Is this a bubble that I see before me

Or is it a bubble of the mind?

 

My grandson and I are busy blowing bubbles,

Thereby reducing time spent watching TV.

We’re forever blowing existential bubbles,

 

Bubbles are the ideal poetic material

Offering up their onomatopoeia

And redolence of childlike hopes hopes

Of floating away, 

Like Mary Poppind,

On the carefree air.

Carried, as they are,

By the random breezes,

As determinism pleases,

Or glued tight together

In clusters of clans, like honeycombed hives.

Bubbles are insubstantial and evanescent,

Just as we.

No one knows when we, or they, will pop!

 

Do bubbles have meaning

Beyond the poetic imagination?

Where do they go when they reach the sky?

Do they, like our dreams, just fade and die?

 

GRANDAD!

William punctured the bubbles in my mind!

Stop considering the existential determinist

Dichotomy…

BLOW SOME MORE BUBBLES! PLEASE!