Best Dollies Poems
A violent scene lay before me
Huddled in death, there’s Ella, Mary-belle, everywhere I could see
Swollen tongues, sunken eyes, frail bodies strewn in the hot powdery dirt,
I sniff the sharp stench of death, I catch my breath, swallow, stomach clenched, alert
Stark rocky outcrops, blister amongst the sharp needles of spinifex grass
Stones, sand and mica glints, ants scurry about their tasks
Red dirt, blue sky, sun bears down relentless upon the tin roof of the Station
Majestic hills, once coral reefs, the Chinamen pushed wheelbarrows up them, Dinosaurs, Indigenous people walked here long ago in my imagination
Soft bursts of purple feathery flowers of Mulla Mulla joyfully sway in the crisp air this morning, locked in the silent perennial embrace of that blue blue sky
Frivolous, dollies those desert girls, with their sweet smell and blush as I walk by
I think I’ll put a bullet in my head in that very spot
To die in such fine company, you make those tough choices on the land, easy as, why not
5,000 cattle dead, I’d cry, but there’s no more water in my eyes, in a blink, all gone so terribly wrong
I’ll sleep with my cows tonight, Ella, Mary-belle in the Mulla Mulla desert dreaming, on the land is where I was born and where I belong
When Angie was a little girl, so cute and very sweet,
She tried to talk with strangers and wander in the street.
She loved to play with dollies, teddy bears and kitties.
She’d put her clothes on backwards and would still look pretty.
Problems of this harried world were farthest from her mind.
Full of love and innocence, she always was so kind.
The years passed by so quickly. Angela went to school.
She learned the world, which can be great, also can be cruel.
She went from dancing lessons, fun sleepovers and zoos
to make-up, phone calls, shopping, and wearing size 9 shoes.
In sunny California, she learned to cherish friends.
Then back again to Utah, she had to start again.
She then came to the threshold of a bright new world.
When she became a woman, butterfly wings unfurled.
She’s leaned life’s little secret, what makes life worth living:
To honor God and family. She’s loving and so giving.
She listens to her conscience and tries to do what’s right.
My angel butterfly one day to heaven will take flight.
Feb 24, 2016 for Lovely Children Poetry Contest of Laura Loo
In my grandpa’s field I stand midst rows of grain
whose gray-green blades stir softly in the moaning wind.
A night chill permeates my skin.
I look down at my arms and legs and realize
I’m a little girl again!
How did I get here? Why am I now standing here in the dark of night?
Far ahead of me, I see the old worn farmhouse.
Moon, big and golden, seems to have left the sky.
It’s reappeared at the window of my grandparent’s old house,
where it glows with a mesmerizing light eerily beckoning me.
I stand transfixed, not knowing what to do.
Is this a dream? It has to be!
Grandma sold that house when grandpa died.
I’d seen it one more time remodeled and repainted
and with another owner’s name.
The house I’m seeing now is the old one from my childhood.
Many things from long ago are coming to my mind:
The fields where my sisters and I frolicked in the summers;
the long dirt lane we skipped happily along;
the berry bushes along many pathways we discovered;
the hollyhocks we learned how to make cute dollies from.
It was daylight when I knew the farm back then. Sun was high in the sky.
Now I’m only seeing the eerie glow emanating from grandpa’s house. . .
I awaken to the darkness of a winter morning’s gloom,
vaguely remembering a vanished moon
which turned up on the face of my grandparents’ old farmhouse
as if to beckon me back to my childhood.
But somehow I knew (even while asleep)
that to near that house and then to go inside it
would not be the stuff of happy dreams.
There was a reason for the coldness of the night, the moaning of the wind.
The summer days have fled. Between the nightmare and the dream,
subconsciously I knew
you simply cannot go home again.
Welcome September with a brand new moon
New and exciting beginnings occur
Planting new seeds to fulfill new fruit soon
Falling in love with autumn cool breeze stir
Life elegance to be September trees
Sounds of strumming strings unfurl brittle limbs
Fall breeze a soothing kiss of amber leaves
Enchanting they fall round and round with wings
Fickle gaiety among festive days
Departing summer amid cooler nights
My spirit’s pureness admires and sings praise
The last of harvest corn dollies delights
Remember September as Fall enters
Surrendering to hints of cool winter
Tea Party For Four
Two girls partake of afternoon tea
Under willow trees and pleasant weather
Dolly’s join them, splendid gowns, sentry ready
Social graces with porcelain clean white faces
Sit, side by side, chaperoning quietly
While princess détente takes place
Young ladies soak orange pekoe leaves
Savor the hot flavor afterwards
Sip it warm at leisure through the day
At party pleasure and perfect play
Nuclear proliferation weighs heavy on their minds
As well as gun violence and big people crimes
Still, they prefer cup cakes with icing
The two dollies do too
Time was running out, Christmas Eve was drawing nigh!
The elves had worked day and night since early in July!
To meet Santa's toy-making schedule, there must be no slack,
To ensure there were plenty of goodies for Santa's toy sack!
Elfie was a mischievous but a hard-working little sprite.
He was the littlest elf of all, alas, this added to his plight!
It seemed that the harder he worked and try as he might,
The hapless little fellow just couldn't do anything right!
For instance, he put Jills in boxes meant for Jacks-In-The-Box,
And placed chirping chickadees in all the fancy cuckoo clocks!
As he daydreamed he painted the fire trucks aquamarine,
And put wheels and wings on every toy submarine!
Talking dollies counted cadence, "Hup, two, three, four!"
Toy soldiers cried, "I want my mama!" as they marched to war!
He placed Lincoln Logs in boxes labled Tinker Toys.
Oh! What a Christmas 'twould be for little girls and boys!
Santa mused, "It seems that every job I put him on he mars,
So I'll put him to work pulling levers making Christmas Stars!"
He did so well that Santa asked, "Won't you come along with me,
And place a brilliant Star atop every child's Christmas Tree?"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Lying still on the class room floor,
brown paper for a bottom sheet.
All the children were gathered round
and my outline was complete.
A cookie cutter girl was I
in bright black paten leather shoes;
with a gathered skirt, puffy blouse
of blue polka dotty hues.
Drawn silhouette, a paper doll,
not ashen as deaths cold harrow,
and I regret, my parents get
left Hiroshima's shadows.
Eight years gone the Rising Sun
was challenged in an earthy sky;
for bombs Little Boy and Fat Man fell
and two-hundred thousand people died
The Man of Steel, old Stalin
passed away in Russia this year;
the hot cold war was in full bloom
and our children hid in fear.
Beneath our desk tops we scrambled
as the shrill sirens shrieked away
the Committee of Five ruled Russia
and Khrushchev was on his way.
Dwight Ike was in the White House
as a veteran, he'd fought hard
the GI bill was now in affect
and bomb shelters filled our yards.
And little girls with ringlet curls
still made dollies on paper sheets;
while the doll shadows left by WWII
bombs blackened in Japan's streets.
*On August 6, 1945, the United States used a massive, atomic weapon against Hiroshima, Japan. This atomic bomb, the equivalent of 20,000 tons of TNT, flattened the city, killing tens of thousands of civilians. While Japan was still trying to comprehend this devastation three days later, the United States struck again, this time, on Nagasaki. Nagasaki was bombed on August 9, 1945 only three days after the bombing of Hiroshima. And we worry that other countries may develope atomic bombs???
They are like two beam lights that claim the stage
on a hot summer eve in the middle of a makeshift
floor parkette made of wood, varnish, and lights that aim
They are more than two American dollies dressed
in French lace and boudoir lipsticks
They are idols of the theater talking through
cables and conductive material.
The imagination of the viewers soar as they lose themselves
in the dark curtained stage, where reality has gone dormant
The only sound they hear is the tingly sounds
of unfolding fans made of feather and paper,
by the old vintage theater Madammes who cluck and gossip
in hushed tones when the first dolly gives the other dolly,
a soft kiss.
The End.
Written by Gail DeBole
Pink polka-dotted skin stretching body-wide.
Bulges interrupting other-wise peaceful areas.
Spots of lotion and cherry-flavored tongue
Comforting misery.
Across the room, stacked in safety;
Precious dollies that will be played with another day.
With forever smiles.
One last sniffle for the night.
A hankie is tossed into the glass that serves as a hoop.
Nostrils attempt to function, and a sudden cough
Shocks the precious dollies.
Their smiles remain.
There is an echoing whispering amongst the trees,
A deadly chanting’s whistling, of disembodied voices
Calling upon the living to beware, for you are entering
A no man’s zone, turn from here humanity,
Dare not enter look away in fear, for
Beyond this point of no return, lies the
Of the Island of the dolls.
Beneath the waters rippling edge deaths drowned
Children reach for them, these dangling dollies of dread,
With hallowed out hearts of evil intentions, enticing these
Fallen angels of innocence, and laughing at their anguishing
Screams muffled by their watery graves.
Cold eyes shine above, hanging amongst the trees,
Soulless spirits dancing on the evening breeze,
Calling unto the muted hushed.
Come play with us, they so tease, but the children
Are locked beneath this black lake placid of deaths
Nightmares, unable to grasp freedoms spiritual release,
As these plastic, porcelain jackals laugh down wards at them.
In the sizzling heat of the jungle thick, vaporous phantoms
Walk alongside the murky shore, tickling at the feet
Of the dollies, tormenting the tormentors, begging them
To seize, but are they not a child's toy, just that and nothing
More, a haunting reference to say the least, nay they
Shall not stop at their child’s play!
A suspended mobile of dirty cupie dolls,
Hangs on the limbs above the cradle of humanity,
In this island playpen for the spiritually deceased,
What a harsh lullabies song do these spiritually
Disembodied sing, unto suffrage’s children!
Tidal currents rush against the island shore,
Splashing, crashing with agonies pain, but
In this isle of the forgotten Neverland,
These spiritual lost will obtain the livings
Fondest wish to never grow up, but remain
The banished forever under the waves,
Of the island of the dolls.
There is an echoing whispering amongst the trees,
A deadly chanting’s whistling, of disembodied voices
Calling upon the living to beware, for you are entering
A no man’s zone, turn from here humanity,
Dare not enter look away in fear, for
Beyond this point of no return, lies the
Of the Island of the dolls.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Bring out the red balloons
and the dancing baboons
get that water slide ready
‘n’ where’s Tim’s old teddy
someone turn the music up
who pissed in my tea cup!
put those gifts right here
thank you Mary, my dear
****!, look at the spaghetti
it’s all covered in confetti
it’s ok we have plenty more
Billy get of the dirty floor
um, have you got the lollies
‘n’ the cars and the dollies
someone change her nappy
think it’s getting a bit crappy
Jimmy don’t pull her hair
now go and sit over there!
time to get out the bar-b-que
go ‘n’ get the meat will you?
Maureen please don’t cry
you just got to give it a try
hooray! here comes grandpa
in his brand new motorcar
blow your nose please Joey
go and play with little Zoe
ah! here is the pack of steak
did Aunty Jean bring the cake?
wow! many have come today
lots of happy little faces, i say
where’s all the plastic cutlery
oh yes, over there i can see
arrrgh! a mean rubber snake!
you’d scared me master Jake
better go and turn of that tap
whew! already wanting a nap
get me a orange soft drink
there’s Betty, pretty in pink
oh dear, got a bit of a mess
upon my brand new dress
did Larry chain up the dog
hey kid, get of that dirty log!
who’s lost their purple shoe
and who left out this glue?
He’s not deaf, Jenny Peal
he’s a gnome, he’s not real
got to have eyes everywhere
over here, here and over there
now that was not very nice
you say sorry to Sally, Bryce
let all those streamers down
mm, where’s that Bozo clown?
i see arriving now some others
Wendy and her three brothers
time to get on with excitement
all the kids are full of enjoyment
c’mon let’s get on with the fun
being happy under the warm sun
YAAAAAAAAAAY!!!!!!!!!!!
this sweet sixteen self should not dare sail away from the safe habour
no matter how sweet-talking boys are or archaic parents sound
it has dumped dollies for ‘fun’ boys and has privileges and rights
but one day it has to unlearn the habit of turning on lights for
romantic rather than economic reasons when other sixteens’
ballooning bellies heave in sight because of boys` menacing
lethal guns or when their bodies lose their natural radiance
because debauchery has ruthlessly ravaged them and turned
their age absolutely upside-down
with moderation and vision and honesty l have to enjoy life
because time flies faster than a silhouetted butterfly
18 December 2012
’Twas the day after Christmas and all through our split-level
Were the signs and the debris of our Christmasy revel;
The tree and the lights that we’d erected with care
Lay now in heaps and in tangles, in complete disrepair.
Not an adult was stirring; we were all comatose
From our Christmas-day turkey and stuffing overdose.
Still asleep in our beds while the kids ran amok
With their new games and their dollies and their little toy trucks.
But throughout the house a dreadful sound was soon heard,
A sound that sickened the heart like the vilest curse word.
It arose from the basement and swelled, as upward it soared:
’Twas the cry of the offspring announcing, “We’re bored!”
No! Amanda - don’t do that
You put clothes on dollies, not on the cat
Yes, I know that you’re playing, but Simba does not
And he really doesn’t belong in that cot
No! Amanda - I’ve told you before
Put your food in your mouth, not on the floor
Yes, I know it’s spaghetti, but look at the mess
There’s less on the plate than there is down your dress
No! Amanda - don’t you dare
Climb up in those wellies, onto the chair
Yes, I know that it’s bouncy, and that it feels good
But I don’t need the furniture covered in mud
No! Amanda – don’t take him out
A goldfish likes to keep swimming about
Yes, I know that you’re looking, but just please use your eyes
If you hold him much longer, he’s going to die
No! Amanda – don’t get out of bed
Pull up your covers, and cuddle in Ted
Yes I know that you’re tired, but you’ll soon be asleep
Then I can finally sit down and find some relief!
© Janette Fisher – May 1988
I wrote this poem when Amanda was 3 years old, she's now 24
I'm way down the track, almost eighty by golly
But my choo-choo hasn't yet run off the trolley
Still eat by myself
I'm in pretty good health
Still charm the pants off some cute young dollies
© Jack Ellison 2015