a cheerless chase is impracticable in twirlingly barometric whirligig whispering tunelessly into foaminess
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • September 14–20, 2026)
In people’s front yards
(That is, if they’re allowed),
They can have a display
Which will make them feel proud.
Some have flowers and banners
Or bushes and hedges
Or humorous statues
Lined up on the edges.
A spinner or whirligig
Might add some fun
Or a sculpture or wind sock
When not overdone.
Now, my personal taste
May be different from yours,
But some people have yards
No one ever ignores
For they’re filled with such tchotchkes
They make my head swim;
Yet although my opinion
Of this might be dim
To those owners, such plenty
Brings joy and such pride
It’s a wonder they ever
Come in from outside.
falling rain, droplet by droplet
pane pain pane
sipping on leaves
fall falling
failing to see
leaves livestock
lumbering, conceited
between the pages
their veins throbbing
as a moppet scribbles
over their bones
with primary colors
heavy-fisted, fat crayons
that melt
into the whirligig
cheek flames
and bright eyes
follow the track
jump into the raked
leaves piled high
aww, rains leaking
inside…pane…pain
child leaves it all behind
the grown kid rounds
Louisiana, not impressed
until Autumn leaves
remind and reminisce
stopping the automobile
in real time…real smooth
New Orleans beckons
but the scenic view
having said, howdy-do
is left behind with the pain
of slippery rain
“How-do-you-do?” the seminal leaves of Autumn wave.
“When would you like to fly away?” prickles the gust.
Maternal-oak holds on tight as one birdy takes flight.
The gust will have none of this ballyhoo, knowing
what he must do, calls for fingernails-on-chalkboard rain,
for the bad-wolf-wind, for lightning, insane.
“Toodle-loo,” says each spiderling-leaf, parachuting to earth.
They make such a scene; whirligig and wandering,
each drenched in colloquial colors, memorable, forsaken.
Each one in turn catches a potential eye even as it lands
in puddles, whirling and twirling, a final splash. They mourn
as blends of orange, yellow and red bleed into the stream.
Undignified, decomposing, going under, all poetry spent,
dwarfing and drifting; washed away down the drain.
Spring regeneration haphazardly avoids loose-leaf goosebumps.
bird’s beak
in stirring melody arouse
silver wassail of chimes
breathlessly bound
to bough
to bow
at angst of wind
reverence of two feet
bird’s claws clinging to the true branch
unbound
bird’s praise
of appraisal as Autumn leaves
red and golden linger
whirligig and
arise
surly
and duly tossed
to the cold cruel surface
where children wait to kick and stomp
throw wings
God sees
impervious backbone of leaves
for it’s all in Fall’s fun
the breakdown of
compost
the trees
do not despair
wings pet the bark whilst the
losing of proverbial hair
color
inward
greening has knowledge of Springtime
the songbirds practicing
their sunshine tunes
its boon
I miss my youth – the way I’d run
or swirl beneath warm summer’s sun.
Oh, dahlia daydreams of romance,
sweet kisses and that first slow dance.
My real life barely had begun!
Adventures I was slow to shun,
A whirligig, with glee I spun
imagining . . . perchance . . . perchance!
I miss my youth.
Good health was mine and ailments none,
and oh, to meet that special one
for whom I fell with just one glance.
Soft brown eyes held me in a trance.
The lesson learned: What’s done is done.
I miss my youth.
Quote: Do you ever wonder why we build castles in the air? Perhaps, it's to soften the blow of a harsh world that never seems to slide nor adjust to our individual expectations.
Ever since I was a little girl the blooming fields
and goldenrods of nature held me captive in a spell
Heartbeat moments of grace sifted through me
at the most unexpected moments
leaving transient gifts, in a playground full of magic !
A young impressionable child was I, held captive
by the Holiest of things here and far beyond !
***
I remember the Angels fanning their wings
turning my weightless body into feathers
in a field full of daisies and floating castles in the air.
It was in a carousel ride full of flying horseys,
then one day I asked the Angels to take me home,
"Let go child " was all they said, and then they flew away
leaving me sitting there, me and my childhood whirligig !
curlicues perhaps
the Catholic nun
wouldn’t let me engage
in penmanship shape
“shape up, sit straight!!”
yet the ancients
would whirligig
with their featherings
fill up the page
with their zorro-like signature
tap-tap-tap
the teacher’s brought me back
to life, to engage
in this ((yawn)) bor…ing
admonish the swording
don’t let me squander her time
keep in step with the four wall attack
windows of daydreams grow black
march march march
in two straight Madeline-s
the feather tickles my digits
my mind metamorphic
the rhymes fantastic
tap-tap-tap
this time near my ear
the fearsome whip
that steers me
into correction
dear nun’s satisfaction
i’ll get an A
in penmanship
but conduct -
can’t shut me up
Sniffs of cotton candy glide
Glistening like hairy sugar bombs
Through barns of dozy prized cows
Stinky squeaky piggies squeal off-key
While whirligig Ferris Wheels grind and spin
In the hum of the Tilt-A-Whirl and giddy voices
May 14, 2023
Bitesize Contest No. 64 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Line Gauthier
SAND
airborne
dust devil
stinging whirligig
rips my hair, eyes, and skin
I’m well-scoured and abraded
“Cleansing sand storm, if I survive.”
NB: Clarity Pyramid, two triplets and a single line; 1/2/3/5/6/7/8 (7 lines total)
Dear miss carousel
Dear lady on wheels
When next you declare another ride
Permit me lay by your side
For I have no lover
To spin my body around
No loving Father
Nor cherished motherland
I have been despised by the world
Miss whirligig,
My frame's trapped in the mud
Like an unclean pig.
I bid thee
Miss merry go round
Next Time
Take and spin me around.
We plan, organize, gather and pack,
we fly - what liberty is this - to fly
like a weapon on the edge of heaven.
Having no power to do it ourselves
we trust security, the silver whirligig,
and the immutable laws of thrust and lift.
Looking down at clouds, near the speed of sound
“Yes, I’ll have the pretzels, please, and a sprite.”
aviating thru the night, a few silent, blinking lights
wedged up in the stars to those stuck in slow cars.
We land with a bump, and reverse engine thrust,
remaining in our seats until signs are revealed
we then become the many-headed impatience
to exit, to rush - for the baggage we trust
made the journey with us.
Oh, quick, grab a cab, catch a bus
The grumpy, disheveled six of us
we weary travelers thus
were returned from vacation,
to a near dawn New Haven.
October trees, they sway in the wind
A tangerine tango that taunts the tinges
October leaves, they swirl in the breeze
A vermilion whirligig that vaunts the whispers
October hues, they swagger the mind
A rubicund rollicking that haunts the shadows
October scenes, they sweep the heart
A garnet gambol that daunts the artists
October skies, they swarm the soul
A titian twinkle that flaunts God’s blessings
09.30.2021
For Regina McIntosh's "October" contest
To aid the celebration’s overindulgence
of snow and damp, sugar and fat,
serve a cornucopia of felicitous fiber
and its vitamin rush—
whirligig of walnuts and crisp cranberries,
Honeycrisp apples and wild red strawberries,
spring mix sprinkled with balsamic and fig.
Give a fig* about your friendships and figure.
Strap on boots, tread through snow and ice.
Make nice with muscles and joints,
your neighbors.
Share the bounty of your colorful heritage.
Stay in shipshape form as you celebrate.
I Am Not a Zelig
By Sy Roth
If not now, when?
The Zelig resides
Quiet, undefined
In my dark corners.
Like a chameleon, it rests on the warming rock
Inert, cold-blooded creature
Sunning itself
As the ages revolve about it.
In the room, they come and go,
All the merry Zeligs,
Awash in their obfuscation.
They blend in so well.
I watch them and my brain meanders,
My colors a steady stream,
While their kaleidoscopes
Are a whirligig of activity.
The warming rock gives me comfort
While their cold stares
Wrap me in a crinkly, aluminum sheet
Preserving what warmth escapes me.
The music of their voices
Play discordant songs about me
And I wonder,
Wondrous thoughts that slither among my dreams.
I’m warmed into somnambulance
Of time, while Zelig souls
Eat them hungrily
And their color fades into nothingness.
I am not a Zelig
And I should be happy about it
But I frown at the intransigence
Of my spiritless, colorless climax.
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