Best Jig Poems
Doing an Irish Jig***
(To the music of The Bothy Band)
——— ———
So early in the morning,
If you looked, you
Couldn’t tell that I
Was really awake,
With my mind mixing
Through an Irish hornpipe jig
Beside pretty Peg
And Tiddie Dunbar.
After meeting in
What seems a dream,
We’re friends now
Here in the Glen.
We click.
We switch and twist.
We swing quickly
Our feet forward
And back, to stir
Along on our route
Corner by corner,
Searching for a feis.
They can’t trail our tracks
On this fine traveling.
Perhaps we’re keeping
A foot to foot over the earth!
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(c) sally young Eslinger 10/16/21
Thanks be to God
Horse with a wig?
Shoes on pig's feet
dance jig, on toes.
The jig of emotions goes on.
Always our feelings are changing.
We’re happy. When sad, joy is gone.
Life events keep rearranging.
When happy, we kick and we hop.
The jig of emotions goes on.
Life’s tempo is quick; should it slow,
we feel some monotony . . . yawn.
When calm or relaxed, like a swan,
we glide! Some emotions are brief.
The jig of emotions goes on -
barely moving when we feel grief.
Love is what helps us not stumble.
Though to hate or envy we’re drawn,
keep the beat; try not to grumble.
The jig of emotions goes on.
Goliath stood up straight and tall
But David knew that he would fall
Goliath was stoned
And everyone groaned
His shoelace tripped him after all!
Temptation has kept many warm
Every relationship has its right and wrong
Dissatisfaction is in everyone
More we want, younger can be better
Before your correction know personal preference has connection with emotional reference
Sexual desire can expire and still get fired
Judge not if you don't have experience
Some feelings you can't cheat but bare with careful and care
When you have the one or two to share
Being open in a relationship has relation to an open relationship
Let's face the facts
One partner or a lifetime partner is somehow a lie
You can't deny you can love many people at once
Relationship, rebound, separation the heart is not at bay
Secretly polygamy rules over monogamy
Love is a sentiment relevant in emotions but not a backbone to marriage
Trust is vacant when it comes to who you bone
Love on the surface is easy to clone
Its a puzzle to be in this entanglement
Certified by home affairs in the name of love
The sun rose up this morning;
I danced a little jig.
I made sure no one noticed;
It wasn’t very big.
There was no whoop or holler,
Nor even a small screech.
Just a lightness in my step
As I drove off from the beach.
For a St Patty’s day jig I need a pink pig.
His dog was irritated. His name was Quig.
I can dance a jig, just give me a swig.
His master shook his head, off popped his wig.
I need a jazzy curly-tailed dancer, he said to Quig.
The only one good enough will have to be a pig.
I can dance any way you want; I can do a jig!
I can zag, I can sashay, I can slide, and I can zig
His master took another swig of his cig.
Your ideas are admirable, your loyalty is big.
You go take the test for me tomorrow in trig.
I will be finding a pig to dance the Irish jig.
On to Ireland
Don’t look for me here anymore,
I’m moving on to Ireland
On the morrow, for
I’ve only one voice and
It’s longing to sing!
Henceforth, I’ll work as a seamstress,
Stitching everyone’s wings
To the sides of their hearts…
There in Ireland
Where everyone sings,
You may find me in Dublin dancing
With the ghost of Joyce. I’ll be
Reciting his words in his ear
As we twirl the streets
Song to song,
Pub to pub…Lyrics will lift us along,
Telling of lost loves,
Whiskey, and wandering
Through mountain heather.
So, I’ll be traveling
From this Bluegrass thoroughbred green
To the forever green of Ire’s land…
To its tunes,
I will “go lassie go.”
I’ll carry my my worlds within
and my pups at my side.
I’ll teach walls to talk.
‘llI stay clothed in
Music and history,
Wearingmy laced-up
Red boots on out to forage
The ephemeral
Regions, with
Poems fluttering loose
In my veins, feeding
On inspiration’s
nectar.
My skirt is lined with metaphors,
My hair is left down to catch the wind,
And my eyes keep a smiling gleam
Anyone will see, even
While I’m mourning at
The most recent Finnegan’s wake…
All sing,
“Diddle dee die do.”
My red boots are exceptionally
Good for doing a jig, too.
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(c) sally young Eslinger 9/28/21
All glory to God
Swept away by infatuation's song
and tripped upon its awkward tempo...
we crept behind a tear where passion slept,
longing where dreams lie wide awake
and blind to desires hidden in view, yet
- you look through and see only mistakes.
Like the melody of a love song
when the lyrics are all that will soothe
a broken soul lost for so long
- the sound and rhythm so impossible to lose.
In the arms of tomorrow you dance
to our song, while I cannot see
the hopelessness that lingers in one last chance
- for something that can never be...
So many wishes have faded away since I
became too blind to say...goodbye...
The brook claps over the tumbled rock bed
applauding the Spring thaw
like a gaggle of Irish revelers;
setting the man high marsh grass
to dance a slip jig in the bonnie breeze.
Returning Canadian geese chorus overhead
saluting the rippling waves
in the slate gray pond.
The white undersides of their wings mimicking
the flashing and snapping of the white caps on the lake.
Blodeuwedd, Flower Face;
returns with a fiddlers bow.
They do it in halls, even farms,
it’s part of an Irishman’s charms;
but the whole world was shook
when Flynn found the lost book:
Irish Dance, Volume Two, The Arms.
Beneath the emerald hills they hide,
Where shadows stretch and secrets bide,
The leprechauns with hats so green,
Dance where only dreams are seen.
They laugh and twirl in moonlit glow,
Their golden coins they softly throw.
A wink, a jig, a merry sound,
A hidden treasure underground.
With mischief in their sparkling eyes,
They hide their wealth where magic lies.
A rainbow leads, but none can trace,
The leprechauns’ elusive grace.
They’ll grant you wishes, if you’re true,
But catch them first—that’s up to you!
For they’re as quick as the morning breeze,
Vanishing with a soft “please, please!”
So search the hills and wildflower glens,
But know that the dance never ends.
The leprechauns are ever near,
Whispering laughter we can’t quite hear.
Writing poems is like a puzzle, we hunt to find words that fit right!
The Whistlepig Jig
I sat upon my porch one day
my pennywhistle for to play.
When out stepped Mr. Whistle-pig,
I thought to dance a jig.
“I left the comfort of my den,”
says he,”to satisfy my yen. I hear
this high-pitched trilling noise,
emanating from your little toy.”
“This is no little toy”, says I,
“so what do you imply?”
“I do not like this sound,
that pulled me out from underground.”
“Too bad” says I and played on still,
I will not quit until you‘ve had your fill.”
He chuckled in his ground hog way, and
said he, “I intend now to stay,
to laugh at you while you play.”
I took umbrage at his cheek
and said he had no right to speak.
With careful aim I raised my whistle
and flung it at him like a missile.
He caught it with his little paws
and placed its reed in his jaws.
As he played, he grinned a grin,
for we both now know
that he is the real musician.
When Anthony started to trip,
he turned it into a back flip.
He then finished big
by dancing a jig
and closed with a hop and a skip.