"wiggy" poems
On the frog
Looking for a dog
On the squizzlly wiggy at piggly wiggly
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 9:09 AM UTC
"Beep-beep.
BANKERS TRUST AUTOMOBILE LOAN
You'll find a banker at Bankers Trust"
Advertisement in N.Y. Times
When comes my second childhood,
As to all men it must,
I want to be a banker
Like the banker at Bankers Trust.
I wouldn't ask to be president
Or even assistant veep,
I'd only ask for a kiddie car
And permission to go beep-beep.
The banker at Chase Manhattan,
He bids a polite Good-day;
The banker at Immigrant Savings
Cries Scusi! and Olé!
But I'd be a sleek Ferrari
Or perhaps a joggly jeep,
And scooting around at Bankers Trust,
Beep-beep, I'd go, beep-beep.
The trolley car used to say clang-clang
And the choo-choo said toot-toot,
But the beep of the banker at Bankers Trust
Is every bit as cute.
Miaow, says the cuddly kitten,
Baa, says the woolly sheep,
Oink, says the piggy-wiggy,
And the banker says beep-beep.
So I want to play at Bankers Trust
Like a hippety-hoppety bunny,
And best of all, oh best of all,
With really truly money.
Now grown-ups dear, it's nightie-night
Until my dream comes true,
And I bid you a happy boop-a-doop
And a big beep-beep adieu.
4.7k
In my dream,
drilling into the marrow
of my entire bone,
my real dream,
I'm walking up and down Beacon Hill
searching for a street sign --
namely MERCY STREET.
Not there.
I try the Back Bay.
Not there.
Not there.
And yet I know the number.
45 Mercy Street.
I know the stained-glass window
of the foyer,
the three flights of the house
with its parquet floors.
I know the furniture and
mother, grandmother, great-grandmother,
the servants.
I know the cupboard of Spode
the boat of ice, solid silver,
where the butter sits in neat squares
like strange giant's teeth
on the big mahogany table.
I know it well.
Not there.
Where did you go?
45 Mercy Street,
with great-grandmother
kneeling in her whale-bone corset
and praying gently but fiercely
to the wash basin,
at five A.M.
at noon
dozing in her wiggy rocker,
grandfather taking a nap in the pantry,
grandmother pushing the bell for the downstairs maid,
and Nana rocking Mother with an oversized flower
on her forehead to cover the curl
of when she was good and when she was...
And where she was begat
and in a generation
the third she will beget,
me,
with the stranger's seed blooming
into the flower called Horrid.
I walk in a yellow dress
and a white pocketbook stuffed with cigarettes,
enough pills, my wallet, my keys,
and being twenty-eight, or is it forty-five?
I walk. I walk.
I hold matches at street signs
for it is dark,
as dark as the leathery dead
and I have lost my green Ford,
my house in the suburbs,
two little kids
****** up like pollen by the bee in me
and a husband
who has wiped off his eyes
in order not to see my inside out
and I am walking and looking
and this is no dream
just my oily life
where the people are alibis
and the street is unfindable for an
entire lifetime.
Pull the shades down --
I don't care!
Bolt the door, mercy,
erase the number,
rip down the street sign,
what can it matter,
what can it matter to this cheapskate
who wants to own the past
that went out on a dead ship
and left me only with paper?
Not there.
I open my pocketbook,
as women do,
and fish swim back and forth
between the dollars and the lipstick.
I pick them out,
one by one
and throw them at the street signs,
and shoot my pocketbook
into the Charles River.
Next I pull the dream off
and slam into the cement wall
of the clumsy calendar
I live in,
my life,
and its hauled up
notebooks.
3.6k
Wiggy doesn’t mean it is a wig
Just that it looks very like one;
And the hairdo is so ludicrous
That we can’t help making fun.
You act like an adolescent
Your orange hair is almost funny.
You utter the most inane things
Your disposition totally not sunny.
Wiggy little piggy, is what you are
As you ludicrously strut about.
You make yourself a laughingstock
From your hooves up to your snout.
You spout a bunch of garbage
High on the ignorance scale
Like you bought it all half price
At a dollar-store basement sale.
Snort and wiggle, grimace and scowl
It’s quite the side-show carnival show
You open your mouth and let fall out
Words that prove what you do not know.
Grunt and wallow in your own mud
Holler, howl, bellow and squeal
As if the lies you are telling us all
Amount to something valid and real.
Wiggy little piggy, is what you are
As you ludicrously strut about.
You make yourself a laughingstock
From your hooves up to your snout.
You spout a bunch of garbage
High on the ignorance scale
Like you bought it all half price
At a dollar-store basement sale.
So far, you are making yourself
Totally beloved in the Sainted South
But to most of us you would look
Better with an apple in your mouth.
You **** and moan and pontificate
And spout such bigoted wit
That the best place for you is
Guest of honor on a barbecue spit.
Wiggy little piggy, is what you are
As you ludicrously strut about.
You make yourself a laughingstock
From your hooves up to your snout.
You spout a bunch of garbage
High on the ignorance scale
Like you bought it all half price
At a dollar-store basement sale.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 8:28 PM UTC
Grew up with my best friends
made my own family
Don't like the way things are so I change them
Holes in my chucks trying to make a buck
Moving forward with life
no more being down on my luck
Girls always hate
the consequences for dating
We had a thing you denied us
now i moved on you cried not a lust
Not sure what to say
Live life no regret anyway
It's over not trying to stay
Small town called the crown
Full of brown in this town
Nonsense talk about being down
Circle city formal race trace
History lesson take you back in the day
Hometown I grew up
Heart is in to places different faces
Different phases cleaned up my act
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 4:22 AM UTC
Marginal summer's leading the wiggy stream.
I feel tomato juice on my skin
touching the buzzing string.
Impossible to the clowns of Taste,
invisible to the goddess of Waste,
invoked against,
who are you, echoing in the rocks,
calm as a heavy raindrop,
too free to hurry,
too loving yourself to stop?
Fingers never complete the needle's path.
Ice and honey; who needs the middle part?
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 8:33 PM UTC
Very small and eighteen years old
and she's leaving me
My little black and white cat
Yes, its time to say good goodbye
My Wiggy and I have to part
I remember the time about two in the morn
When her kittens were born on my lap
How will I manage, what will I do
I'm so going to miss Wiggy cat
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 5:31 PM UTC
Piecemeal, a Coronavirus poem
by Michael R. Burch
And so it begins—the ending.
The narrowing veins, the soft tissues rending.
Your final solution is pending.
(A pale Piggy-Wiggy
will discount your death as no biggie.)
Keywords/Tags: coronavirus, plague, Trump, final, solution, stat, statistic, number, ratings, reelection
Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 3:53 AM UTC
Pour me another ***
with lot's of coke
Woman come on dance with me
make me
feel one
do your thing wiggy that buttie about
Now I known how I feel
and want to make love
do you do
feel the same as I do
are there sparks in your head
do you
feel like love
Come on babe tell me no ****
feel the same way as I do!
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 7:53 PM UTC