We're jottin' down our poems, me boys
We're jottin' down our poem
From old Bombay to Galway Bay
We're jottin' down our poems
All wannabe Byrons just step aside
We're the best bards on land and foam, Aye!
We're jottin' dowm our poems, me boys
We're jottin' down our poems
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
Bursting, breaking free from stress with glee
Thankful heart welcomes joy of gracious worth
Praising God*for granting radiating, vibrant mirth
Ready to bask in hope, then toward glad sharing --- flee.
Cheerful to inspire others along praise delight
Victorious faith soars toward prayer-driven domain
Vanquishing worries, anxieties, and doubts of woeful strain
Triumphant over greed, anger, jealousy, as well as nervous-fright.
As revived spirit stays jubilant for service-quest
Divinely-controlled emotions follow heavenly guide
Satisfied midst contentment against selfishness and pride
Worshipping the Lord Who blesses well with His fullest and best.
*2 Samuel 22:50 Therefore I will give thanks unto thee, O LORD, among the heathen, and I will sing praises unto thy name.
June 1, 2024
2nd place, "The Dance of...in 16 lines or less" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Miranda Hawley; judged on 7/6/2024
Jiggety jig, my ex. is a pig.
It's much worse since I've been gone..
One could clean every day.
He won't put things away and he even
throws trash on his lawn..
When I go there I shutter at his ability to clutter
and wonder what could he pawn..
He's not yet a hoarder but there's
no sense of order.
I just might throw things in his pond..
Too many lines, cut many times: horse backthoat gasps
Dramatic mimes..looking good yet, actioning bad' no more
Are you the golden lad ' its well past chance, in such like
Saloons.' A sage might well weep; before your stage' that
Had to come. How could it not? You massage reality
Really; a lot.' Look.! keep the suits you can't (wear out)
Don raybans and hugo boss, and just light out.' There's
Often chance in choices made; there will be risks yet folks
Ain't got it made.' They look around as they sleep in cars
I note here; builders, whos skills are cried; Out for!
Really needed
In Canada for many a year.' The whole plan is now, so full of
Flaws; its time to exit 'this stage' but on the ( left ) for sure.'
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.
Writing poems is like a puzzle, we hunt to find words that fit right!
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!
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.
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!
————————————————-
(c) sally young Eslinger 10/16/21
Thanks be to God
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