The Day The Bubbles Arrived

The Day The Bubbles Arrived is a poem that I wrote quite a few years ago about the arrival of an alien species that travels in little bubbles. This poem is still in its draft form, but I wanted to share it before it is edited and rewritten, as I hope that you’ll enjoy the fun of it as much as I do. If you have any comments or thoughts on it at all, do let me know!

The Day The Bubbles Arrived

Look up, look up, look up, they cried.

The sky was blue, and it shimmered.

The early spotters saw a film, a thin layer

like plastic, covering,

keeping the clouds away from the land.

Necks were craned as work, forgotten,

children laughed with school runs abandoned.

They stared into the heavens, wondering

if the gods were wrapping cling-film

around the earth like a fragile parcel.

Hours went by before they saw, not 

plastic not plastic above them.

But bubbles, bubbles, bubbles everywhere

a sea of bubble-wrap slowly pressing down.

Some screamed, some shrieked, hairs stood

on necks and hands and armpits too, as

trypophobia settled in. First they were

millions of dots, like eye-sights gone wrong, and

they stayed that way for days.

It was slow, so slow moving, that

life abandoned, parties started, neighbours

laughed and kissed, lots of food

cooked and eaten, as the streets came,

came so alive,

the day the bubbles arrived.

With enjoyment came forgetting

as people started to return to chores.

Phones rang, bosses screamed, barbecue sets

packed up, but before they left, they heard

a pop, pop, pop.

Up they looked, shocked by the bubbles, now

as big as their heads staring up.

The first of the bubbles touched the peaks,

of the tallest trees and telephone poles.

The first of the bubbles exploded, comically,

pop, pop, pop.

They felt nothing, until they heard, a scream

distant, but near enough. Then the next,

came nearer, like thunder in a storm.

Where? They thought waiting for the next.

They heard one more, this was near, 

a neighbour close-by. So they went, to investigate.

A bubble had burst at the top of the tree, exploded

leaving nothing behind except for a slug

that dropped out of the sky. It hit the owner

of the scream that was close. They watched as she flicked

and whacked and whacked and whacked,

at the slug that slimed its way down her back.

They watched with their mouths hanging.

Pop, pop, pop,

more percussions heard,

they scampered like rats across the land.

Into their homes, toys abandoned, 

as the popping continued through the night,

and day, and night, and day, and night,

they locked their doors and windows tight.

The popping followed, thud, thud, thuds,

as slugs pelted on roofs and cars.

More days and nights went by before,

the quiet came to stay. That was when

the brave soul peeped outside to take

stock,

photos,

but not before

look out, look out, look out, they said.