"hokey" poems
Prickly pokey
I guess I'm kind of hokey
cacti are my jam!
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 2:00 PM UTC
Danny O'Dare, the dancin' bear,
Ran away from the County Fair,
Ran right up to my back stair
And thought he'd do some dancin' there.
He started jumpin' and skippin' and kickin',
He did a dance called the Funky Chicken,
He did the Polka, he did the Twist,
He bent himself into a pretzel like this.
He did the Dog and the Jitterbug,
He did the **** and the Bunny Hug.
He did the Waltz and the Boogaloo,
He did the Hokey-Pokey too.
He did the Bop and the Mashed Potata,
He did the Split and the See Ya Later.
And now he's down upon one knee,
Bowin' oh so charmingly,
And winkin' and smilin'--it's easy to see
Danny O'Dare wants to dance with me.
10.4k
meanwhile,
the Big Fat Yellow Bootay
was getting right tired of
waiting for the election to end.
so,
she set off down the highway
going ninety five...
"HOKEEEY POKEEEY!" she cried
as she gunned the engine and
threw herself in gear.
"HOKEEEY POKEEEY! MOTHER *******
twice she cried,
"HOKEEEY POKEEEY! MOTHER *******
this second time
for extra good luck
with the unfolding election.
cool Fall breeze caressed
her yellow metal,
her big fat yellow bootay,
a glorious day to
be out on a drive!
well, except where she had
come from.
beep beep
beep beep
always driving her
beep beep beeping insane!
it shore nuf was quiet
out this way!
she turned the shiny
silver dial to turn on the
radio.
'gonna have to get me
some better speakers
one day soon.' she thought
to her big fat bus self.
and what came out blasting?
"That's Alright Mama,"
by who else?
but the King!
Elvis!
Elvis has left the building
and now,
Elvis is ON THE BUS!
she didn't quite know all
of the words,
but what the ****
she sure could sing!
As the big fat bus
with the big fat bootay
was driving along,
singing joyfully,
she glanced in the rear
view mirrow and what
did she see?
why the ghost of Elvis himself
was sitting right there
right in the back of the bus.
He starts strumming on his
own guitar and singing,
'that's alright mama.."
so she turned off the
radio to listen
to the ghost of
the King,
Elvis,
himself,
singing in the back
of her big fat yellow bootay!
she also watched him eating
a lot of food
in the back of the bus,
her bus.
his ghostly figure
seemed to
fluctuate between fat Elvis,
and skinny Elvis,
like a seesaw.
by and by
says he,
(not the really fat one
but not the really skinny one
neither.)
'I need a pit stop.'
says the King
so the big fat bus,
with the big fat yellow bootay,
asks,
asks she,
'you wanna stop at the next
stop & go,
or
the next
fizz & wizz,
or
my fav if you really
need a constitutional,
the stop & plop?'
at this particular junction in time
this ghostly King,
was in the shape
of Fat Elvis
but very cooly outfitted,
bellbottoms and rhine stones
or were those all diamonds?
note to self,
the big fat bus
squirreled away,
check on that.
are those real or not?
more mulha is always
good
and this just might
be mana from heaven
in the form of Elvis the KING
himself
and maybe just one
of those diamonds
will fall out and
get lost in me.'
mighty strange happenings
going on around here in this
big fat bus
with the big fat yellow bootay.
' the stop and plop little mama,' elvis replied
with that
ohhhh,
soooooo,
divine Elvis drawl
and that darling little
thing he did with his mouth,
but was doing now
as he was sitting there in the
back of HER big fat bus
with HER big fat yellow bootay!
OH MY,
it really is a
HOKEY POKEY day! she sighed.....
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 6:42 PM UTC
Ha-Ha, Joker's laugh, wildcard coyote
dances a maniac tango, joking
in the midst of elemental chaos--
giggling at the lava, way hot
watching the castle's mortar dissolve, doting
the cacophonous crumbling symphony akin to Amadeus.
Ha-ha, joker's laugh, wildcard coyote
ignites a spliff with incandescent embers, smoking--
up under falling stars getting higher than the Himalayas
and more enlightened as the midnight parades off
into a translucent, steaming ashy bayou, hoping
there's a bite to eat before the heat waves doff
the darkness completely into blinding, hokey
sunbeams reflecting in snow, that cuckoo tune never lost,
Ha-ha, joker's laugh from that wildcard coyote.
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 12:03 AM UTC
Is there someone out there that can make the insecure, secure?
The lost become found?
The weak become strong?
The introvert extrovert and all things in-between?
The ugly more beautiful?
The headedness and nightmares become more of a joke?
The sounds in the background become solid and free
Chuck out the garbage
The ties that bind thee
Those that put you in trouble of the deepest kind
The ugliest of mothers hellbent on revenge
Taking out pennies from someone else's den
Is there someone decent and cool
To help get along in the life of a fool?
I am the pest the irregular verb
Adjectives, hyphens the comma's full stop and nerds
All comprehensive found sometimes expensive
So you'll never know what kind of gift wraps inside
Quaky, Jackie, Stumble bunny and fall
Am running amok for the sake of it all
Sinderella what a fella
He went to the garden zoo
Played hokey cokey
Oh what a jokey
He even drank the soup
Happy Halloween you creeps!
© Bernard M Coldwell all rights reserved
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 5:44 AM UTC
Some blokes are full of Dad jokes,
They have a wealth of these and are delivered with the corny expertise that only a Dad has.
They get a grin on their face as they lean forward like they’re about to say something profound.
“I used to be addicted to the Hokey Pokey, but I turned myself around.”
“What do you call a cow with no legs? Ground Beef.”
“I hate Russian Dolls, they’re so full of themselves.”
“Apparently, pet birds are popular this Christmas, they’re flying off the shelves.”
Passed down from Grandads to fathers,
One-liners for us to consume,
It’s the closest thing some have to a family heirloom.
“What did the first African phone user say? Kenya hear me now?”
“A cat's favourite Queen song? Don’t stop meow.”
When reversing his car, “This takes me back.”
Wedding speech, “It’s been an emotional day, even the cakes in tiers.”
There've been so many down the years,
Yes, they’re cringy but we should enjoy them while we can,
You never know what's in store, and they’ll be a time when we’d love to hear them just once more.
May 2, 2020
May 2, 2020 at 9:02 PM UTC
forging sagacious epoch
activating neural station
escaping hokey-pokey jiggery-pokery
transcribing ineffective fragments
digesting bear news
opposing usual exhaustion
deferring oxter reference
cascading style sheets
containing double readings
mumbling lorem ipsum
locating moose jaw
enforcing meticulous patterns
deconstructing vertical centering
manifesting additional destinies
deleting !important statement
craving sleep paralysis
receiving cryptozoological vibrations
lightning fast collapse
distracting tunnel vision
culling deadbeat sequentialists
overanalyzing twitter analytics
acquiring arbitrary relevance
spinning ping-pong sign
floccinaucinihilipilificating
floccinaucinihilipilificated
floccinaucinihilipilification
interjecting ****** holophrase
minifying conventional language
securing downpour refuge
admiring octopus chandelier
resuming party music
taking mental trip
encountering ersatz telesthesia
denigrating bygone grudges
maintaining elevated composure
ignoring neurotypical haters
eliciting cryptic emotions
foreshadowing triple crown?
experimenting acrostic restriction
noticing ubiquitous "threes"
aggrandizing loyal legion
favoring ursine narratives
finding oblique resilience
yielding orchestral undulations
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 12:51 PM UTC
Neck-deep in the business
of business,
only his head remains sleepless
in the dark of early mornings
to enlighten those
who sleep in, and spotlight
his peers who delight him.
His capital investment
is love and empathy;
he replenishes the funds spent
on an island of shelter,
the helter-skelter of Monday-Friday
a Distressway away.
North Country chair on the dock
over beckoning waves
sounding their Circe song,
drawing him to the bedrock
of peace
with himself and others.
Generous with his words
his head runneth over
and verses cascade down,
filling one from another
like a mountain of flutes
poured from a veritable jeroboam
of the muse's vintage.
Only love shows as he writes
doing the poetic hokey-pokey,
left foot in, left foot out.
He has turned my world around...
and that's what it's all about.
Sep 2, 2017
Sep 2, 2017 at 1:05 PM UTC
I have half-written confessions about you
And all of them are simultaneously as weak and gauche as the struggling flight of a butterfly with half its wings ripped off.
I have no coordination when it comes to dancing, Darling, and it's probably becoming more and more prevalent as you catch me tripping around my declarations
Because I am filled with so much self-doubt, but I can't help it that this new piece of my life has me second-guessing the placement of my feet and the rhythm I'm swaying to.
And with you being so honest from the dawn of our affair, it's made me guilty for doubting anything at all.
But I can't help it that you're a natural dancer and I'm just a mess.
I felt that the strength in my emotions were something to be ashamed of and in turn I've put them on display
A lewd circus performance to weigh the mass of my words and predict the approximate level they could wriggle down beneath your skin
Because I can deal with the stern looks and careless scoffs from sporadic digital strangers,
It's just that you aren't one and that means your opinion counts most of all.
I want to dazzle you with crazy dance moves like the Charlie Brown or Jitterbug or even twerk a couple of times because I can't impress with my mastering of the Hokey Pokey and the Cha Cha Slide
But I digress;
It just seems that all I can talk about when you're not around is how swell it'd be if you were.
And making our sweet dancing anything but comprised of candlelight and champagne and red roses just insults the beautiful parts of myself I want to so desperately share with you.
I'm no poet, dude,
And I've got no graces in dance,
But I'll rearrange the constellations in the sky to help better express myself if it meant figuring out how I managed to fall in love
With you
Oct 15, 2013
Oct 15, 2013 at 7:44 AM UTC
White Knights
like to dress up
all hooded & ****
with slit-eyes and
pointy tops
to their
sheet-thing
& they come out
when its real dark
& burn stuff
& parade all around
shadowed bonfire-lit
in secluded fields
like lost
& deluded
drooling idiots,
they think they
walk the walk
& feel real fine
& fancy
with their grand wizard
lord of this & that
& pathetic hokey redneck
power-tripping
********
but lord no!
white knights
ride no gallant steeds
possess no magic
potions
have nothing
but a desperation
born of impotence
& sullen
bitter & imagined
loss.
white folks grandeur!
oh spare me so,
from evil
in its many disguises
& from very real
& dangerous men
hood-less
brazen
& right there
in front of us.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 10:08 PM UTC
Wink, wink,
Let’s not say what we think.
Hokey smoke.
Let’s pretend it’s a joke.
Act like you’re in on it with me
And I will reward you secretly.
Let’s laugh about women
When they can’t hear us
Make stupid broad jokes
Come on and join the chorus.
Let’s be a couple of the
Very classiest of wags
By making many jokes
About lezbos and ****
Wink, wink,
Let’s not say what we think.
Hokey smoke.
Let’s pretend it’s a joke.
Act like you’re in on it with me
And I will reward you secretly.
We can think of ugly names
To call our Asian colleagues
And not let anybody hear
About our verbal intrigues.
We can meet someplace
And not let the liberals know
And rip up their politics
For a couple of hours or so.
Wink, wink,
Let’s not say what we think.
Hokey smoke.
Let’s pretend it’s a joke.
Act like you’re in on it with me
And I will reward you secretly.
There’s always religion, of course
Since there is so much to say
So there’s plenty of fuel for us
On how bad Catholics are today.
And then there’s always on hand
Those strange believers in Islam.
Hell, they even chose a name that
Appropriately ends in the word slam.
Wink, wink,
Let’s not say what we think.
Hokey smoke.
Let’s pretend it’s a joke.
Act like you’re in on it with me
And I will reward you secretly.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 5:24 PM UTC
They fall upon us over the spillways of time,
Burbling at us through some Radio Free Nostalgia
Courtesy of some college station sitting at the far left of the dial
Or streaky CDs at the rear of some forlorn shelf,
And we know them to be to be, if not outright falsehoods,
Among the more variable of truths
(As all truths are, if we’re being honest about the matter)
For when someone sets out to create the Great American Whatever,
It becomes quickly apparent that such paths
Are not straight and clear, but wind and double back upon themselves,
Replete with thorns and weeds with bladed edges;
Egos must be stroked, revenue streams and margins considered,
Leaving one’s primary legacy as a testament to compromise.
But to be a casualty is not necessarily to be a fatality,
And through the narrowness of a three-minute window,
Purveyed to us by quartets of chanteuses
Who were no strangers to compromise their ownselves
(So many staged photo shoots,
So many hokey Christmas songs and cosmetic-sale jingles)
We can glimpse momentary epiphanies,
Crescent-moon slices of the verities,
Which, if not the whole truth and nothing but,
Provide us with something to hold, something to hum
As we go about the tortuous business
Of making some sense of the whole **** thing.
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 9:41 AM UTC
His keyboard destroyed the sidewalk,
Left ideological lines of chalk,
Deciding to discover the one true song,
That makes every soul smile,
He travels from east to west,
Talking with the worst,
And the best,
Doing ******* with drummers,
That are due on stage,
Asking them what song is a miracle?
Then writing them on beer stained pages,
The sumo while singing did that,
He bought the beer,
And they only talked in song,
(they didn't know what they had said till the morning)
He searched through the gutters,
And every disco he was there,
Asking freaks and cutters,
Never finding the one song,
It's been a while since he was home,
How long?
The haze of yesterday's drugs and memories that don't belong to him,
But the search continues,
He ends up learning it all, folk, techno, and blues,
It was in Reno when he said the wrong words,
And a man shot him,
Just to watch him die,
He got to see,
That his dream will never be,
It's not exactly the end,
As time began to bend,
A door that opens to,
Millions of record players,
In layers,
by the billions,
A familiar tune begins to play,
The best song.
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 3:03 PM UTC
Grumpy, middle-aged woman at work,
I wonder if you see me staring in your direction.
I, once again, notice your big hair,
tousled and littered with springy grays.
I, once again, notice your blouse,
dribbled with escapees of your breakfast and lunch.
You’re tapping your foot
to an eighties ballad on the radio—
the same one that we hear twelve times a day,
and each time, I grit my teeth and
begrudgingly swallow the godfather of all expletives.
But you? You love it, don’t you?
No qualms with the world
as you grip that vending machine Klondike Bar
like it’s your only saving grace.
I can’t even manage to blink
as I watch you peel back its thin layer of foil,
exposing the poor chocolate shell
that will soon fall victim to such a savage mouth.
I shudder at the thought of what you would do
for a Klondike Bar.
Your eyes are wide, black, and merciless
as you crunch into that innocent little square.
Flecks of dark brown fly in every direction,
as you writhe in some sort of hokey ecstasy
straight out of a grocery store mom-erotica.
I can just hear you grunt, “Waste not, want not!”
as you individually finger up
each tiny piece off your keyboard.
I hear your lips smack with every satisfying victory—
and I cringe.
I want to tell you your ice cream is melting,
but I’m too busy watching it drip
down the sides of your hand.
In no time, this Klondike Bar
becomes your own personal rescue mission.
You must desperately save each and every sticky streak
with your unforgiving tongue.
Now and then you’ll slip in a satiated moan
and I can’t help but feel bad for your imprisoned dessert.
Unfortunately, this vicious cycle continues with each bite,
until you become the resident hot mess of Cubicleville,
smeared with melted chocolate and covered in a sugary sheen.
Despite the spectacle, it’s nice to see you happy for once.
It ends when you finally notice my gawk.
That quickly, you’re grumpy again
and demand to know what I’m staring at.
“Nothing,” I reply,
but not without a smile so coy
it gives me away.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 4:59 PM UTC
I promised you we have no natural disasters,
not apart from us, anyway.
I think you liked my plaid.
Or was it my sleepy hair?
I had a crush on your vocabulary,
and a crush on your girlfriend.
The surprising accent and
the curve of your singing voice
didn't help matters any.
So for these and more reasons, I didn't mind lending you matches
during the biggest power outage of December,
over my sheepish Welcome to Canada.
You like the smell of cut wood, wine, and perfection.
I like the way you and your friends looked in my living room.
In my mind, your golden heads. Your scarves and linoleum,
sophistication in a hokey hand-me-down home,
and the grumble of stomachs that knew the fridges wouldn't
work for at least 72 hours.
And I fell in love with you a little bit.
You and her and her friend.
So for these and more reasons,
I would smile at her after you left,
because she was close to you.
And think of matches and little fires
in the library on the darkest night of 2010.
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 8:31 PM UTC
Somebody Slap Me
feeling sorry for myself
whining like a baby
need to shake it loose
won't somebody slap me
need to think about good things
all the times you made me happy
all the times you made me laugh
won't somebody slap me
get my head out of my ****
it's way too dark to see
inside there is not a pretty place
won't somebody slap me
need a ****** cranial inversion
or some other thing to make me see
need another type of diversion
won't somebody slap me
count my blessings one by one
should take a day or three
find some happy tunes in my jukebox
won't somebody slap me
do the hokey pokey turn myself around
give out some kisses they're free
make a positive statement
won't somebody slap me
stand on the corner with a tin cup
got something to hide me and my monkey
well at least now he's off my back
won't somebody slap me
the sunflower made my garden smile
too bad it had to fade away from me
need to plant new seeds of my own
won't somebody slap me
Gomer LePoet...
Sep 14, 2011
Sep 14, 2011 at 7:21 AM UTC
Jump in then jump out
Left foot and right foot
Spin about
I'm so done playing the hokey pokey with you
Commitment would not simply be a good sentiment
If you're nervous
Get over it and oh, well
Oops you fell
You tripped
Guess you weren't equipped
There goes a shoe
Left one and the right too
Man, you're really taking a beating
Boy, stop pleading
Isn't it obvious
I'm beyond done with you
Get a clue
Jun 22, 2011
Jun 22, 2011 at 2:04 PM UTC
four wheels
gliding gracefully along the surface
holding hands and displaying large grins
echos of jokes and secret tellings and laughs
most often referred to as rink
typically filled with jovial adolescents
birthday parties and family outings
weekend afternoons
coaxing is often a requirement
the freedom to move without lifting a foot
who needs to walk, skip, or jump
when you can roll, roll, roll
you crossover
i stumble
you move backwards
i fall
my legs are bruised
as is my ego
yet
i cannot stop smiling
nostalgia at it's finest
memories of lock ins
hokey pokies
limbos
races to the death
it has never been so much fun to get hurt
it seems as though time has worn on me
im no longer an elastic young girl
don't tell me that, though.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 3:05 PM UTC
“HOKEY POKEEEEEEEY!"
"HOKEY POKEY MOTHER *******
cried the big fat bus as she sped away.
the young brave
looked up
"it’s not hokey pokey
you moronic big fat bus
with the big fat yellow bootay
"It’s H————“
but the big fat bus
with the big fat yellow bootay
couldn’t hear him
with the wind in her ears
and the nobel battle cry
ringing through her yellow grill
as she sped away.
and with that,
the handsome young brave
returned to the task at hand
sharpening his very,
very,
large blades,
very,
very,
slowly.
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 7:13 PM UTC
She say baby hurry over
so I tell her okie doke
She got fiya and dank earthy buds
I call that oakey dope
Smoke and chillin netflix playin
Hoping I can hokey poke
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 1:07 PM UTC
PRINCE WILLIAM ON THE DANCE FLOOR
THE PRINCE CAN REALLY GROOVE
IF YOUR DANCING WITH THE PRINCE
HE PUTS YOU IN THE MOOD
TO DO THE FUNKY CHICKEN
AND DANCE THE FUNKY GIBBON
IF YOUR DANCING WITH THE PRINCE
YOU WILL GET A YELLOW RIBBON
SO REMEMBER IF YOUR DANCING WITH THE PRINCE
PLEASE DON'T DO THE HOKEY POKEY
FOR IF YOUR ON THE DANCE FLOOR
THEN YOUR NOT A FRIEND OF SMOKEY
Mar 28, 2017
Mar 28, 2017 at 6:07 PM UTC
Belief and faith
Guided by a deity
But the virtues and morals placed on me
I do not believe so
No religion or cult has proof or disproof
They believe what they believe
Symbols have different meanings in different eyes
Parallel philosophies in different lives
From witchcraft
To a black mass
A hanging cross
Paradise lost
Psychics and telepaths
Seems hokey
But it’s possible it sounds to me
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder
Well, the beholder might be blind
Or maybe we’re not in the universal mind
I believe in giving everything a chance
Taking what makes sense to me
And kindly placing down what I can’t dig
Dec 15, 2013
Dec 15, 2013 at 1:01 PM UTC
“State your full name for the record.”
Already guilty before the impartial audience
“Please raise your right hand…”
Do the hokey pokey, turn the truth around
“Remember, you are under oath.”
For doing what was right, you’ll be punished to the end
“May the record reflect…”
…That we couldn’t break this one.
“Call the next witness.”
Since this one’s honesty bores us
“You are excused.”
Oh how I wish that were true.
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 5:51 PM UTC