Best Lotteries Poems
Seashore Sweepstakes
northwest rocky beaches
waves disguise cache of prizes ~
jellyfish parade
Clams and Gooey Ducks
hide in sandy blanket homes ~
no taste for chowder
hold your breath then dive
Abalone glued on rocks ~
opal sheen of shells
clusters deep purple
swinging from rocks of fool’s gold ~
Muscles hold strong
always on the move
Hermit Crabs – house on their backs ~
looks for vacancies
Oysters together
bedded down with family ~
maybe hiding pearls
Limpets with strong foot
clings to rocks and to fingers ~
teal and turquoise hats
trophies from tide pools
lucky tickets under stones ~
beach shore lotteries
Many Americans, at least it would seem,
Win Megabuck lotteries, inside their day dreams;
What will I do now, with all of this loot?
I’ll jet far and wide, like a Rock Star en route.
And yet, there’s a man, at the head of our state,
Worth many vast billions—no weak featherweight;
Who could have declined, to avoid all the grief,
But instead serves us tirelessly, providing relief.
THANKS to the millions—‘Deplorables’ strong,
Who saw his potential, and sang his theme song;
About Making us Great, restoring times past,
Returning jobs lost with fair trade deals—at last!
Yet mainstream ‘the media,’ despise you and peeps,
Their Deep State criminal, lost to your sweep;
MAGA did resonate—you won handily,
Our thin skin now thickened, by their blasphemy.
In the end no collusion—just more of the same,
Fake news by leftists, with HATE on the brain;
So thank you kind sir, and please drain that swamp,
A patriotic act perfectly befitting...
...#45, PRESIDENT DONALD J. TRUMP!
For those who qualify for this costly trip,
permits will be given for travel to the moon.
Friends, family, or lovers may apply as a unit
for this one and only “out-of-the-world” experience
lasting no more than one week.
Since the moon has already been colonized
by the greatest of our world’s minds,
moon vacations are comparable to
educational fun field trips where folks
will view mankind’s unique adjustment to moon life.
To qualify, people must pass a test
involving simulation of space travel.
Both adults and children must also pass a test
determining their ability to cope with the experience.
Those with criminal records need not apply.
Having qualified, my husband and I enter daily
free lotteries within our designated small region.
With a chance of one out of a thousand each day,
we figure we will get our trip before we die.
We can’t wait to view earth from the moon!
by Max Burchett
Black swans are a thing.
That thing never seen before,
Not known to exist,
What has never happened before.
If you can think of it,
Can expect or imagine it,
That swan is not black, or a swan
Just a strange possibility.
I discovered my own personal swans
Surprised by, not discovered
Personal tsunamis, personal lottery wins
Not the Vegas kind; rather, the lotteries of life.
Never imagined things I might do
Or would happen while racing into eternity
Is the incredible waiting to spring
What will it mean for me, or you?
Wonderfully good, or bad beyond belief?
Shocks of the universe or just for your life?
Intimate black swans while on your way,
The chance encounter changing life.
Unknown unknowns.
No need to worry.
Can’t do anything about
A new wrinkle in what in life can’t expect.
The unexpected we can never know
Until fate dishes it out.
Destiny that was there all along,
A high or low note of life’s song.
Nopalero = one who deals with/sells nopales [edible prickly pear cactus leafs/pads]
Aiiiii, Jimmy --
what shall we say, now that you've gone,
worst fear realized: your body discovered,
days later, in your filthy Mexican rooms,
amid the soiled paper littering the floors,
reeking of cat urine and layer upon layer
of dried and fresher feces. These feral cats
were your most faithful companions.
You thought yourself their benefactor and,
perhaps, their savior. We were told that,
after your demise, when the door opened,
all 21 fled, never to return.
You left us, unbathed, smelly, shunned,
just weeks before your birthday,
having almost (but not quite) suffered
through 80 years, the last 30 spent in
bordertown Mexico. You, daily, crossed
the bridge to claim your mail -- which (for a fee)
promised to guarantee you would be a winner
of lotteries, sweepstakes, miraculous windfalls.
You subsisted on senior coffees at McD's,
and your pitiful government assistance.
You blamed your life on abuse by brothers
(all dead long before you) and you could not
understand why richer acquaintances --
virtually everyone -- were unwilling
to share with you their bounty.
In the plazas, you were a familiar sight,
selling whatever you could: you were
"el viejo gringo," "el Jimmy," "el nopalero,"
and other less generous but, perhaps, appropriate
"apodos". You knew animals, had some expertise
with birds. Your chief preoccupation was
yourself, and your main complaint was
that you never got your just deserts.
No one deserves to end as you did -- unclaimed,
a foreign body, interred in Mexico
in an unmarked pauper's grave:
a "fosa comun." You only wanted to be loved.
RIP my friend; I did not mean to be unkind.
James Milford Pierson, 27 February 1934 - 2 February 2014.
One dollar buys a million dollar dream.
Lotteries excite thoughts of esteem.
One day I bought a ticket,
My angst began to fidget.
Until I screamed; then went to redeem!
Onward Christian soldiers
Marching off to prayer
Making sure your wallets
no one at all will share
Onward then, ye Christians
as atheists help the poor
blend you prayers with hypocrisy
as the lord closes all your doors
Christ may not be handicapped
he sure as hell isn't blind
stop playing life's lotteries
give food and love, be kind
At the malls small book shop
Satan's hosts and Christians flee
Hells foundations support not
ignore poor and needy brothers pleas
Onward Christian soldiers
copper pennies are your reward
Just remember the cross of Jesus
was constructed by the poor
I hear your pleas...
Amen Brothers and Sisters!
I mean we don't want anything more
than a society which we can respect...
lotteries... crooked politicians...
debt to foreign nations
who consider us an enemy...
it's just getting to be a bit much.
Sure we have had to do much
to become a more perfect nation...
but we used to try...
now its open season
on everyone in the name of fairness
while they twist and turn
the blade of corruption
in our gut.
...Now its just wistful poetry...
Red wine stains on sheets,
music notes that bleed silence.
Grand poets on abandoned streets,
writing melodic poems of violence.
Venetian masks of golden designs,
gondola rides that pursue insanity.
Deception and lies clutching vines,
violet petals consumed by vanity.
Jugglers and peddler monks anew,
begging for a temporary treasure.
Midnight exposing her glass shoe,
judging true beauty by pleasure.
Laughter echoes in the distance,
frivolous acts of social compliance.
A Dubliner that questions existence,
caught between religion and science.
Cowering judges tremble in shame,
condemning their daughters and sons.
Hangings become their festival game,
death lotteries massacring loved ones.
Crimson sunrises sweeping the night,
tearing heaven from hellish abyss.
Scattering ashes in seething light,
that destroys passion's only kiss.
As humans we are exempt from many indignities,
imagine you were a fish just waiting to be stuffed,
no place to hide, pre-determined, after you huffed and puffed,
shortened life-span, of no consequence, the classic also-ran.
Kipling said: 'To be born an Englishman is to win
one of the great lotteries in life,' an out-dated
and racist comment but ironically with an element of truth;
however, goalposts have moved - what price a black Englishman?
My nephew says: 'No problem,' until you pass through
US Immigration - don't want any grenades hidden under turbans;
the extremists say they will never stop, have already,
fools, wasting Allah-given lives just like the stuffed fish.
Yes, we know, at least the fish is eaten, they're beaten,
contributed nothing, except condemnation, 'in a black room
with white curtains,' at Mombai Station.
The day that you won me,
I recall how you spoke of lotteries and luck,
And sang in blue and white,
From virtual rooftops with borrowed words,
About fields and fish and feeling good,
I still cherish that grotty piece of paper,
Alive like the tree it was sliced from,
With secrets spelt out with my name,
Copied them with a crumbling pencil scrawl,
Onto the secret space beneath my window,
Bathed in sulphur light,
Between dreams I would read them,
Filled with frustration that you couldn’t seem to see,
Chance was never the game,
Harbinger broke into delicate run,
And delivered the inevitable,
Led down the only path left to follow,
I could only ever fall for you.
The bedroom door slightly open tonight
With a spread of dim night light
Shining through, into the room.
Streaming in my head
Music- anthems of hope and light
Not a heartthrob to avoid.
Why does my drama feel less painful,
Once I excused myself from the crowd?
Did the sun once shine the same
Watching me through my years of youth?
Lists of agendas left to tick off
But I look forward to every bit
Like a marathon of winning lotteries
I pose with patience and a heart of gold
for what comes next in the queue.
For once again I'm excited about
this stage show named life.
Like a young flame, just ignited,
Dancing with peace in the head,
Smile on the face and
Light in the eyes.
Tomorrow has yet to come
But it's already better than yesterday.
none other than that...
forgot on remembering
is responsible
so what be the end...
being it was just a dream
that is the problem
i heard you laughing...
outside my door at some joke
but you're not nervous
a situation
clearly speaking otherwise
it just a lost cause
the others first place
out of ten and yours is last
just some written fate
money lenders frown
these odds speak of avalanche
and freak money wins
the lotteries not yours
and the whole point of this is
disappearing now
stan sand
"What did I do today,
For it has vanished I’m afraid
Important moments I had planned
But I’m holding nothing tangible in my hand
There was hope and excitement this morning,
And my afternoon was absolutely not boring
But as evening falls,
I have trouble to recall
Exactly what became of my day,
Nothing definitive I can say
No lotteries won,
Or celebrations of fun
Just surfing the net,
For jobs to get
Connecting with those I know,
Interrupting my moms TV show
Mentally focused on my life plan,
Reassured myself that I can
Figure out what will be,
And there will be days like these
So even if nothing physically has moved,
I have accomplished a lot that I can prove.
I am one day closer to God,
And on this earth I live in awe
Of its beauty and hope it gives to me,
For each day is a gift you see
Of moments of time each day offers,
To collect and save in our coffers
For everyday has a reward for us,
As God has planned and we to trust"
Someone seemed to have invented a whiter shade of pale,
there was a mindset - I won't do it in case I might fail;
the paleface thought he was smarter than the natives,
and bathed in the prospect of being given superlatives.
Mr. Kipling said that to be born an englishman (white),
was to win one of the great lotteries of this life, right?
What outdated nonsense, or was it, look at migration today,
they all want to come to us - with benefits so they say.
I went where 'they' were - the white lord amongst slaves,
left to their own devices, haven't advanced much from caves;
of course, everything's fine, if your not stabbed, stopped driving,
now we're spending most of our time to prevent from arriving.
Perhaps that fail mindset was not so obscure after all still,
because as Joe says: 'Remember, migrants probably will.'