Best Muggy Poems
hot and muggy
the johnny jump ups
are wilting
9/20/16
Not only talking about the tummy
When I say I'm hungry
Always grew up out in the country
Where there weren't always paved roads, it was dusty
And more bumpy
The days usually sunny
Muggy
And occasionally gusty
Certain items left out in the elements turned rusty
Forming a layer that was somewhat crusty
Not yet have I played rugby
Or sipped a double cup that was muddy
Can't see any good in being a druggie
Or whatever you want to call it, maybe a junkie?
History has shown, so you don't neccessarily have to trust me
The times have always been bloody
And rather ugly
Can't rely on being lucky
Because that logic is nutty
I want to see my mother living comfy
And never again crummy
To put it bluntly
Got to think and get that money
Daily not just monthly
Not concerned about any who choose to judge me
Or wether or not, others shall treat me justly
With wisdom realizations came abruptly
Still I try to learn and study
Some say we evolved from monkeys
But we
All have our own opinions and little to any proof of the truth
After all this time, is that sad or funny?
Brainwashed individuals being molded like putty
Behind the scenes things happening corruptly
Try to not be clumsy
And always grumpy
Car crash tests being conducted with a dummy
And at times the end results are so far from lovely
By: Dalton Ogletree
Feeling sluggy when it's muggy
Surely is the norm.
Nothing's gained when I feel drained
'Cause temps are way too warm.
In my lair I blast the air
And rarely venture out,
Wond'ring why, with temps so high,
I'd gallivant about.
There are those, I do suppose,
Who like this kind of hot.
Rest assured, that strikes no chord;
Among them I am not.
There was a man from Zweite
Who liked to fly his kite
On each muggy day
The man would say
'Oh, how I miss the flight!'
There was a man named White
Who used to fly his kite
But during a break
He made a mistake
What a terrible day for White
5/15/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. ©2019
The air is heavy—
like a warm, wet blanket wrapped around everything.
The sun?
Hiding behind a cloud,
like it doesn’t want to deal with the day.
The Brahmaputra flows—
slow, wide, calm.
It mirrors the dull sky,
grey and tired like it skipped breakfast.
The trees don’t move.
Not even a whisper of wind.
Just leaves, soaked with sweat,
hanging there like they’ve given up.
The cicadas sing—
a slow, sleepy song,
as June presses down on everything.
The earth lets out a long, hot breath.
Dragonflies zip past,
quick little sparks in the still air.
Then—
a moment.
Rain.
Just a sprinkle.
Just enough to tease.
And then—steam,
rising from the roads,
rolling off the fields like ghosts in the heat.
The tea plants droop,
lined up in rows,
too tired to smell sweet anymore.
But even in all this sweat,
this heat,
this heavy, breathless air—
there’s something strong here.
Something green.
Something alive.
That’s Assam.
Unshaken.
Unbothered.
Beautiful.