"bobbleheads" poems
parents telling you one thing
and the internet insisting another
brainwashed bobbleheads of corruption
lies stained with the tropical freshness of 5 gum
everything is a bore, and nothing excites anymore
blank faces, straight mouths, eyes half open
the generation morphed into mannequins
faces glued to apple contraptions
the struggle to express emotion and wondering why
Mar 30, 2014
Mar 30, 2014 at 10:00 PM UTC
I
That twitch in the schoolgirl’s eye
Isn’t caused by snowy mountains.
There’s Guildhall in her twisted lip.
II
I was of three minds.
Greta Thunberg took all of them
And cloaked them in a yellow hood.
III
A small part of the pantomime was never Greta’s style.
She has miles to go before she lets us sleep.
IV
Of the things schoolgirls hate
The sun is not among them.
The blackbird’s wings and the oil fields of Manitoba
Are one.
V
I do not know which to prefer,
The thought that they might one day bring out
Greta Thunberg bobbleheads
Or the fact that bobbleheads exist at all,
The fact that we’re ******
Or the fact that we’re enjoying it.
VI
An indecipherable cause.
VII
O pigtailed teens of Stockholm,
Please remember
What Wallace Stevens said
About birds of golden feathers
And of black.
VIII
What is involved in what I know?
Like Socrates, I don’t know.
But it’s more than 99.9 per cent
Of climate scientists could ever dream
And less than a signpost
To the wrong city in the snow.
IX
When Greta sailed two weeks to New York
She was in a circle of close friends.
I bet they ate tinned kippers
And had those sweets the Swedish love.
X
To cry out sharply is what we do
If we are lucky enough to cry.
And so I have more compassion
For Greta than you know.
Some women have no time.
Their children dying
Takes up the best portion of the day.
XI
I can’t remember the part of the campaign trail
He rode over to tell a waiting crowd
How the size of his equipage
Compared to his small hands.
There are good reasons why Greta hates his guts.
This is not the best of them.
XII
The river is full of plastic.
The thermometer must be rising.
XIII
It is snowing
And it is going to snow.
Oct 19, 2019
Oct 19, 2019 at 11:25 PM UTC
Bobble heads on teetering shelves,
There are so many eyes, looking
Down on me. I try to reach up to
Still their shaking heads, but even
When I jump, I cannot seem to reach.
Dec 6, 2024
Dec 6, 2024 at 5:33 PM UTC
Here is a poem I composed for you,
Like the ripples in the laces when I tie my shoes.
Discombobulating bobbleheads,
The knobby knuckles,
The seat belt buckle.
Introspeculating lobby beds.
The bumps in the road were on my head,
Disconnecting me from the thread.
Nov 12, 2018
Nov 12, 2018 at 1:04 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
Avon Man and the Mystery of His First-Best Bed
I gyve unto my wief my second best bed…
-Attributed to Shakespeare in his will. Or Churchill. Or
Milton. Or Elvis. Or Some Famous Man. And Shakespeare
was secretly a Catholic. (No, he wasn’t.) (Yes, he was.) (No, he
wasn’t.) (Yes, he was; I read it on the InterGossip.)
That second-best bed doesn’t matter a pop
Those anyones whoever slept in it are deads
Memorialized as dashboard bobbleheads
At Ye Olde Anne Hathawaye gifte shoppe
Kinge Richarde nevere cryede, “mye kyngdome fore ye bedde!”
Yea, goode olde Sirre Erpinghame joked, “Now lye I like a kynge”
So what’s the deale withe the firste-beste bedde thynge?
Thatte seconde bedde is where the Widowe rested hir hedde
Ande thusse ye scholares maken withouten cessatione
Unsupportede argumentes and allegationes
Jan 25, 2024
Jan 25, 2024 at 9:31 PM UTC