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Thanks to a residency at EcoHealth, my verse these days finds inspiration in the specter of future pandemics; for my dissertation at LMU M√ľnchen, where I tutor composition and edit a poetry weekly, I'm anatomizing the prosody of E. A. Robinson's sonnets—I also teach at MVHS and lead the Amerikahaus Literary Circle.


Herbert, Who Was Always Blowing Bubbles

by Robin and Jocelyn Wild

An ordinary boy was Herbert,
fond of lollipops and sherbert
and sticky things, which dentists say,
make children’s little teeth decay—
but bubble gum was Herbert’s passion,
for gum was what he spent his cash on.
For hours on end, he’d chew the stuff,
but he couldn’t chew it fast enough.

While no one thinks it’s impolite 
for cows to chew all day and night,
in people it’s considered rude:
Mealtimes are for chewing food.
And the bubbles Herbert blew!
(A thing no cow would ever do.)
He’d huff and puff and only stop
when the horrid bubble would pop.
The pieces stuck in Herbert’s hair,
the walls, the ceiling, everywhere!
It gave his mother screaming fits,
scraping off those gummy bits.

But now the boy—and all his bubbles—
cause his mother no more troubles,
for, on a breezy summer day,
Herbert simply blew away.
He’d blown a bubble, vast and round,
that lifted him right off the ground;
above the houses and up so high,
he vanished in a cloudless sky.

Note:  A recitation can be heard here.

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