Limerick of the Day

Here you will find the limericks for our St. Patrick's Day Pot of Goodies contest. Study the limericks, search for the hidden coin, find the coin, and bring it to the Townsquare Media studios on South Limit Avenue in Sedalia to claim your pot of goodies. That day's limerick will be added to this article every day by noon!

Limericks are also read on Mix 92-3 and Kix 105-7 daily at 9:00 AM, 2:00 PM, and 5:00 PM

Tuesday, March 10

Morning stretches long and thin;
Evening folds the daylight in.
Where posts and markers cast their claim,
Shadows play a clever game.
Something is absent, plain to view,
Not added on, but missing a clue.
Excuses linger, thin and small.
“I did not see it,” heard from all.

Line them up and you may see
What hides in plane geometry?
The trick is not in what you find,
But how you stand and use your mind.

Walk with care and measured pace,
Past whispered winds and ancient grace.
Where shadows gather all around,
A clever prize waits to be found.

Six potatoes.

Monday, March 9

A test for sight, for heart, for mind,
Not everything is what you find.
Two steps aside, then glance anew,
The clever see what others rue.

A curve gone missing or a line misplaced,
A silent space none can trace.
What once was whole now stands apart;
An absent piece reveals the start.

Do not linger; do not block the way.
Enter here, but do not stay.
Open. Closed. Authorized.
Rules displayed but half disguised.

Written where colors fade,
Quiet shapes the rules have made.
Some shout bold in red and light;
Some lose pieces in plain sight.

No lock, no hole, no digging deep,
Just clever eyes that chose to keep
The rules in mind, the steps in line,
And patience steady as a spine.

Five potatoes.

Saturday, March 7

Turn the ordinary through and through,
Let common things wear magic’s hue.
For wisdom blooms when seekers see
What hides in plain sight patiently.

Step by step, or side by side,
The truth is never far to hide.
Lots of colors, bold and faint,
A rainbow scattered like careless paint.

The patient see what others pass;
The cleverest seeker finds it fast.
Hidden in perfect invisibility,
Overlooked by familiarity.

Seek the shade where old tales glide
On winds of gold the dust can’t hide.
Find the shimmer, claim your cheer;
The luck of Ireland lingers here.

Three potatoes.
Four.

Friday, March 6

Follow the murmur of wind through the trees,
It carries riddles and faint melodies.
A shuffle, a giggle, a flicker of light,
Hints of the treasure just out of sight.

Remove your blinders; enlighten your view.
The clues will reveal what awaits you.
Step by step, with patient eyes,
The careful seeker claims the prize.

Golden and small, with a glint so bright,
It hides from fools but loves the wise.
Not buried deep nor locked away,
But tucked where watchful leprechauns play.

Seen and unseen, both equal in worth.
This year awakens a curious search,
A test of perception, of sight, of rebirth.

Follow closely, soft and true,
The treasure waits for eyes like you.

Two potato.

Thursday, March 5

Long before you wandered here,
Old rules were written, clear.
Honor the land, both stone and tree,
For secrets rest where they are meant to be.

No spade nor hammer shall you bring,
No prying hands on hidden things.
Break nothing open, move no wall,
For luck will not smile on that at all.

Do not destroy what is meant to hide;
Respect spaces where secrets reside.
For tearing things apart, you will see,
Just leads to needless misery.

Step from your hearth; do not just stare.
The Emerald Isle lives in open air.
Leave screens behind; let daylight guide,
Where shamrocks flourish far and wide.

Let’s do this thing.

One potato.

Wednesday, March 4

Lucky the Leprechaun, flame in his hair,
Cloaked in the hush of green woodland air.
Keeper of coin in the crook of a tree,
Hiding his treasure where no eyes can see.

Soft as a whisper, through clover he goes,
Light on the wind where the bright shamrock grows.
Trickster of twilight, nimble and spry,
A glint of gold, and he’s gone in a sigh.

He tiptoes past, in circles of light,
Turning ordinary into delight.
Each leaf and twig become part of his jest,
For Lucky loves games more than the rest.

When March seventeenth paints the daylight green,
He dances between what is seen and unseen.
Laughing in lilts where the old stories run;
Mischief and magic in Lucky, the one.

At dusk he will hide his gleaming prize,
Peering at mortals with curious eyes.
With a wink and a shuffle of nimble shoe,
He vanishes swift, leaving only dew.

Potato, potahto.