Baggie Poems

Oopsie Poopsie

My puppy pooed on my nasty neighbor's lawn 
My neighbor barked at me because of it 
Of course, I picked up the poop with a baggie 
But my neighbor just kept on barking 
I totally understand that accidents do happen 
Oops...I accidentally left the baggie on her porch!

WTC Postman Pat

Another hallowed arrow from his quivers

One of cricket’s greatest shiver givers

Coursing down your spine like rivers

Fine line..never dithers as slivers 

Of adversaries hopes on the ropes..withers

Tipples tickle our livers

The latest tropes of how

Somehow…anyhow won’t kowtow

Postman Pat delivers


Matinee idol looks tease

Record books hooks please

Finds batters crannies & 

Nooks with such ease


Impeccable length…metronomic 

Chin music chagrin

Such strength..astronomic

Gift of getting the ball to lift

Chronic bounce…hedonic


With his swag bag of quicks tricks

Name on the adored hall of fame 

Lords boards with six..another Cummins elite fix

Beat Bob Willis’s record tome of the best 

Test figures for a captain at cricket’s home..


Yep..yet another done like a kipper

By this chipper ripper skipper

Who’s not found wanting

His chiselled jaw..up there for sure 

With the mean hardcore

Ponting or Waugh

As the best Test baggie green

Top draw Captain (not woke...just a better bloke) seen on screen

Or that’s maybe ever been

traveling through my purse

I search my purse for money or credit cards.
Discovering four brochures from September
Receipts from the veterinarian clinic with dog tags
Twelve poem ideas jotted on a red napkin
A used toothpick with gum at the end of it
Four pens that do not write
One pen that writes which I can usually never find in this purse
A blue dog collar
Battered melted peanut butter cup
Sticky roll that has escaped a baggie
House key I do not remember having
Grandchild’s pink and yellow headband
Shot glass, but why? I do not drink.
Two outdated postage stamps
The popped pieces of an orange balloon
Should I clean this fiasco?
No.
I just found my credit cards.

My husband is son of a, Anthology poem

When I ask him, 'Do you really love me'?
He thinks and says, 'Sure I always say 40-love when I play tennis with 
you'.

Whenever I come home happy after my shopping spree,
He reminds me, 'Honey, Money does not grow on tree'.

Whenever I need some help in household chores,
He reminds me that his work domain is outdoors.
Whenever he works outside the house,
He moans and groans that I forgot my wedding vows.

Whenever I complain of being TV. sports widow during leisure times,
He wants me to be creative and pick up some hobby sometimes.
When the hour of romance comes on the anniversaries,
I expect gifts, flowers, hugs and kisses,
Instead I get a flower from the garden reminding me of my marriage
anniversary.

Whenever I am dressed up to go the parties and want him to look sharp,
He comes up with his favorite old shirt and baggie pants.
When I am mad on him for not listening to anything I say,
I think he is a son of a gun, what else I can say

no one eats the same chili at my house

I fix the best chili I can
But my family has to doctor it up
One of my daughter adds cinnamon
Something she learned
When grandma accidentally used it
Instead of chili powder

My son has to dump a pound of cheese on the top
My husband motions for him to hand the rest of the cheese over.
The little one whines that he does not like chili
Unless we have potato chips, which he uses instead of crackers.
I fish a tiny baggie of chips out of the laundry room.
I had been hiding it from his siblings.

I cannot complain because at this moment
I am tearing up sixteen jalapenos to go into my own chili.
If I put them into the big pot no one else would eat.
How we got this way is anyone’s guess.
“Do we have any cottage cheese?” My other son asks.
Apparently when he ate at Johnny’s house they put that into their chili.

Breakfast For the Ducks

Near the fountain stands the male
In iridescent glory,
But his mate begins this tale,
A true Manhattan story.

These same ducks have made their home
Outside a high-rise building.
I see them swim or sleep or roam;
The truth requires no gilding.

This morning, early, as he waits,
The female, with intention
Of what she now anticipates,
Insists on prompt attention.

She marches right up to the door,
By which a doorman’s standing
And opens up her beak to score
The meal she is demanding.

In full regalia, he complies
And grabs a baggie waiting,
Then shoos some pigeons to the skies,
Their hope for food deflating.

He sprinkles breakfast for the pair,
Who gustily start eating
And I walk on so I can share
This urban morning meeting.

The Scoop

My neighbor called out from his stoop
as I walked my dog: What’s the scoop?”
“Nothing new in this town,”
I said as I reached down
with my baggie: “Just some dog poop.”

Distant Cousins

Distant Cousins
David J Walker

You may not remember 
the dinosaurs 

Roaming our backyard
Jurassic park
Hiding in lilacs 

Crushing the petunias and 
Easting the tops off our trees

Mother, not pleased, 
was mad while
Dad was glad to not have to 
Mow the grass ever again

Brother was older and had to
Scoop the dinosaur poop 
Into a very big baggie 

Sister was crying because 
there were no flying unicorns 
in the herd

Do you believe what you’ve heard
that dinosaurs 
And birds are distant cousins?

Autumnal Days

Grey clouds dispersing above the Lough,
Grey geese skeining to winter fields for from arctic chill,
Rainbow colours reflected in water still and deep,
Chill and cold in the depths along with bream and Roach,
Amongst the weed and silt lie Pike waiting patiently,
For some small unassuming stickleback or baggie
To fill its ever hungry belly.

Arching rainbow across the hills leading to a pot,
But the gold is in the town and its deep cold lough.
Do Kelpies run off the hills finding refuge and rest,
Down the burns they skelter  unseen ,unknown,
Only by frothy white water bubble and hear their ,
Unearthly whinnie amongst the crannies of ancient hill.
On dark nights when water is high will you hear the Kelpies cry.

Flowers Pressed In Book

flowers pressed in book
rose petals saved in baggie
breathless memories


June 2, 2020

In the Kitchen Cabinets

One box was stamped two thousand fifteen;
Another two thousand and five.
If I ate the pasta inside them,
Do you think I would still be alive?

Some crackers found zipped in a baggie
Were stale as a mummy’s last breath.
If I crumbled a few in my chowder,
Would that be the cause of my death?

The ketchup in back of the pantry
Was browner than children’s mud pies.
If I squirted it onto a burger,
Might that cause an early demise?

Since we have relinquished our shopping,
We’re searching our cupboards, no joke,
Discovering items forgotten
Which, if eaten, might cause us to croak!

Thief

I stole your shirt weeks ago
I don’t know why
I saw it lying on your bed, just so

I put it in a baggie and sealed it up tight
I know how that sounds
I put it in my dresser drawer, out of sight

I stole your shirt weeks ago
It still smells of you
This much I know

I bury my face up to my ears
Your shirt stifles the sobbing 
And it swallows my tears

I now know why
I stole your shirt
It helped me say goodbye

Late Eggrolls

It's late for an eggroll
but it's Sally's best time.
It's dry but it's tasty
and Sally; her dime.

It's perched in it's baggie:
white with a fold.
A sleeve for a napkin,
grease covered and bold.

The weight of a dove.
It airs to the table.
A fragrance of oil.
A crust for it's gable.

A sauce made of plums.
My eggroll for dipping.
The puddle soaked baggie.
A sauce wiped and dripping.

A bite for the senses.
My heart stopped to savour.
A dance of my tongue
and thanks for the flavor.

A gift from dear Sally.
This eggroll she pittied.
Without asking money,
my thanks that I'm pritheed.

Portable

A muffin’s very portable;
I toss one in my bag
And pop a piece into my mouth
If spirits start to sag.

I slice it up and baggie it;
It takes up little space
And I can nibble secretly
At any time or place.

If hunger pangs crop up
Or if my stomach starts to growl,
I needn’t search provisions out
Or gnash my teeth and howl.

I reach into my pocketbook
And rip a little piece;
As quick as that, the noises
In my belly start to cease.

So when you leave your house,
Into your bag you should be stuffin’
A perfect pick-me-up
That’s also portable – a muffin!

Under the Alaskan Sun

Nine months of darkness,

Snow on the ground,

No leaves on the trees,

No warmth around.

As the winter comes to a close,

Lakes and rivers still seem froze, 

Soon the waters will break free,

Moving life  far as eyes can see,

And now its time to have some fun,

Playing under the Alaskan sun.

Rivers are running , bears now conscious,

Birds a flutter, fish obnoxious,

Breathing in the summer air,

Floating down the river bare,

Baggie of green, cooler filled supreme,

Almost as if, it were all a dream.

When I look back, old and grey,

I'll remember the nights and days,

When we found euphoria under the Alaskan sun.

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