His writing was pompous and verbose
Why wouldn’t it be?
He writes like he speaks
He appears to be a loquacious windbag which he is
Stop your balderdash and poppycock
You're the biggest windbag on the block
Everything that you've said
Must have gone to your head
Cuz your bean's the size of Plymouth Rock
The windbag fiddler
felt windless and
bent idling nigh
some trees.
It was after a time
had spent that
he heard an
amazing
sound.
A frog was propped
half-way upon his
fiddle strummed
all the way up
and down to
the ground.
Musical chords are
timely struck and
all the while the
windless aka
windbag just
fiddle idle.
Brown nose,
head bowed low
Sniffing submissively so
Wag the sniveling tongue,
show the power privileged ones
much servile love
Catch the prime scraps
tossed from your master’s table
Give a howl of gratitude,
back bent ... eyes to the floor
Do a lot of begging for a little more
Disgruntled windbag gas,
from the top cat sphincter mouth crack,
wafts in an odious fashion
Pet brown noses love that unappetizing smell
Obsequious odor
is their collared passion
Pungent leftover scent passed over
bottom end face down —
Complete compliance drool dripping
grovel to the ground
Beggarly you beagle bark
for an extra morsel
Missy gives you a moonshine treat
out the backdoor
Brown nose do as you’re told,
and your belly
will always stay belch full
Sleepy eyes resting by the Uncle Tom cabin fire,
the odor of rotten servitude pleases you
So in lap tongue love with your desired
bowel oppression fate
As you dog-eared wait
for an anticipated olfactory taste
of the next tummy toilet pull
Oh, March
you pompous windbag
howling in the hollows
of Winters fade.
Scattering Fall’s gold
across warmed mud,
billowing tree bound
plastic bag kites,
hoisting the weightless hawk.
Oh March
you city street sweeper
funneling debris
down tunneled alleys,
tearing at the edges
of flailing flags,
hastening the pace
of lethargy’s malaise.
Oh March
you docile lamb
caressing soft peeking buds,
nurturing the squawk
of nestlings,
nudging idle cocoons
to wakefulness,
warming ophidian
cold blood.
Oh March
you are the hint
of warming’s kiss
titillating Spring’s yawn.
John G. Lawless
©3/1/2018
All the old woman does is nag, nag, nag.
How do I get rid of the old windbag?
There is a bumper crop
when she goes nonstop.
For peace and quiet, is there a price tag?
It’s a tough , tough call
Too..too many things to recall
A few sticking on as remembrance.
Too horrid or huge or humorous
A bundle of points ponderously fall,
While I try encrypting into my scrawl.
Hours , long to sleep away
So, I’ve got to wake up often in a day.
Being a windbag and sanctimonious at that
Is my singular respite
In oxygen- short peaks of silence.
Cicatrix of self is what I see as substance
Even as I am blind to wounds of life.
Who is to blame for my rot and strife?
Lack of hands to deliver
Or surfeit of hands seeking succor.
Bury me please atop my tedium
Or the Everest of encomiums
Still you can rile or rebuke me, as I stick out my head
Who am I..who am I
Question that is great, but it flatters
Who is the not-I , trickier, is what matters.
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