On Firtriculon V, the jagged sneels glide
through the deep and wounded river
Of course the river, aptly named The Scagerwat,
Would not be wounded if not for
The jagged sneels messy gliding
On Firtriculon V, the patterwattale plants
Reach up towards and put dirt on
The wobbling bobbling moon
Of course the moon, aptly named The Rastlying,
Would not wobble or bobble if the
patterwattale plants had not placed the
dirt only on the left side
On Firtriculon V, the weaving wheezing wahdels
Sing loudly at 2:83 in the aftermorning
And stop at 2:85 just as loudly
And of course the song, aptly named the ballad of werel,
Would not be sung as 2:83 if
The weaving wheezing wahdels didn’t keep a close
watch on the comings and goings
Of the popples on the ground
On Firtriculon V, people come at go
Ignoring the strange happenings around them
Because nothing is truly strange
on Firtriculon V
It is too early
it's a middling time.
Nature lures,
leads us on to a pause
where the weather
is all wrong.
Ice licked stems
are unforeseen
by a too hasty thaw.
Defrosting groundhog's drip
in an almost warm sunshine,
loggers lean on silent buzz saws
their foreheads dry and clear.
People take a day off
from the winter grind
bobble hats
and puffer jackets
are laid aside like bad dreams.
They predict that tomorrow
the snow is going to be heavy footed
and extra lumpy
any hint of avian romance
will be indefinitely delayed.
Yet today is middling mild,
and Pollyanna
dreams of daffodils.
Unless it's an Indian gift from the karmic sky-gypsies
it’s not going to last.
Maybe you have lots of it,
but sooner or later
the 'told you so' pigmy bobble-heads of Mu
will make it known to you
that they are watching your every distracted move,
and their taking receipts
back to long abandoned thrift shops.
Amazon's plastic chop suey
will keep you spinning in circles like a drunk skunk.
The very wealthy flush it 2 times
just to clear their own much trapped crap.
Stuff is also for the downtrodden masses,
who renovate it to fit their cramped lifestyles.
In the end it’s all utter clutter
that digs the captive soul
deeper and deeper.
Best to gather together what no one wants
then wait,
until inevitably -
they do.
Holiday Humor Limerick Poetry Contest
Tania Kitchin
Trump traded in his suit and decked the halls
To play Santa's helper and make house calls
Air Force One takes to the sky
Red noses' smiling eye-to-eye
To each, a gift of my bobble-head dolls
Whispers wade along the edge
Souls gather in dark black
Roads are laid in concrete
Paths are long with lack
The wind blows a gale
Water rages up tsunamis
The elite shape the divine
Sages mold matter into origami
Dreams run shadows in corners
Demons dredge up discontent
Memories of meetings gone wrong
Beliefs bobble from what is to what was meant
Oh, the calm comes clawing at catastrophe
The peace pauses palatable plays
Every step stiffens solace
Movement manages the mind's stay
Written by Trudy Schrader on 11-15-2025
a bobble hat fellow rumbles along
sharp turns behind me - hello -
but reaches up to the wall
grabs an apple 80 percent intact
and hobbles away again
a few seconds later he's back again
turns behind me, bends low
and picks up the soggy, abandoned
box of donuts
two inside remaining
successful mission
he wobbles away
Stones remember,
the first cold plunge
in ice-melt currents
hurling the sense of fear.
They remember
each bump, each grind,
each sudden collision,
that carved their surface
to soft compliance,
yielding to the drag.
They remember
the murmuring bobble,
as gentler waters
tumbled them together,
stone on stone mumbling
in the cobbled bed.
They remember
the drought years -
sun cracking their dried backs,
leaving flakes and crack lines,
on once-smooth sides.
They remember
the roaring flood -
how it tore them loose,
spun them helpless downstream,
to settle again
in some strange, swirling eddy.
They remember
this when lifted,
when held in the warmth of hand,
that their surface, shape and feel,
reveals the legacy,
of every touch, gentle or jarring,
of every bruise, bash and bump,
the river has used to shape them thus.
Antiquated pipeline geysers ravage starry nebulae, blast ash. The hurricane bankrupts reed origami masts. It splits overripe pomegranates. Wild animal guitar buzzes, echoing through shattered valleys.
Electrified abdomen dowels bobble and quiver. Balloons, gemstones, hot coals ululate. Feral cello cherries frost and educate potholes. They mold cracked roads into jagged mosaics of fire and ice.
Fractured aqueduct sprays liquid yogurt galaxies across the void. The tempest collapses bamboo paper cranes. It bursts ripe garnet figs. Savage harp lion roars. Untamed lyre berries chant anthems.
I got a bra
It is quite uplifting
Can't see my feet
Now I am tripping
Walking down the street
Men do really stare
I also dyed my
Hair a purple shade.
My husband did not
Notice, nor my grandson
Whoa!! All those whistles
I got walking home
They don't know I'm
Eighty, humped and old
They just see the boobs
Bobble as I walk alone
heavy heads bowing
seeds ripened enough to eat
head bobbles when picked
i’m a poet not a prophet ~ to believe otherwise would be odd
i blur visions of rhyme with latent reason ~ exactly like a god
so many times I’ve felt abandoned ~ desperate for a tiny nod
to see it in my rearview mirror ~ mr bobble head is overawed
#footnote#
i’ve had unexplained interventions in this life ~ agnostic i trod
By
David Kavanagh
I’ve been sitting here so long,
My butts getting numb,
So I jump right up
And stick out my thumb.
He comes rolling down the street,
With the only smell of mention,
The noxious fumes; olfactory tension.
Now I’m not trying to make excuses.
But I Really needed to get to,
Lower Catoosas.
This dude with odiferous outlet
Was a goin’ my way.
If you think that was dumb,
Just listen to this:
It was a super-charged Edsel
With slicks on the rear,
It had the characteristic stench of,
Cheap, stinkin’ beer.
When I jumped in the car
He shot me the Bird,
And laid on me
These immortal words,
“Far in man…
Like what’s going off?”
I was stunned awhile
Had to catch my breath,
He looked at me with
A grin like death.
The smell was real,
The driver was not.
Like a bobble-head doll
On the dash installed.
I regained my feet,
Away from the freak,
“Thanks, but I’d rather walk”.
Ducks are flying,
mild weather in February
has lured them,
to find and build nests.
The hunters are all taken by surprise,
The beavers are hard at work,
patching and mending rickety dams,
loggers are leaning on their buzz saws.
People are storing bobble hats,
and puffer jackets.
Today it is snowing heavy,
the ducks are heading to Florida.
Bird romance
indefinitely delayed.
Birthday balloon bonanza with a bubble bobble bee
Turquoise, orange and peach spraying off thee
Purple yellow and periwinkle giving a wee wee wee
I love Birthday balloon bonanza when she comes to me.
An advent of raptors loiters over mall roofs.
hooded eyes scope the neon-lit spaces,
the concreted waste lands.
We wake to their screams as if this were High Sierra,
not Ohio where parent’s try-out or manage children,
open party stores, hunker through the coming
and going of baby Jesus; de-ice puffer jackets.
Gloom is plowed behind snow dunes.
The red-tails roam in loose federations,
their young, mob-handed and loutish,
the mature work alone,
scything through small birds,
the weakened and walking.
The hawks wing-dance proclaiming their time,
a time of frost-bitten electric barricades,
of bobble hats and mittens,
while unseen, a wind-rattled thorny brier,
recites its litany of seasonal prayers.
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