"jigs" poems
the bed is not very big
a sufficient pillow shoveling
her small manure-shaped head
one sheet on which distinctly wags
at times the weary twig
of a neckless ******
(very occasionally budding
a flabby algebraic odour
jigs
et tout en face
always wiggles the perfectly dead
finger of thitherhithering gas.
clothed with a luminous fur
poilu
a Jesus sags
in frolicsome wooden agony).
25.4k
Once I knew a place, a place I never truly found significant.
A vast stretch of abandonment and history - long forgotten and left to be consumed by Time himself.
Once I knew a place, a place I never truly understood.
Decorated by Mother Nature with an asortment of trees and shrubs and an abundance of flowers it's only scar which betrayed it to the present was a solitary man-made structure, tattoed with the bold letters of "FALCON SECURITY" - surely an untold testimony to this place's past life.
Once I knew a place, a place I never truly acknowledged.
Ocassionally it would become the temporary haven of hobbos and hermits alike. Living in mutual homelessness they sort comfort under the trees, in the confines of the hideous building or simply amongst the long, billowing grass of the place. They would build thingie-ma-jigs, what-ja-ma-call-its and thing-a-ma-bobs and sell them to the curt passerbys of their place.
Once I knew a place, a place I never truly appreciated.
Surrounded by infastructure, and industry it stood out like a rose amongst the thorns and brought beauty and clarity back into the otherwise monotonous, morbid environment. It stood defiant and strong against the hungry, salivating greed of humanity - yet someday it was bound to succumb to our over-powering ambition for development.
Once I knew a place, a place that no longer exists.
In the blink of an eye that place was destroyed - uprooted and upheaveled.
Every tree, every shrub, every flower ripped out and now gone. No longer a haven but a grave yard where the dead lay scattered like fallen soldiers across the battlefield. Victims against the War of Industrialisation they fell prey to mans' heinous desires.
"Collateral damage" for a "brighter" future they say.
I say, who needs another vehicle retail outlet.
Once I knew a place, and I will never know that place again.
Dec 7, 2013
Dec 7, 2013 at 4:14 PM UTC
There was a Young Lady of Bute,
Who played on a silver-gilt flute;
She played several jigs,
To her uncle's white pigs,
That amusing Young Lady of Bute.
2.4k
Nothing like, a cat soiree
Dancing cats, it's their forte'
If you're ever in thoughtful doubt
Need to smile, but can only pout
Find the cats, at their hangout
As they sing and dance about
Doing jigs and Rumba ques
Square dancing, a happy view
Tapping out to follow thru
Catty moves, line dancing too
Here Merengue, there is jive
Frolicking free, fully alive
No better joy, of feline scenes
Kittens cavort, like dancing fiends
Dec 22, 2016
Dec 22, 2016 at 9:02 AM UTC
Today is a day when we celebrate
GREEN....
whether we're IRISH or not
It just seems like the thing to do...
It is my favorite color.
Where ever you go
You see people who hauled out that
GREEN shirt with a large
leprechaun drinking beer on it.
Once a year they wear that shirt
It will last forever
Some dye their hair GREEN
And drink GREEN Beer
Jigs dinner....now I do love that
I wonder why... Its not GREEN.
But tomorrow I will take my
Shamrock off my front door
And my crazy profile picture
along with the shamrock banner,
down on f/b....
"ITS NOT EASY BEING GREEN"
By judy
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 8:10 AM UTC
The first few steps into the shade and out of the sun,
sensation of escape from one reality into a more true, somehow more noble throne,
away from the traffic of the so called real world, let it all come undone.
My ears are kissed by song of summer cicadas and crickets happy jigs,
the noise of ripples on the pond and the arresting feeling of the unknown,
the perfect combination of adventure and control, the deeper the depth, here, my soul can dig.
The swirling leaves and blossoming buds hum a symphony,
these noises combined create a song older than time stronger than bone,
without careful silence and respectable awe all of this would be unknown to me.
Aug 26, 2012
Aug 26, 2012 at 8:04 PM UTC
There was an Old Person of Ischia,
Whose conduct grew friskier and friskier;
He dance hornpipes and jigs,
And ate thousands of figs,
That lively Old Person of Ischia.
1.4k
With passing days queued up
for the forecast foreseeable
Tuck into the routines' reserves
deplete when permissible
Shot through the feet
with what we can't forget
run on through the limp
past the end of the sentence
and sit
In the glow
remain undeveloped
stay unreconstructed
drop the curtain
on scenes interrupted
Dot your i's
with up-slanted slash marks
sparks fill my eyes when
I read through your retorts
Blank page.
Blank page.
A waltz through a minefield
reeling jigs over headstones
when digging through
plain white lines
Aug 15, 2014
Aug 15, 2014 at 6:37 PM UTC
I
actually feel sorry for him
my
extension
my
avatar
I
wake him
every morning
no matter how sleepy he is
get him out of bed before sunrise
while I hide
deep inside.
He arises
to reply
respond
put out
and
deny.
A hook through the nose
to
catch the bucks
and
cast him out into that
old main stream
where he does his perfect avatar thing
he dances jigs
he placates
he sings
he says please and thank you
can I get you anything
the fingers
waving
at
him
no longer mean a thing.
A master of the palms up
he
can
always say
"who? Not me."
And
when his day is done
I
reel him in
remove
what ever little bucks
he
caught
Sit him down
in
front of the t.v.
gin and juice
and
dancing images too.
Give him a sleeping pill
so he sleeps so sound
no dreams
to
disturb
his life
and routine
a
brown nosed role
in
the
consumer machine.
I
slip
him
into bed
and
sometimes in the late night
I
hear
him weeping.
In
the morning
I
get him up
to
do
the same **** thing .
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 10:09 AM UTC
ITS NOT EASY BEING GREEN...
The 17th is a day when we celebrate
GREEN, whether we're IRISH or not...
It just seems like the thing to do
And it is my favorite color...
Where ever you go
You see people who hauled out that
GREEN shirt with a large
leprechaun drinking beer on it.
Once a year they wear that shirt
It will last forever...
Some dye their hair GREEN
And drink GREEN Beer
Jigs dinner....now I do love that
I wonder why Its not GREEN?
But soon I will take my
Shamrock off my front door
And my crazy profile picture
Off facebook
(YOUR WELCOME)
along with the shamrock banner
because,
"ITS NOT EASY BEING GREEN"
Mar 13, 2017
Mar 13, 2017 at 5:37 AM UTC
(In Celtic myth and legend, The twilight hours are those that belong to the Fairy realms, Where mortals can be taken into the twilight realms of the Sidhes, A place that time stands still, the moment hushes and the soul lingers to the nightly feasts of the eternal. I suppose I take this to apply to our dream world as much as to a factual realm.)
She hovers upon the wings of night
casts her drift of the fairy tunes
that creep like the fine mists of time
Engulfs the land, inhabits the realms
where thoughts so gather, flood and flow
Covering the world into her fine blanket
To drift us all to the world of dreams.
It is here that all possibilities arise
takes flight upon the fancy cries
Hovers lightly upon perpetual forms
and lingers in the thick flowered groves
In this world where the fairies dance
to the old jigs and airs
Swirl the embrace of their twilight realms
Between the mantel of the universe.
It is here upon their midnight embrace
that the ancient Gods arise and cry
their archaic forms stretch forth
Grasping hold of man's internal cries
They summon the strings of the ancient web
whereby all creation stems and flows
Illuminating us to their ways ever afresh
And placing deep within the will, the form.
Oh! How we arise to the Dawns sweet call
relishing to the finial vestige of the night
We wish to return to that realm of no pain
where sorrow and fears all subside
to the pleasure of the sidhe's ways
where life holds its true embrace
and love wings its fluttered call
and draws fast the human soul
into the desired length of passion's night.
Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Apr 2, 2011
Apr 2, 2011 at 6:27 AM UTC
The steam lifts off the concrete floor
and paradise ain't here no more.
It set sail on a cargo ship
On a never ending trip.
It's out there, near the Bay of Pigs
lost between the reels and jigs.
On its way to distant shores.
Paradise ain't here no more.
Somewhere near the Southern Tip,
It's heard it let its secrets slip,
to a drunkard on the floor,
and paradise ain't here no more.
Lost forever to the stars.
Paradise has gone to far.
Through the clouds, an open door.
Now paradise ain't here no more.
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 4:42 PM UTC
He peels an azure rind
sure to find click-clack gears clocking
tin-men's timid-toed steps
But these clouds conceal gut-
taut strings rain drops plink, teasing out
hours of palsy-foot jigs
Jul 3, 2010
Jul 3, 2010 at 9:12 AM UTC
That five-seven-five is a scam,
Just nature plus seasonal spam.
A frog in a bog—
Wow! A leaf! And some fog!
It’s a tweet with a syllable jam.
Now limericks think they’re so sly,
With their jigs and their wink of the eye.
But their punchlines grow stale,
Like a bar yuck from Yale—
It’s the dad joke of poetry. Why?
Oh Shakespeare, forgive what’s been done—
Fourteen lines on a love that won’t run.
With their iambic moans,
And romanticized groans—
They're just Tinder swipes dressed as the sun.
Repetition’s the name of its game,
But by stanza three, it’s all shame.
You repeat and repeat,
Till your brain hits delete—
Was it clever, or just all the same?
Acrostics spell TRY HARD down the side,
A format no critic can abide.
Each line bends and breaks,
Just for symmetry’s sake—
And the message gets lost in the ride.
Free verse gets a pass, but just barely—
Too often it screams “Look, I’m arty!”
With no rhythm or aim,
Just vibes and a name—
Like a drunk giving TED Talks at parties.
---
There once was a muse unconfined,
Who laughed at each rule tightly lined.
When pure thought took flight,
It outshone every rite—
For raw truth outclasses form every time.
Mar 27, 2025
Mar 27, 2025 at 5:07 AM UTC
The bored mold grows old,
rigorously boring mostly into the gorge,
moaning, groaning its barge jigs -
the mole roars at its grim bowl.
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 8:07 PM UTC
The trees will leave; when snow arrives
For all the leaves have already left
While we looked right for the Sun.
Once rays danced through town,
Music was unheard; beatless jigs seemed
Devil wrought and the folk screamed,
"What light are you! to have robbed us
Blind we are not! Bare branches hang
Solemn as gallows overhead; what evil
Replaced the green with red?"
Without pause, the rays swung from
Leafless limb to flowerless stem;
Offended and dignified, the rays parted
Leaving the town behind with haste.
Glad were the simple folk; sad, alone.
The gallows flourished in the dark;
Folkless town the leaves found;
Silent -
They rotted in ground.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 5:24 PM UTC
Don't be alarmed!
I have something to say.
Was wanting to inquire,
What you're doing Saturday?
Doesn't have to be this one,
Could be a week or two or so,
But I want to take you with me,
To a place I love to go.
It is a little bit out of the way,
And we may be out a bit late,
But I will drive while you relax,
I'm asking you out on a date.
I know "dork" is what you're thinking,
And I have to say I agree,
I promise you will make it to church,
We will have fun you will see.
It's one of my favorite places,
And I know you will like it too,
If you have sandals... wear em',
Let me know if it's good for you.
May 3, 2010
May 3, 2010 at 7:38 PM UTC
Casting lines
dropping jigs
some of them tipped with pig
Chicken liver
on the river
channel, Blues or yellow cats
Texas Rig
rattle Trap
pull out that hot spot map
Spinner baits
attracting blades
casting lures in the shade
Spin cast
snoopy pole
custom rod, medium fast
Crappie and largemouth
catfishing in the south
lakes or rivers, even streams
sometimes of the gulf we dream
Finger mullet on the line
waiting on the drag to whine
sharks or rays, even trout,
man that what it's all about
Whiting or croaker
let's go catch some Redfish
or salmon for the smoker
Northern pike and walleyes
white bass and panfish
fishing under blue skies
Bring a rod and a reel
tackle box and cold beer
at the lake its the deal
Cast and wind
catch and clean
fried blackened or steamed
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 9:43 AM UTC
...yesterday, did I?! Tsk, tsk.
(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMXVII)
Poinsett'yas red for Xmas "cheer," detail
The huge, white snowflake cutouts with a sense
Of all we dreaded facing, tree fr'intents
A green fir Santa's head hangs from t'avail,
I've Irish strains to give the silence bail
As merry jigs in season charm from hence
The dead calm I'd not wake, but why's defense
So dearly wanted like I'm lost? Joys fail?
I know! Tis amb'ance for a party. Were
Such mine t'indulge in, these might as well do
That want of "what's just right" some good. Is't poor
Now I am dying of boredom strangely too?
Put on Tchaikovsky after Celtic fer
This restless sense I can't shake--oh, where to?!
07Dec24b
Dec 11, 2024
Dec 11, 2024 at 2:51 PM UTC
Writing in memory
and distance
of those rampant
fiddles and flutes;
of those swaying dances
over drunken floors
and sailing seas;
the jigs in heaven,
rock and roll,
ups and downs
between a nod and a wink -
the forever being,
cynically, hopeful
in the flux of things
that knock us flat
or cheer us on.
Jul 21, 2010
Jul 21, 2010 at 10:19 PM UTC
I want to write such words
That can reach out and teach,
And share with the world
What I have found on beaches
And mountain passes, in cities
And the countrysides, like music;
Lilting songs without tunes
But such that please any critic
And help them learn to sing
Even when there is no melody,
Experiences that changes them
To symphonies from threnodies.
I want to help everybody hear
The jigs and tarantellas here
Made from words that keep
Their lively memory very near,
That we may subtly hear it
And love it and treasure
Every beat, rest and thought
In every verbal measure,
So they can ride along with
An orchestra often unheard:
The precious gift to us all,
The magnificent spoken word.
I have set my sights on this,
The mission I have chosen
And shall make it my quest to
Insure my stride is not broken.
Not everyone is given the gift
To say what they deeply feel,
It falls to those who can speak
To show others what is real,
Or what may just be tinsel
And what is golden, or wrong.
Thus is the fate of our poets
To parse it in poetry and song.
Mar 20, 2018
Mar 20, 2018 at 10:47 PM UTC
*My forging hammer
Lies reclined
My bellows, too
Have lost their wind
My fires extinct
My forge decayed
And in the dust
My vices layed
My coal is spent
My iron is gone
My anvil is broke
My work is done
My work is done
My work is done
My work is done*
**My chisels
Lie dull
My saws, too
Have lost their edge
My trees are felled
My lumber decayed
And in the sawdust
My clamps layed
My angles are bent
My jigs are gone
My tools are rusted
My work is done
My work is done
My work is done
My work is done**
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 7:32 PM UTC
She’s the best at jigs
She gives "sour kisses," too
And she’s super fun. x)
Apr 11, 2014
Apr 11, 2014 at 2:37 AM UTC