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

Friday, March 13

Oh, where has St. Patrick’s Day gone,
The day of shamrocks green?
The leprechaun with fiery hair
He slipped from sight unseen.

Go where red and white align,
Where boundary posts form tidy line.
Shift your stance, do not face it straight.
Let angles bend the hand of fate.

For what seems solid, flat, and plain
May shape itself if viewed again.
A trick of light, a sidelong glance,
That’s how the fair folk make you dance.

Signs speak, as they did before,
Marking edges, lines, and more.
Boundaries drawn in red and white,
Warnings posted left and right.

Read what is written, then read it twice.
The smallest change gives quiet advice.
Four corners, posts, or panels fixed;
One of them is subtly mixed.

Laughter, shelter, and playground fun,
The treasure waits where shadows run.
Trust not first sight nor common view,
The Emerald Isle rewards the few.

Potato, potahto.

Thursday, March 12

Leprechauns love shamrocks bright;
They spin their stories day and night.
In open view before your eyes,
They hide their gold in sly disguise.

Search the fields both near and far,
Where sun and shadow play,
The green will bloom where hearts are true,
On this bright Irish day.

He laughs beside the babbling brook,
A twinkle in his eye.
For leprechauns treasure riddles well,
And mischief passing by.

And though the day may fade to dusk,
And shadows start to play,
The leprechaun’s sly, sparkling cheer
Will dance with you all day.

For Ireland’s magic is not lost,
It’s closer than you know.

More.

Wednesday, March 11

Oh, where is St. Patrick’s Day today?
The leprechauns wandered far away.
He laughs beneath rainbow skies
While hiding gold from careless eyes.

Round and round your footsteps trace,
Circling one familiar place.
You’ve passed it once, perhaps times four,
Yet never truly saw the door.

Step aside and shift your place;
Change your angle, slow your pace.
What disappears when viewed head-on
Returns when slightly drawn.

When sun and shadow both agree,
A hidden shape will come to be.
Time and patience mark the spot
Where something’s there, though others thought not.

Do not give up, tomorrow is Day 8.
There’s more ahead, so anticipate.

Seven potatoes.

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.