Lolls Poems | Examples

The Widdler

A knife lie in her bed, her hand rests atop the hilt.

The satin maple bed frame lie bare beneath her fingers,

And the aliferous knife lie skin warm in the cradle of her hand.

A pile of gossamer shavings grow on her sheets,

Surrounded by splinters near her pillow-
concealed by soft down.

She awaits the conception of a fish,
Sat in the pillar of her crib.

She pictures she’s an old wiseman, with an Appalachian drawl 
Widdleing on his back porch- rocking on a pine chair 

The bones of her fish turn crimson-
A red herring 
The laceration in her thumb lolls a bright serum

She was stopped by worry, but then she recalled-
That’s what the knife was for anyways

The Flasher

He calls me over from the park bench:
"Wanna see something kid"?

It lolls from his open fly
partly erect.
As I stare, it rears
as if to threaten the entire city
with a bold cyclopean gaze. A monster
only Superman (my alter-ego),
could battle against.

"I’m telling mum", I fling over my shoulder,
as I run,
my heroic-powers forgotten.

Behind me -
a villain's brazen laugh.

In front of me –
a troubled puberty.

I Belong to Beautiful

A glistening sun-baked day
Blue sky reverberates into deeper blue
Light shimmers in pixels 
A yellow butterfly flutters against the petals of a flower,
Like a piece of paper caught in a breeze,
It lilts and lolls and lifts lazily
A dog shifts on the cool concrete floor
Stretches legs and rolls over murmuring
On the edge of the shady bird bath, 
A Cape robin pauses, flashing eyes, a red breast
Then it dives in, wings whirling like windmills as it sings sweetly to the silence of a summer day
I watch from the stoep as life eases and settles into a rhythm of peace, 
Slowly unfurling:
An African day winds down, seamlessly
And I feel the solace of true belonging
Not the myth, not the stories
Just the letting go of all it's pieces.

Nothing to See Here

An animal control officer
tugs a pit-bull out of a backyard.
It is snagged on a long pole.

The animal is eager to cooperate,
its large head lolls passively.
Crows foreshadow in a nearby tree.

Few die secretly,
there is always a viewing
conducted by strangers.
The officer and the pit-bull
seem to know this,
neither look at the crows.

In the road a closed body bag.
I watch the scene
as if I were just an open mouth.

Returning to my car,
I think:
If I don't look back,
nobody dies.

Twilight

"There is only one day left, always starting over: it is given to us at dawn 
and taken away from us at dusk." ~ Jean-Paul Sartre
 
It’s a twilight time
and a veil of serenity
descends over the earth, 
the sun lolls momentarily 
upon the calm waters
of a sluggish sea.

Vistas of sylvan charm 
seemed to open ahead and 
a somnolent dusk pervades
every aspect of this weary world…
 
like a man on his deathbed
finally rests at peace with himself—
All his sins confessed and forgiven 
and is now free from all concerns.

Moonlight Mojo

At the time of ethereal elegance of twilight,
Whenever a voluptuous moon
lolls low on a silvery serene sea
and gilds the canopy of trees,
the hilltops, the meandering streams
and the languorously reclining lakes.

My muse appears to me 
from nowhere like a dream,
Like a flash of inspiration 
to a muddled mind and
evokes moods of mystical ecstasy.

She glides gracefully towards me 
like an elusive wreath of smoke
and gathers me in her embrace
like a silken robe 
hovering around me 
like a whiff of fragrance.

She appears as a stirring
source of fantasy and vision,
Like the magnificent Northern lights
displaying luminous draperies
on a star-spangled polar nights,
Like a spectacular rainbow burst
after an intense shower
Like a shooting star
Like a blessed apparition;

I take her, as one would,
a reluctant bride
with gentle persuasion 
and resilient arms.
 

~Contest: My Muse
~Sponsor: Regina McIntosh

Sunbursts

A wintry sun
blinks in and out.
A clock shaped like a sunburst
tic-toc's late,
Saturday lolls in grungy time zones.

Out in the hurrying scurry
dragging half a poem around
head down inside a thought.

Menace barks
behind a chicken-wire fence.

Mind is somewhere on a green hill
semaphoring ideas
to frontal lobes and other matters.
Words come together on a parade-ground.

Pitbull's fall silent
pondering news
broadcast from windblown
graffiti.

The sun tics an eye
then bursts out of sight,
later a flat laptop
will open its mouth to speak.

Ocean Crystal

Of fathoms far below the surface of time
Crystalline white on the surf you roll ‘n slide
Enduring realms, onyx-deep, where pressures climb,
a glittering dust astride current ‘n tide
Navy lolls where you’re the star in sapphire’s prime
Close to shallows, on aquamarine you glide
Resplendent diamond sparkling on sunny seas
Your quartzy pinks salt a Himalayan breeze!

(9/9/2022)

Evil Willie

He calls me over to the park bench:
Wanna see something?

It lolls from his open fly
partly erect. The dark ,
almost silvery in its salt and pepper
rookery.

Your willies come out Mr.!

As I stare, it rears
as if to threaten the entire city
with a bold cyclopean gaze.  A monster
only Superman (my other half),
could battle against.

I’m telling mum, I fling over my shoulder,
as I run,
all my heroic-powers gone.

Skiff In a Low Place

The hull lolls,
anchored to a fouling current.
Juggernauts of heat sleep under a leaden sky,
bugs lurch and slow skirt.
I nod over my spine, afloat on a humming haze.
An osprey jumps out of a high ambit,
swooping fast.
I imagine a wind in the wake of its wings.
The bird dives, cleaves the light, arrow bright
parting the weight of these doldrums.
The wallowing skiff seems to shrug off the heavy air
as talons scoop up a wriggling fish
together with my up-lifted mind.

Trueheartedness

*Image of Winslow Homer's 'The Gulf Stream' provided by, The Metropolitan Museum of Art

TrueheARTedness
Poetic Form: Rhyme

Neath lolls the abyss, some monster shifts, ontop heaves mammoth swells --
ship wane toy'ishly, rocked side to side, amidst the roaring sea.
Accomplished panoramic art, celebrates the scape by heart,
for Winslow Homer's nature, the American name rings bells.
Faraway, choice views the Monet as none had stood beside it,
yet fate brings on a mystic stare, pupils up close, concoct spells
from a traipsing fool -- a hall waits, Renoir, Matisse, and Cezanne.
Freed eyes vigorous strokes of Van Gogh's refuge, not parallels
since sought asylum was the sanctuary where'd he be free.
Celebrates the scape by heart, accomplished panoramic art,
sparked artist's insights, charm us like coins flickers in wishing wells.

2021 April 24
*8th Place*
A New Abracadabra Poem
~~Emile Pinet: Judged 2021 June 01

Sole Expedition of My Soul Exposition

SOLE EXPEDITION OF MY SOUL EXPOSITION  

Your sole expedition
of my soul exposition:
Day and night falls, 
My thought calls, 
Flushed faced as staring walls,
Vizarded like blinking dolls, 
Frightened fixed eyeballs, 
And my frameless vision,
Was your passionless passion;
Fulfilling your heartbreaking mission; 
Left me motionless, lolls,
The envisioned progress annuls.
You've got the balls
To step in & cause multiple falls
Of my hearten edifice,
Wreck it all to my greatest surprise,
Breached my barrier with such guts, 
your balm was my hurt,
Now I am left strut,
Alone, devoured and stuck 
To sit here in huge shock 
As you walk the solitary walk. 

Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright© 28th December, 2020. 
#OnTheSpotPoetry #inspirationbymuse

Sole Expedition

SOLE EXPEDITION

Night falls,
Thought calls,
Staring walls
like blinking dolls,
Fixed eyeballs,
Frameless vision
but ageless mission;
Motionless, lolls,
Progress annuls,
Full empty halls,
Alone & stuck
to walk
the solitary walk.

VickWizzy
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright © 13th May, 2020.

Watching

An animal control officer
tugs a pit-bull out of a backyard.
It is snagged on a long pole.

The animal is eager to cooperate,
its large head lolls passively.
Crows foreshadow in a nearby tree.
 
Few die secretly,
there is always a viewing
conducted by strangers.
The officer and the pit-bull
seem to know this,
neither look at the crows.

In the road a closed body bag.
I watch the scene
as if I were an open mouth.

Returning to my car,
I think:
If I don't look back,
nobody dies.

Rapture

Fox frisks snow 
with seeking whiskers,

finds a waft of her
on frozen winds.

There! There in the moonlight,
his hearts delight!
Fox sniffs, snuffles,
snares the sweetness,
follows her warmth.

In he goes, first nose
then his whole lusty heart.

Lord of the coop,
he lolls his tongue inside her, 
dances. makes love
to the plumed plumpness,
to the surrendering blood. His play,
does not stop
until the goodness fills him.

Pelt slick with grace,
he stands panting among
the feathers.

Then dog-fox trots away
to praise this world,
and laydown
under a sweetheart moon.

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