Back from China when Trump feels all but bust,
‘Lousy jet lag, would my body adjust?’
Yes sir, it no doubt will,
His yes men did so feel,
‘And confidence? Would it regain old trust?’
So saying, deep he sank
Unto desk feeling lank…
His MAGA dream gathering further rust.
______________________________
Happenings | 18.05.2026 | America, humour, political, Limerick
Nail walking down the street
Carrying a bagful to fix something
For the master who owns my dreaming
Storefronts lolling sidewalks asleep
Night quiet jazz, Erie, PA
The endless road breaking cartons
Locked doors being kidnapped jumping
fences getting spotted running away
Dreaming snatches of words in the air
Fine milky jazz boots on a roll a train
That passes at 10 a,m, cars with their vapor
Mist the chuga-chuga sound of a boxcar to
No-where the rattling of walls when you are
Alone hot tea Lorrianne in a skirt a poetry
Reading in N.Y. moving out with only the
Shirt on my back going down,back,out, taking
Chris to the mermaid bar covered in sand, no shoes
Living nearby close to the sea, changing
Having enough cool to chill sand enough to scratch
That you never itch life that you're full
Digging the Diz and jack going, back going, back going
Because you want to/needing nothing' nothing but a little
Taste now and again just being free doing it instead of it
doing you
The night before Christmas my 6-year-old grandson was elated,
for he knew Santa would bring him bagful of gorgeous gifts
and he would come at night alighting through the chimney.
So, if there was one in the new house he wanted to see.
He ran upstairs to look at the roof top, but couldn't find one,
in tears, he said Santa's visit his fate had surely undone.
I assured, Santa would come through the window of his room
that he kept wide open to the freezing wind blowing at night.
At morn, seeing all the gifts by his side he tried to shout in joy,
but his voice was choked, gripped by the biting bout of cold.
_______________
Zaahid sharaab peene de masjid mei baith kar,
Yaa vo jagah bataade jahaañ par khudaa na ho.
Priest, let me sit in a mosque with my pint,
Or show me a place without His footprint.
- Ghalib (1797-1869)
_____________________________
If you think you’re discreet on drink,
O my foolish mind, think
And show me just a single thing
Not intoxicating.
Everything has bagful of life,
Packing punch sharp as knife.
So should ye wish to celebrate
The festival of existence,
Each place fit for party,
As festive is every instance.
__________________
Reflections |26.12.2024|life, God, drink
dawn’s
cheery
red cherries
by the bagful
cheek by jowl they munch
dangling the stem, spitting
out crunchy seeds (tooth breakers)
channelling the healing power
chalking up juicy rufescent bites
at dusk, couple’s cheering cerise cabernet
They spent many happy years of married life,
hard of hearing he heard the shout of his wife.
She once told buy potato,
he bought bagful tomato,
found himself sunk in the sizzling soup of strife.
Even if Angels you lead,
Easily reaching your bead,
God's commandments always heed,
On the clear begging need,
To join the sowers of seed,
You keeping His Decreed Creed;
To the Church all your lands cede,
Steering clear of Stark Greed
And - yep - never tasting weed,
It is still sinful enough
That you walk around with snuff
Ordering A Bold bagful
And snuffing time a fistful...
Smiles from snuff not for Heaven,
The sneezes more than seven;
From snuff unnecessary tears
While things are just fine, no fears
We roamed the village in our masks -
a store-bought 1960’s plastic with string.
To trick and treat for candy, our task.
The bagful, we’d try to eat the whole thing.
We roam the village, as Dad hands out candy,
but soon runs out thus shutting out the light.
There is mischief night, its modus operandi -
four letter words scrawled on the door - a slight.
Door to door, most give hand-out of sweets
but one is pointed out - it is pitch dark
“They don’t celebrate.” A curiosity I greet.
God knows my path - there is a spark.
The Halloween parade was a hit with cider
and donuts - my dad reminds me …
but I remember the thankless graffiti spider
and the Holy Spirit fire that set me free.
10/25/2022
If you come to my occasion
Maybe birthday or dedication
You'll be to me like a red rag to a bull
Asking for rice knowing the price of a bagful
Our common and daily food
Is becoming an august food
Either our leaders aren't aware
Or they just don't care
This continuous bulging in the price of rice
Coming from a government thought will be super-nice
Is nothing but a rape of hope
Pushing the masses to where they'll never be able to cope
With the lamentation of those who market rice in bagful(s)
And the masses that don't have their pocketful
We don't need a teacher to tell us that the situation has become rotten
Yet they want to make the rotten situation golden
Those who failed to achieve their pocketful of promises
See this rottenness as golden to make many more promises
Our situation is either feast or famine
Which we all need to examine
The rapes and the ravages are too many
that make us pickle
While the precautions are too little that make us tingle
In their timetable they've made it turn by turn
It's left for us to learn or continue to yearn
My beautiful spring fresh flowers,
Budding after a rain showers.
Pretty butterflies are flying,
Flower to flower are spying.
The fountain was filled with water,
Did I see a swimming otter.
All the tall green weeds I must pull,
Now I have another bagful.
I am so tried and very hot,
All flowers are out of each pot.
Time to rest with a cup of tea,
Watch out here comes a yellow bee.
Date Written: 3/1/2022
Soup Syllable Count~All 8'ssss
Honorable Mention
A poem lovely as a Contest Judged: 3/4/2022
Sponsored by: Margarita Lillico
There's a shop down the street
where all the school kids meet;
a shop of wonders and delight
all wrapped up in one big bite
Step inside this tasty paradise,
take a bite of fudge, take another slice;
jars full of gobstoppers and pear drops,
and in the freezer icicle pops.
Exploding mouths full of tingling space dust,
an amazing taste and a sugar rush;
cola bottles, flying saucers, and lemon sherbets
white chocolate mice, drumsticks, and candy cigarettes.
Spending pocket money every day
not worrying about tooth decay;
a bagful of happiness just for a penny,
keeping close to the chest, not sharing any.
Time to go home and enjoy the feast,
just for a few minutes at least;
until tomorrow after school
to the shop we all thought was cool.
I walked out to see my garden's beauty
Looking for vibrant colors to see
But before I could look he was all over me
Stung fourteen times by an angry bee
I was looking at a butterfly fluttering by
But a Blue Jay snatched it out of the sky
I transplanted a couple of ferns nearer to me
That turned out to be poison ivy
I stopped at some sweet blossoms to smell
But the mosquitos and chiggers were biting like hell
I also set out some vegetable plants
Soon they were carried away by the ants
I had a bagful of promising seeds
But what came up were aggressive weeds
Then I noticed a bunch of holes
Seems now my garden hosts a colony of moles
I won't let this garden get the better of me
It's now a great beauty for all to see
My new garden is quite fantastic
For now it's all made of plastic
Petal, buds, blossoms, bees, birds, butterflies! Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
07/28/20
In my remote village a long time ago
From town came a man of twenty or so
Set up a smart machine called gristmill
Times have changed but it’s there still.
Every weekend I had to go there to share
A duty that for me became a routine affair
Take a bagful of fresh wheat grain to grind
In the mill that produced flour so refined.
The sound of the crusher was harsh incessant
The attitude of the man was equally indecent
For he made me wait a long while for my turn
The unseemly reason I could never discern.
Despite this touch of forced discomfort
My weekly tryst with the gristmill was of worth
For the floating aroma of freshly ground wheat
Dipped me in cool scent of corn field in summer heat.
When I’m crumbled now under the time’s wheel
I see me standing before the village gristmill
In the midst of cacophony and grinding strife
I can still smell the scent of the crushed life.
Posted : June 3, 2018
June 18, 2020
Contest : Crushed
Sponsor : Anthony Biaanco
The Weight of Education
School bag
Backs sag
Heavy heart
Suitcase
Warped face
Outdated
Old bag
Rats nag
The Friendly Postman
Mailbag
Tails wag
Aviation Crisis
Handbag
Wrong tag
Trends
Rag bag
So swag
Time Travel
Pack bag
\
...............................
/
Jet lag
Once upon a time
Once upon a time,
there lived kindest of souls;
In the trunk of a tree,
In a palace built within.
Illuminated the tree stood tall,
its fluorescence dripping in darkness;
As the sky pulled a black sheet,
sun calmly descended down the hills.
Thoughts rode on swift horses,
and travelled through the night sky;
Souls afloat amongst twinkling stars,
bathed in serene moonlit night.
With bagful of glittering gifts,
Fairies with a magic wand;
Granted all wishes and turned dreams true,
To unveil mysteries, heavens beyond.
As the morning sun rose,
desires returned and rested;
Embed deep in the hearts,
Once upon a time.
Written Feb 9th, 2017
For contest by Eve
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