I am highly entertained
though I see through the window what lies there:
yes, dark cloud hovers above our street
like a piece of rag.
But we admire contraries.
I am entertained because I hear rag -
all about pineapple, reflection,
stoptime, a paragon, a maple leaf.
You would never predict your treasure,
how so many of us listen to it today,
your music downloaded or on a compact disc.
So thanks, dear old Scott, for your ragtime.
I can see that dark, hovering rag of cloud
but hear you, Scott, I'm entertained.
At first all red
We hit the brakes
Then amber lights
A few mistakes
Green for go
But take it slow
Bite Size no.70 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Line Gauthier
Form the habit of using a bag:
Along the road hide your ugly rag,
About the contents of the bag brag,
Ready to lies and arguments drag
Or would you like Nasty Tongues to wag:
The Press you would have loved to gag…
Learn to price bag and pick up the bag:
Watchers won’t glimpse in your world your lag,
Even as you might soon out ***
In your night dreams nothing else but bag…
From tomorrow start using a bag:
Cheaper ones which had begun to sag;
About it no true girlfriend would nag,
Let alone an old cargo or hag.
Rung out
before you unfurl the rag
It's a muddled mess of colored cotton
It's just a mash in your wet
hands
In that moment it is nothing
crumpled nothing
But
Once unfurled it can again find purpose
be useful
an agent of change
with potential to bring in the light
Alter the view
remove the aged dust
That one rag can change things
Clean the room
Whipe away everything
One little crumpled rag can completely change
a room
and it can most definitely change you
Take a bath
Be a crumpled wet rag
and then
unfurl....see what you can do after the storm
Please, refuse the disguised rag
That wearer still makes a hag.
Be bold to say “No, thank you”
While leaving “Later, see you!
A coat of curious color
That offers the eye pallor,
Long threadbare to soonest sag
And straight goes into a bag….
Delight not in robe you’ve got,
Last wearer had liked it not;
Underneath its arms ink blot
And on its left breast blood clot.
Choose the true wisdom or don’t:
On this talking not a lot;
In ignorance one could rot
While asking A Big Fool’s “What?”
"All my good is good
Filthy as rags from a sewer
But justice my Father gleans
From my sins He’s has sent His Son
He whom shed His blood
Shown us His love
His grave has forgiven us
My goodness, all of my goodness
In not enough
It took Our Jesus to die for me on the cross"
9/20/22
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2022©
Please, continue with your exercise
To sensibly check your goddamned size
And profitably win A Painless Prize:
For The Sport Body Ounce must not rise;
For contests a loss The Bone dries
And no blunders in the end seem wise…
Please, continue to watch overweight
That could make Coveted Prizes wait
And Expected Honors arrive late
And you leave in melancholic state…
In Boxing make you A Punching Bag,
Fellow The Rival to along drag;
Blows keep landing on, until you sag
And the floor wipe with: A Piteous Rag!
Please, Exercises, not Slimming Pills
Yes, Exercises with Honest Thrills!
She was treated like a rag doll
Fought over as if she was inanimate
They argued about who was going to have her
She rolled her eyes
They were both clowns.
She wandered out of their circus
Took off her mask and began taming her own lions
One beast at a time
Never again thinking about the clowns
__________________ RAG BAGGER
What is a blowboat
which way does the warm wind blow
Im lashed to the mast
GINSU - KNIFE EASTPORT , MAINE USA
Ginsu Knife was the name of my sailboat that I sailed for years
here on the Maine coast and into the Bay of Fundy, Canada.
That boat could slice and dice the strong currents and cut
through the Downeast fog like a hot knife through butter.
After my wife died and it was just me and my daughter , age 9, I was
after something that we could do together.
I looked at airplanes and boats. Im a pilot and had a grass airstrip in
the back field, but I lived on the coast.
I ended up with a sailboat , though I did not know how to sail.
Well , we learned to sail and did lots of it, plus it was a good weekender
with cozy bunks and and a nice little stove.
Best decision I ever made.
Daughter went on to being an ocean exploration team leader and sailing
coach at a summer camp.
Yes , she is quite salty. As is her daughter.
Family tradition.
Daffodil Rag
Free, at last free
from the desk and that phone –
free to run down the stairs and outside!
All day I watched
spring stretch in the sunshine
from the business as usual office upstairs.
How easy, how simple,
to look at life walking,
coughing, running, holding it’s hat.
How peacefully sheltered
the plate glass tombs keep us
from sunshine, the wind – the rumpus of spring.
But, five o’clock comes
setting me free again
to run greet the wind, waiting for me.
Opening the door,
the wind grabs my hand
then laughingly pulls me down crowded streets.
We dance with the daffodils
nodding their approval –
smiling at the mischief of spring.
This is what the local examiner preaches
Lynchings, or killing someone by hanging, historically were mostly used by whites against black men in the South beginning in the late 19th century, according to the NAACP.
Below my reply in comment
How they twist words to suit narrative, lynch mobs were a common practice in Ireland and many countries all over the world, so selectively do you promote division black or white this article is racist bias in content promoting hate
Liberal has a new agenda when it comes to the truth being told
for what value it holds someone has to correct fools
lynching is as old as warfare itself virtually
I am a rag doll
Pliable, and gullible.
I believe you
So tell me your truth and your lies.
I will not discriminate
Move me into places you want me to go.
I am flexible, and there will be no argument
I will listen to your tales, and believe wholeheartedly.
There will be no laughter.
I will attempt a smile.
It may not happen
You see someone else broke me.
They pulled off a leg,
and they punctured my eyes.
I cannot see now, but I can feel.
I will lie with you quietly,
and if you could but
rub my back
I would believe
you loved me
and that
would
be
enough
Written July 16, 2019 Contest: Move Me Sponsor: Richard Lamoureux
The Wall Street Journal's a mighty fine rag
Yet its columns can make your spirits sag
Recently, as I was set to retire
Its advice I read and nearly expired
About whether or not to marry
Based on tax advantages ~ How scary!
The growin seasons over
The weathers getting colder
Makes one think of hot tea and soup
Takes the chill out of the bones
Makes a home feel like home
Chase it down with something eighty proof
You might call it a stew
That's entirely up to you
But it's broth not a sauce
It's good ol' whatcha got
From the garden's in the pot
Soup
When you're hibernatin like a bear
Cabin feverish pullin out your hair
You should do somthing that you know you should
Put some water on a simmer
It's always a winner
And sure as shootin's gonna be good
Take some thyme and mint
And experiment
Cause it's all that you tossed
In it's good ol' whatcha got
From the garden's in the pot
Soup
(Instrumental: The Dirty Dish Rag)
So don't be so shocked
It's good ol' whatcha got
From the garden's in the pot
Soup
Soup de Jour & The Dirty Dish Rag: lyrics written for The Denim Dirt Farmers' CD "Vegetable Soup"
He's always lived in a dark crag, called himself.
Wooing hearts, then rubbing them for a shag.
He wears a noble purple robe, but he's a dirty little rag.
Wherever he goes, there'll be a trail of misery.
A clown juggling an asp on a razor blade dream.
He collects trophies for a twisted, shameful legacy.
He's got a bone yard full of acquaintances.
He's a user of users- a real butthole supreme.
Don't be fooled by the salt and pepper stare.
He's a suburban lynx on an endless prowl.
In a meadow of blonde, blue-eyed hare.
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