He has trained all his life for a job
parents paid for lots of training for bozo Bob
He used to brag about what he could do
But he has never had a job, I knew
His employable skills are actually few
He has tried many things, but not followed through
In a restaurant he jumped our booth
landed on the lap of a girl named Ruth
I heard him say “You’re a fireman, I am too.”
Retired though, back in ’82.
A lie of course, he never finished the training at all.
Dropped out of it less than two weeks, in the fall.
Everything he said was a lie and absurd.
He did not let Ruth get in a word.
When I finally dragged him away
I heard Ruth give a tiny hooray
She relished bragging about her jet lag.
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
the desserts were bragging they had stolen my tooth
It was cake and ice cream, both hailed from Duluth
They were obscene, bragging with outrageous smiles
I wanted them to go away, at least a hundred miles
I knew they had taken other teeth from me too
I had lost several to cavities, and it made me blue
The desserts were boasting they had stolen from me
I wanted them to fall off the edge and end up in the sea
Charlotte the fancy hippo put on airs all the time
her clock was better than most, it had a lovely chime
She had the fanciest laces on her pantaloons, for sure.
Charlotte confided that she had sweet smelling manure
Some believed her but others knew much better.
We had smelled her gas through her jeans and sweater.
Today she is on a swing bragging it is the best around.
Some of us are hoping it breaks and she ends up on the ground.
Aunt Marge’s Christmas letter sat unopened again.
Most of us walked by it, and said “not by the hair
of our chinny chin chin”
We knew what it would hold
Accomplishments of her six awful kids
We had nothing to do with them
Thanks to their behaviors
our family reunions had been on the skids.
This one is perfect.
That one is fine.
Billy is the president of railroad nine.
Tommy is an outstanding citizen now.
Her children were all amazing, wonderful,
her family a wow.
Aunt Marge has been bragging about them
in Christmas letters for fifty three years.
In truth they are spoiled brats
have caused lots of us tears
Her braggadocio bragging is annoying to me.
That unopened letter finally finds its way to the trash bin
without being opened, as our family all did agree.
My granddaughter is the cutest girl in Texas.
Maybe even in the whole southeast of the USA.
She was the most boastful grandma we met that day.
And we are all grandmas, with our hair of gray.
If I show you a picture it will dazzle your eyes out.
Her bragging was ridiculous, took form of a shout.
We said sure we’ll take a peek, and a peek we did.
She was not wrong; her granddaughter was a really cute kid!
On Christmas Eve a call went out from the Pole.
Santa was sick, we needed a witch, faerie or troll.
Someone who could substitute and take his route.
The reindeer were on the hunt, the elves were out.
Santa panda flew in on a magic carpet with a loud brag.
I can do better than any faerie or witch, they mostly drag.
North Pole Council took a vote an appointed him for the day.
At midnight he flew off with a cocky smile in Santa’s red sleigh.
The next day, most of the children of the world were sad.
Accusing their mothers, their uncles and maybe their dads.
Of not wanting them to have presents, wails went up to heaven in threes.
For that silly Santa Panda had gotten lost, and was now stuck in two trees.
the quilting festival is an event where grandma lingers.
Her friends are there – Mag, Charlene and Mrs. Fingers.
They try to pretend it is not a competition at all.
But they drag their secrets outside in the middle of fall.
Oh, my, I never saw that red and green one before!
Gram says to Mrs. McDiggins, the Irish gal next door.
McDiggins is grinning like a sailor who is in his cups.
I thought I had shown it to you she fibs to McGupps.
Their masterpieces on display, they watch everyone’s fingers.
Dirty nails and palms had better not stay to paw, touch or linger.
They want the oohs and aahs but they want their work pristine.
Gram comes home every year bragging she is the “quilting queen”.
What a blessing to not need to write
To not burn from a desire to express what words cannot
To have things I want to do
And the ability to do so
For no feelings to be trapped in verbose amber
Nor crystallized in song, dance, paint
But instead lived
Is there truly a difference
In channeling love in amber to show
Instead of hiding in away
In the piles of papers and relentlessness seconds
The beauty of simplicity
Demands a short docket
Managed by forgetfulness organization and action
She only paints elephants, her mama said, feeling worried.
The rest of the artists do different things, you know that.
The mouse ran off, for his siblings had all scurried.
He knew that this artist’s elephants were fashionable and phat.
To help the mama out, the mouse talked the paintings up.
His grandma bought two, as did his Great-Great-Uncle Hup.
We are selling them so fast, she is sure to be a millionaire her mama said.
Mouse went away smiling, sleeping peacefully that night in bed.
This is insane. This is unheard of a president
Behaving like that. Yes, he deserves a prize
It's a great honor to lead a country this size
Be happy, pragmatic and wait if by accident
You will be honored. You are no Dr. M.L. King
The Nobel Peace Prize is about being humble
It is not about acting like a wrestler in the ring
It is not about being a jerk to rumble and crumble
It is about respect, uniting people of different background
It is not about making noise and galloping on the playground
Mother Theresa got a Peace Prize and she deserved it
President Jimmy Carter got one and he earned it
I can go on and on. One never knows. Wait for your turn
Nobody knows about tomorrow. You'll get one in Saturn.
Copyright © April 2018, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved
Hébert Logerie is the author of several books of poetry.
You yell in your style from the hot roof top
Nobody lends ears but you don’t ever stop
You pronounce you’ll make a great name
As an artist, in loud voice you do proclaim.
You say there are colors hidden in your eye
We all know it's nothing but a white flat lie
So you think you carry the gene of an artist
The concealed laughter people can’t resist.
You surmise your brush has a Monet touch
But your trees are a cluster of plumb crutch
Something like water in river is ink opaque
You can’t even make the semblance of fake.
When you gloat you’ve got the Picasso flair
Crude art shapes daub the pallid paint layer
Formless faces are entangled in web of cubes
As a bizarre pile of squeezed out color tubes.
My gram can make a quilt in a day, the six-year-old said.
My aunt came make one with her eyes shut, standing on her head.
My mother can make two before tomorrow’s grass has wet dew.
You are both crazy! You braggarts, you two!
My gram is a quilt-maker, and hers are the best.
My auntie’s are so beautiful, she edges out the competition, said Crest.
My mother’s are so fantastic, she sells her ideas on line.
Still bragging and boasting, these students of mine!
Yes, we have this and that and this this this
Their mouths never close, their tongues never miss
Their material things are brought out daily to show
Yet do they know where their surly sons or sad daughters go?
We have heard their offspring are on drugs,dangling far away.
Their children never come home to laugh, eat, study or play.
These parents are parading their emeralds and diamonds now.
Pardon me if I am not impressed I feel no wow.
Where are your children? Do they have food to eat?
What has happened to your hound I used to slip meet?
You have material things, for sure, but is it enough?
I’m glad that what my family has is much better than stuff.
I have a fancy Christmas tree hat bragged the feline
And a sportscar red, and a tummy that is always fed.
She has never had to wait, listen or stand in line.
The rest of the class began grousing behind her head.
She had gotten this fabulous hat when her grandpa died.
It was the one thing in the house that gave her pride.
wore the top hat the next day, but classmates pretended not to see.
Afterall, one kitty admitted “She has never been nice to me.”
She’s never invited me to a birthday party, said another kitty.
None of them knew how poverty poor she was, it was a pity!
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.