"waddles" poems
Today at the train station
A stranger came up to me
And asked for directions.
I had the sudden urge to give him the wrong ones
Or take him behind the stairwell and
Gut him
And let his family watch as stomach and liver
Flobber out over slipping intestines, or simply
Grab him and throw him onto the train tracks
As the half five train approaches.
It would give people a reason to
Remove their sunglasses,
And possibly even their iPods,
Headphones dangling uncomfortably
As they fumble to save a pointless
(As well as futile) situation.
Maybe they would film it with their phones.
Maybe I'd be famous.
Instead I just sigh and give him the right directions,
Tell him the correct train to travel on,
And slowly smile as he waddles off
And doesn't believe me.
Jul 12, 2015
Jul 12, 2015 at 11:51 AM UTC
Teetering on her baby legs
A newborn with a Solo cup
bombastic red with a few
undulating ribs
Held firmly in her hand
Is this her first or her third?
Somnambulant yet eager
And just a little out of place
In a foreign territory
On newly contested lands
She stumbles through a raucous crowd
Or was it just white noise?
She’s lost her companions
Somewhere
Although they could very well be close at hand
In the distance she can make out
Laughing faces
Bodies moving to and fro
Spilling forward, little messes
Throwing back cheap libation
She passes through a room and out the door
Into the out-of-doors
Someone following her unbeknownst
Watching her cautious, curious steps
And when she turns and sees the blur standing
She greets it
“Hail Fellow!”
Bouncing from variable to variable
Frequency to frequency
Confident and in command
Of a seemingly controlled chaos
He approaches smiling and holds out his hand
Anonymous
Having drawn her attention from the stars
That she could not find above
Leaning against the garage’s eastern wall
She takes it awkwardly
Tentative she smiles back reassured
Wobbling she returns standing alongside him
Or was she in front?
Purposeful and en route
Emboldened by his presence
And how the way was parted before her
Just by his being there.
By being so close.
She felt vaguely special
it showed in her half-smile
Cloaked in bangs
She held her head just a little bit higher
The co-conspiratorial glances
Met by boys eyes
And shes
Went unseen by the girl with the
Solo cup
One of tens upon tens upon tens
A coven would have known
It’s better not to
However.
She was shown a seat to rest
And her cup refilled
She takes a sip and smiles again
She takes another and then a gulp
That spills
He takes the cup away
And places it on the low table
Suggests she go to the restroom upstairs and get herself
Sorted
Embarrassed she is relieved for direction
Someone knows what’s going on
And his caring
Taking the time
His kind eyes
She’s usually alone
She waddles up the stairs to find
a toilet and a mirror
God she thinks
I look a mess
She tries to fix it
The hair
The eyes
The lips
The dress
The stomach
The *******
The thighs
She shrugs her shoulders at her reflection
Exhales and steps out again
To find him standing there
waiting for more.
She wants another cup.
She’s missing her cup.
I’ll get you the cup he says
In just a second.
Come.
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 3:53 PM UTC
It is possible.
To leap beyond where fear takes us.
Surely so many things happen.
By contrast
We stand still.
Wound up in total curiosity.
To dream in wonderment.
With each twirl we captivate the essence of someone else.
A sort of inspiration that convinces us that we are more than what we believe.
Beginning to walk,
Our other functioning parts come to life.
Embraced in true courage.
Spun around and round.
This huge metal behind it's back.
Suddenly this obstacle isn't what it seems.
First finding what is important.
The touch of someone else
Through encouragement.
The wind-up doll begins to move
No longer incapable by what we define as fear,
But enormous faith.
To place all of it's self in another
Without fear of adding another chip to it's face.
It waddles along.
Moments later,
Pride interferes.
It's movements stop.
To be spun up again and again
Falling to the floor
Seconds at a time
Jul 1, 2018
Jul 1, 2018 at 2:29 AM UTC
Know it all in theory never practiced
Waddles and quacks
Assumptions under false pretenses
Opinions often criticize
Judgments without a clue
Senseless chatter
Assless pants
Years behind
Broken spirits
Wavering faith
What is proof?
Wasted life and selfish acts
Yeah, what do you know?
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 9:07 PM UTC
Oh how quickly your loyalties change
Something foreign to me, I find it so strange
Today you love me, tomorrow you're gone
The way your feelings wain is nothing but wrong
You allow havoc to be wreaked by the next
It really does **** to be your ex
Those you once called your family, your reason to be
Are offered up to this pig like a buffet that's free
She has no class and lacks good breeding
As she waddles up to the trough for her feeding
You allow her to root and rut until she's had her fill
And even though you know she's wrong, you defend her still
Not quite sure if she's a bartender, a stripper or just a common *****
When I saw pictures of her puffy painted up face, my jaw hit the floor
I can hardly believe you went from someone like me, true class
To some ***** who is nothing more than a nasty piece of ***
She's attacked not just me but my children as well
And for that she's earned her special place in hell
And you, who once said you would protect these kids with your life
You sure threw them to the pig once I said I didn't want to be your wife
You'll find that the pig will eventually turn on and devour you too
She'll attack you and feed on you while I laugh for all you put me through
But after you've gotten what's coming to you, let's not forget the pig
We'll slaughter her, roast her, and slice her up for a feast so big
We'll invite all our friends and family to eat, and during the blessing
We'll tell them what to do with an *** and a pig who need to be taught the karma lesson
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 11:03 PM UTC
A stampede of elephants
Running through the rooms of my mind
As their legless bodies ask
"How?"
A toucan flies to rest on a thought
With two million and two branches reaching towards my heart.
"How many cans can a toucan can if a toucan could can cans?"
Now this monkey must be joking
Those are my feelings he's holding.
And he continues to toss them about.
He peels off the skin and throws it over his shoulder
And takes one big bite out of the happiest one.
And this little duck waddles,
Left foot, right foot.
The left side is fine, but his right
Sends a nerve that clenches a fist to a glass window.
"Quack, quack."
Snip snap,
And there goes the vertebrae in my spine.
Nov 19, 2015
Nov 19, 2015 at 1:02 AM UTC
It was a Saturday night in the park
his trees were singing
out of tune
his clay pigeons needed to come out
of his closet
for he was parked
on a stool
at his favorite watering hole
amongst a full house
where pairs beat singles
and there he was
shooting blanks
drowning in his sorrows
on his nine lives of lowlife
hoping for a sitting duck in despair
the kind that waddles right up to the Romeo's
with suspense in their hearts
and spontaneity in their wings
a cackle
that he can tackle
to take home
to his garden bed
for him to be fed
but what he got
was for not, naught, knot
wistful thinking
sitting in a bar sinking
for the jukebox played a broken record
finding love in the wrong places
and the joke squarely was on him
for thinking, he could round the bases
looking no further than the escape of his glows
or a crutch of decoys
and sitting ducks
for he was no Romeo
yet
there he was still, like steel,
a stole away in society
forlorn, preserved
like mamas mothballs tucked away
in basement storage
squandering the forage
for there were no triple treats
tonight for him
or forever sounds grim
for his reality check gone dim
or
no eye candy
for his heart beats
no picnic
for his ****
and all the bottled whiskey
could not drown out his pain
as his eyes were slain
as the sitting ducks turned
from his fantasy corner
phantomlike
and though
he's sitting at the bar, a loner
reminded that in cards of life
pairs beat singles
and in his worn hand
familiarly holds a lonely joker
for it's like he tries
and its
like his sitting ducks
are like hoofed deer
and his little sweets,
are spooked
hoofing
away from his
now darken forest
like red ants at his picnic
and the gleam in his eyes turned
to the poorest
its
its
as if his life and watering hole
was condemned
his garden bed cut at the stem
it is as if he has a red vest on
and a rifle don
and all the hoofed deer
panic
looking at him in fear
like he's manic
or maybe it's his eyes
that hold dark skies
he orders another double
trouble
for what else is there to do
on his Saturday night
than to sit in a bubble
forever sounds grim
but sing him a sweet hymn
he says please
to wit as he steals peeks
at the bartenders triple treats
like a bee to a hive
his joker still strikes a beat
if only he can find a bolster
for his gun needs a holster
and a deer in the headlights
would be hard to find
the confession now told, tolled, towed
through tears
the guy in the bar window
is me, sitting
resigned
Logan Robertson
10/18/2018
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 6:23 PM UTC
I like big bills and I can not lie.
No other hunter can deny,
When a duck waddles in with an itty bitty bill
And feathers in your face
You're on QUACK!
I gotta shoot him quick
But I noticed that duck was stuffed,
Even the tags it's wearin.
I'm hooked an I can't stop starin.
Oh, ducky, I gotta go shoot ya,
And take your picture.
The rangers try to warn me
But that bill you got makes
Me so hungry!
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 1:46 PM UTC
He is very low to the ground
He snuffles and sniffles and waddles around
He makes his home in a tree
What on earth could this creature be?
He has spikes and stickers and quills galore
There's a hint if you didn't know before
If you really stop and search your mind
You'll realize he's a porcupine
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 11:28 AM UTC
I know there will come a day when she will leave me
She has to
No longer will I get to enjoy the beauty of the smile she hates
Or notice the way she waddles away
A bit like a duck
'I'm perfectly okay with this'
That is what I'll say
That is what I'll say on that terrible day
And it's coming...
Creation slows for no man
Not even the son of Three
It's coming to take her away
To new and exciting roads...
A life that needs to be lived in a little
I hope that she finds the goodness
That she finds peace
It's an ugly world we live in
If you ain't marching to the right beat
If ever you need me, I'll be around
Spinning just the way I always was
Even if only the electrical impulses that used to be me
Remain buried
Dusty
Deep in the back of your mind
I hope sometimes you'll visit
You can have a seat in my chair
Perhaps we will plan new adventures
Or just reminisce about the ones we've shared
Either way, I will be grateful
To see that you're happy and intelligent, and capable
I'll tell you a couple of my stories, too!
Maybe then we'll fall in love the way
All True Lovers do.
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 4:41 PM UTC
The corner restaurant is a rendezvous of ghosts:
wholesome weeping wannabes, caricatures of caricature people,
large heads and drooping eyes, haunting cold coffee mugs,
burgers with fries, buzzing waitresses exhausted
has two kids back home and a young guy,
his hands deep in soapy waters and plates,
sweat stained shirt and forever o clock shadow
wishing he was someplace far, he's new but that one's not,
that one flipping canned meats, beer gut hanging low,
been here since 1975, used to play the guitar for a band,
the doors swing open, "Hey man, how long y'all open?",
boasting a cigarette mouth, coughing and yellow,
"I gotta get on the road but what pies you got?",
a 'Nam jacket zipped up, he sits while the jukebox sings
a cancerous voice and narcotic trumpet, and two lovers
are lost in the saturn moons for hours, wandering alien spaces,
the envy of no one, all the clocks crack the midnight bouquet,
the register rings, the phone rings, the manager scowls,
"Someone give her a hand!" mascara caked mystery howls
as her order nearly flips as the struggling waitress loses her tips,
and it never ends, the "help wanted" sign shines beneath the neon fright,
like moths attracted to lights, a newborn waddles inside.
May 17, 2015
May 17, 2015 at 9:33 PM UTC
Bitter.
Tangy.
Chest poking,
distress...
anxiety.
An orange peeled.
A tomato congealed.
Acid rising,
distress...
anxiety.
laughter.
disaster.
911 on the line,
distress...
anxiety.
Please stay on
until we arrive.
strobing lights.
harrowing ride.
11 hours of machines
distress...
anxiety.
1 year to a MRI.
1 year to live or die?
A Canadian health care story
distress...
anxiety.
Take some of these pills,
and call us in 5 years,
distress...
anxiety.
Quacks.
Waddles.
Going south.
http://www.robross.ca
Nov 17, 2009
Nov 17, 2009 at 10:33 AM UTC
Before even flight . . .
Landed seagull chick strides, reads,
Waddles through bookshop.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 11:07 PM UTC
Mother mallard.
Keeps watch.
Over her almost grown young.
At rest.
But then,
after a time,
she waddles away from them.
And goes for a swim.
In the peaceful pond.
She has no worry.
No fear for her young.
She somehow knows.
That their Creator.
Is watching over them.
She somehow knows.
That they are in His hands.
"Yes, Lord, I'm listening."
Jul 17, 2017
Jul 17, 2017 at 2:33 AM UTC
I like big bills and I can not lie.
No other hunter can deny,
When a duck waddles in with an itty bitty bill
And feathers in your face
You're on QUACK!
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
Still the women wait in trembling hope
Near the old pit head in the valley;
The earth's turbulence has long abated;
"Let him live, dear God", each prays silently.
Still they linger, knees bloodied from kneeling
Hopelessly on the old cobbled main street,
Eyes ugly red from constant weeping.
Not daring to acknowledge the worst.
Still lies the sad morning after the vigil,
And now there are no more survivors.
**** this for a ******* waste of time,"
Yells Fat Irene as she waddles off to the pub.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 1:07 PM UTC
9:43 p.m.
She sits at the kitchen table,
Head in her hands.
Taxes lay splayed out in front of her.
It's so many for one woman.
9:44 p.m.
Her little boy,
Her baby,
Toddles out, curly hair askew,
Sleepy eyes blinking.
"Okay, Mommy?" He wonders, yawning.
"Okay, baby," she says sadly in reply.
9:45 p.m.
"Where the crayons?" He asks.
"Huh?"
"For coloring."
"Oh, baby, I can't color on these."
"Okay. I color then." He waddles back out of the room.
Her head is still in her hands.
9:47 p.m.
Baby returns with a box set of Crayola crayons.
"Ready, Mommy? I color now."
He takes an envelope, crayon poised.
Her head lifts. "Baby, don't color on those!
Here, I'll get you something."
9:48 p.m.
She returns. "Sorry, baby, there's no paper.
I guess you can't- no!"
Indigo blue is spread across two bills,
A cerulean rainstorm where her dues should be.
"Oh, baby!" She yells angrily.
"I needed those!"
He stares at her with wide blue eyes,
Welling up with tears.
"I sorry, Mommy," he cries.
"I wan'd make you happy.
Maybe blue make you happy?"
9:49 p.m.
It's her turn to tear up.
"Baby, baby, I'm sorry I yelled."
She scoops him up, kisses him in the forehead.
"You're right, baby, blue does make me happy."
She looks over at the crayon box.
A collection of pink, green, and orange looks up at her, waiting.
She selects lime green.
It was his favorite color.
The woman and her baby begin to color those **** taxes.
May 3, 2014
May 3, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
I fear we have fallen
Into an English spell
Which subtly says to us
You are not capable
Wrapped in a golden
Envelope and slipped
Into our subconscious
With a diminishing smile
Should we trust the hand
Which patronizingly offers
Financial security while the
Other hand saps our strength
As they puff up their own ego feathers
As England waddles around the globe
Like a fat bird still hungover
From the British Empire
As they still play their empire game
With the fat turkey across the water
Is the only place we can
Choose to paint our face with
Our own colours is to remain
The sideline of a rugby pitch
As England paints its colours
And philosophy over our world
The spellbound English
May see themselves as
A well meaning parent
But they stifle our freedom
As we are made to feel like children
As they cast a net over us
Let us not be bewitched
By their bribery
Or consumed by their words
As they bind us to a wheelchair
We never needed
Let us raise our own ceiling
From its deflated value
We have been cast
Are we all fooled by
A blanket of economic mysticism
Are we not blessed with enough ability
Or should we keep sending our
Home work to London
So they may score our maths
Has England gnawed away at our
Self confidence for so long
That we ourselves on our knees
Unable to convince ourselves
Of our own capability
For we are not England
With its lost identity
As it spreads itself losing
All boundaries and self
Our first steps maybe nervy
As we seek our center
To find our balance
The choice is yours
But while our eyes are
Distracted and bedazzled
By the London elite
Our Scotland remains partially
Unseen and unheard
So let us turn our eyes back
And see our SCOTLAND
And hear him ROAR!!!!
Feb 23, 2014
Feb 23, 2014 at 11:14 AM UTC
I find myself staring
At this little girl in the aisle,
Tottering through
A city of sweets.
With small, outstretched fingers
She waddles hastily
Towards this huge pack
Of chocolates
Giggling silently,
Eyes a bright ruddy brown.
Her mother catches her and laughs,
Puts the chocolates just out her of reach.
Her chubby hands strain
To reach it but to no avail.
Instead they find her mother's long,
Graceful fingers and
Her knowing smile:
Deep brown eyes lit up like one of those
Chocolate bars,
Even sweeter.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 3:06 AM UTC
I'm sitting here,
at my regular table
and in through the door,
waddles a stream of gluttony
bodies like melting planets
and a look which falls somewhere
between pride and entitlement
is plastered on their sweaty bovine faces
they come into an area
graze while the grass is good
and slowly meander elsewhere
chewing the cud the whole while
like an old trail hand
chews a thick *** of tobacco
these people
who don't know the meaning
of living a lean life
what do they do?
besides propagating fast food franchises
and big and tall clothing stores
what do they do?
they sit in their cubicles doing the same
mindless
mundane
pointless
task for eight hours
with lunch and breaks
and then they drag themselves back home
to the herd
and sit down in their puffy couches
in front of the T.V.
with a microwaved meal
staining their beat up wife beaters
before they fall asleep
on the couch
their mouths propped open
drooling
with a still half full
can of coors light
balanced precariously
between their cottage cheese thighs
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 11:04 AM UTC
It waddles across the landscape
an untidy blubbering mess
that cannot hide its hugeness
its folds of flabby flesh
Its expanding multiple chins
increase its oozing girth
a monstrous shape that maneuvers
to threaten the planet earth
It moves like a massive shadow
with its striking stature and depth
it destroys the people's planet
with one smothering crushing step
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 5:32 PM UTC
It is a crisp winter evening in Chicago, and children everywhere are finishing up a day filled with hot cocoa, wet mittens, and NO SCHOOL. A particular family enjoys the evening frolicking in the snow mounds in their front yard. Snow falls softly as a young girl sits on one of the mounds and watches the scene unfold; her family enjoying nature’s wonders. The trees in the yard become delicate, sparkling saplings as the snow falls lightly onto their branches. With yesterday’s snowmen in the yard and garland and twinkling lights strung from the porch railings, the house looks anticipant of Christmas morning. The eldest boy, clad in navy jacket and green pants, works on the finishing touches of his precious snow fort. His younger brother builds an equally satisfying fortress opposite him. Flakes are beginning to fall faster as the father of the family continues on with tedious task of shoveling the never-ending driveway. The snow continues to fall as the youngest daughter lies in the snow flapping her arms like a bird as she makes angels in the snow. As the brothers begin a rigorous snow battle, the youngest child waddles out of the house in a puffy coat, ginormous mittens, and way-too-big boots. He plops down onto the ground next to his sister, and tries imitating her flapping. Every now and then, a car will come by, and the young children pelt it with snowballs, and the driver, very annoyed, honks his horn profusely at them. As the girl watches her family take pleasure in the night, smelling lingering car exhaust and dinner, feeling flakes dust her face, she can’t help but wonder if this will be the one thing she remembers best about her childhood.
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 7:49 PM UTC