Best Puffed Poems
I have been running from store to store
Searching for cereal I adore.
Quaker’s puffed wheat
Favorite treat
But I cannot find it any more.
rec'd tenth place
Global girth seems to gain all the time,
Giants garnering world's every dime,
The rich grab all the pie--
Why the poor poorer die
In the world, piling wealth's when no crime.
Fine, lemon you find sweet is sweat lime,
Nor crime-- your thoughts of ‘I’,
Go savour your sweet pie,
Pay heed not to puncture poor man's rhyme,
Listen to their sighs to spare a dime.
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The fight against inequality is not only making little progress but is losing ground. The rich one per cent is slated to control more than half of global wealth by 2016, says an Oxfam report. World’s 80 wealthiest pockets (85 in 2014) own $ 1.9 trillion, the same quantum shared by 3.5 billion poor. The poor are hurt in two ways: They get a smaller share of the economic pie, and due to extreme inequality, there is lesser pie to share. Every year the elite at Davos talk of good intentions and the poor in hope listen. The global elite gloss it over all the time.
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Happenings | 01.01.15 |
All puffed up, ducks, swans and goose
fluffed feathers on the loose,
afterfeathers clinging to open flagged wings
strutting as they move and sing.
Smaller birds hang back and low
un-intimidting, gentle, calm, slow,
little barbs rising from the contoured body
ready to rise, the ease of flight embodied.
Iridescent delicate tipped quills
bounce and float at will,
boldly embracing the cold wind breeze
downy fluff and stuff set free.
Ruffled remiges, covert retrices marked
by circannual monitorings embarked
the seasons bristly gatherers on the fly
all puffed up, winged avengers of the sky.
Picture this
Meeting with forty-three women
Two men
Six at each table
An extra squeezed in to one.
Picture this
I always sit by the loudest and proudest
The most egotistical
The one who always gladly shouts out every answer
Sometimes wrong
Sometimes right
Does not count the wrong ones.
Even if we laugh
Picture this
Loud and proud at another table
Selects herself to be spokesperson
Suddenly realizes she has done the task incorrectly
Turns on a co-worker and yells
“YOU SAT THERE AND WATCHED ME DO THIS ALL WRONG!”
Not once, but twice. Screamer's face turns tomato.
Nervous laughter.
Except me.
I was laughing flat out
Loud and proud
Great for any meeting
Sandra was always puffed up about her fancy hats from the milliners.
No one had complimented this beauty yet, but it was a matter of time.
She knew several who would go nuts over it at church.
A crow began to savagely attack the hat on the way into the sanctuary.
By the time she got the crow off, a crowd had gathered.
All of the feathers had been plucked off.
It was no longer the beauty it had been,
but we pretended it was marvelous to help her save face.
We could laugh later, in our own homes about how pathetic it looked.
Your lustrous beauty passed me by,
Like an ancient mariner's ghost ship,
Shrouded in mystic mantle,
You sailed by
Sails billowing proud.
An exotic bird of paradise
Noble and sublime,
Gracefully in concert
With the wispy puffed clouds,
A free spirit blown by the wind,
High above out of reach.
Your epicene beauty distant,
Blown away to the beckoning horizon,
Leaving only a bouquet
Of unrequited love,
A legacy locked within the deep recess
Of my melancholy heart.
Have you ever seen a puffed-up hairless dog?
I frankly did not think that I ever had, and I said as much.
This one is a big eater, he feeds more than a hog.
And he puts on airs, speaking of his manhood and such.
I could not wait to meet him, and it did not take long.
He was sitting on a royal throne, looking down on me.
He made arm motions to show me he thought he was strong.
I wondered how much more arrogant he could be.
He raised his wine goblet and yelled off with her head.
I realized with a start he was pointing it at me.
My hair was awful, straight from a messy feather bed,
At least I have hair, I told him with a bit glee.
He was puffed up, persnickety, proud beyond most female’s belief.
Loving his rainbow colors, showing himself off to his wife’s sheer grief.
She was a plain brown peahen, who did not show off or boast.
She had to laugh a little when his fellow peacocks decided to roast.
Making fun of him, a tiny bit, for he was too puffed up for them.
She kept it to herself, but was glad he got a little chuck on his chin.
He needed to come down off his high horse just a bit.
So he would babysit the brood, and not have a royal fit.
He huffed and he puffed and he blew the side out of the house.
The other wolves were laughing, as was an eyewitness mouse.
Birthday cake was all right, but the house was destroyed by his huff.
You will have to fix this said his Grandma who sounded angry and gruff.
Priscilla’s prissy poodle Poindexter was puffed and pumped.
Strutting his stuff, feeling perky, being perfumed and perfect.
His congratulatory self-speech stopped suddenly.
Who was this glamorous creature in his path?
“Do not be intimidated by fancy birds,” his owner said.
“Because she is beautiful, does not make you any less beautiful.”
Poindexter gave the fabulous creature a nod, and continued his walk.
Not feeling quite so luxurious or lovely now.
Tiger is pondering his choices.
The female looks tasty, but the man looks puffy
Puffed pastry is his favorite meal
He makes a dash toward the big guy
Puffed to the brim with inane pride,
You strut about like a sparkling bride,
Displaying invulnerabilities that sting
Sharper than wild porcupinish being.
You fathom neither humanity
Nor harm of your callous inanity;
You ever frolic and chest-thump
And mock and onwards trump.
You’re aided by bloody malice
Of hell ever bereft of peace,
And abetted by the unhearing
Of heaven amid ills so searing.
So how long shall you trample,
You unfeeling impish trampler?
And dole out such endless trouble,
You most callous restless troubler?
Grandma Joy stirred the eggs so they would not burn
I often watched, admiring her hands with spots
She gave me a smile, and let me have a turn
I love her aged arms, they are covered with dots
I told her about the young girl who did spurn
Grandma gave me compliments, and I mean lots.
Knew what she was doing, loved her anyway.
Full of eggs, I enjoyed the rest of my day.
on that fence are the three cutest pigs you ever hope to see
I ran over to look, he was nuts, this city-slicker, Tommy Lee
These are piglets, not pigs, I yelled to him rather snottily.
The piglets began to snort and whistled with glee
We are Patty’s pretty pink piglets, polished and persnickety.
Puffed up and prideful, perhaps you know our uncle Paulie Lee?
They began dancing around on ham hocks, showing off their glee.
I now wanted to meet their amazing mother, the glorious Patty.
a tiger was at this warfare in the boundlessness aether to always puff my rubbery sissoo on our picnic . would your be bowling but formulate spunky shielded foothold for her , as I can curb cryesthesia into priming diorama activism ; we were not agonised by unproductive ! could he strangle his snore unwarily ?
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • August 10–16, 2026)