the raging rubble bounces bitterly 
the apocalyptic horses gallop giddily
the rotten roof caves in catastrophically

Grandson Gabble

Chit chattering so happily, in babyish first conversations,
Like treetop little birdies, sharing emerald observations,
Burbling giddily and gaily, as golden moments evanesce,
Tattling like garden beauty secrets, in the feverish press!

Jabbering enthusiastic jollity, in the success of noon sun,
Rumors of glad gibberish, as droning bees in gilt sudden,
Joyful, twittering chit-chat, at back fence of my gladness,
Gossiping with fascinated grandma, on a summer canvas.

The Wuthering

Torrents overflow a rocking sky.
The high moors slant giddily over gritstone edges
dark are the claws of calamity.

Small birds are blown sideways into scant
bone-twisted trees, crooked branches spear each other.

The land is harried by low and high fishtailing winds,
the tufted earth blown beyond its roots.

In the valley, village cats crouch; dogs snap the air
their mouths as full as storm-drains.

A banshee wails in our hearts
while we listen to its silent screams.

We are nothing but torrid echo’s run through
by stampeding feather-light frights,

guttering lights that seek a less bruising way
to escape grip of this blustering day.

In the Stillness of the Night

In the stillness of the night
when the world is asleep
and the place is at peace,
I bask giddily in quiet solitude.

Nothing’s quite like it. Feeling as light as a kite.
No noise or burden on me creep.
Only the still voice from within that I welcome with ease.
I relax with a positive attitude.

No room for thoughts that fill with fright.
No time for emotions that'll drown me deep.
Shutting those out, I take in and release 
Only what's good for mankind. I'll rise and reach new altitudes.

I turn on my happy glowing light.
Its rays into my soul seep.
I smile at man's ingenuity such as this.
I'm filled with hope and immense gratitude.

Thinking of what I can add to make the world happy and bright
Something to treasure and to keep.
I’ll create a nice, uplifting piece.
I wonder at all of mankind's expressive aptitudes.

What beacons of hope can I ignite?
Make doubtful minds and sad hearts leap.
Make negativity and hate cease.
Inspire creativity and world peace.

I’ll use the stillness of the dark to inspire and not incite.
I’ll share with love and enlighten multitudes.

Free Range Verse

Let them run free
these words
seeking escape
giddily chattering
scritch-scritch-scritching 
in the idle emptiness
of a clear space
struggling for recognition
in a close order inspection
wary of the controls
of punctuation’s interruptions

Free them
Lest some “rooster” crow
“tain’t right”
They should sit
these words
in clustered pens
unheard unread unspoken
but for one
who marks his passing
with a trail of Free Range Verse

John g. Lawless
©1/25/2022

Painting Love

How many images can I paint more
than I’ve already done? Like nights moon-lit
or meadow-dancing? You - whom I adore -
in every love scene - you’re the star of it. 
The many colors! Oh, each brilliant hue.
I splashed them giddily when we shared bliss.
I’ve given sunsets, snow and spring to you -
Sweet passion’s words for you, Dear, and a kiss
I’ve always left down on the corner of
each canvas in our life, for there’s no me
without you, and there’s nothing but our love
to get us through, and sometimes tragedy
I’ve painted too – deep ocean’s blue – yet still,
I’ll paint you always lovely with my quill.

We Are In North Dakota

We are in North Dakota, on Highway 94, and we spy Salem Sue
She is standing thirty-eight foot tall, and the sky is relatively blue.
We are thrilled to see her, standing there, in her dairy cow clothes.
She makes us feel optimistic, that things will get better, as everyone knows.

Fargo Theater, ninety-years on March 18th shut temporarily down.
We were disappointed to find this out. It gave us a bit of a frown.
For I had been counting on it but then I spy the badlands up ahead.
Painted in lovely beiges and pinks, they are so poetically wed.

I received a buffalo nickel at gift store, and that made me feel good too.
In North Dakota these pretty souvenirs are generously given to you.
I spy a meadowlark, and remember that this s North Dakota’s state bird.
Drive many miles without seeing another car, seems kind of absurd.

Painted Canyon in Roosevelt’s National Park cannot be missed.
A dainty wild prairie rose gives impression she has been kissed.
Buffalo and cowboys we see  and we happily giddily point out.
Yes North Dakota is the place to be. So consider this my shout out.

Goblins Grin At Grandchildren's Grumpiness

Glitzy gypsy magic, gathering gooseberries, giggling giddily, 
Gallon buckets gladly gobbling up gooseberries in grandiose style
Gorgeous ghostly golden goblins, giving the greenlight,
For grandmother garden’s grabbing gooseberry gala.

Galloping green grasshoppers generating groans.
As grimy, grubby, grainy, grasshoppers gleefully land on arms.
Goblins grin at grandchildren’s grumpy, griping and grousing.
Which will stop the second they gulp Grandma’s gooseberry cobbler!

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