Prose Poem: My Yoga Teacher.

 

My yoga teacher disappeared from her class on Monday, March 8, 2020.

Our class waited around a half hour for Helen to show up that day, but she never came in. When we asked the Yoga Center Director about it, all he could do was shrug his shoulders and say he had no idea what had happened to her. 

He had called her cell phone, but there was no answer, and no voicemail.

I thought this was pretty strange. 

She and I were beginning to bond in a pleasant way.

I thought we might be able to have a relationship out of class that would be good for the both of us.

Helen, because she was anorexic, and me because I am neurotic.

We could help each other overcome our challenges.

And if it went any farther than that -- 

well, so much the better.

A week after she disappeared I drove down to the Misplaced Yoga Teachers Association.

To see if they had any information on her whereabouts.

The receptionist told me that Helen Frontenac (I hadn't known her last name until then) was listed as MIA -- Missing In Action.

"What do you mean, missing in action?" I asked, somewhat bewildered.

"She never reported for duty at her Yoga Center and has not made contact with the Yoga Central Command. That automatically makes her MIA" replied the receptionist, while sharpening a corkscrew.

That should have tipped me off that I had walked into a den of magpies.

"Is there a war on or something I don't know about?" I asked facetiously.

But the receptionist answered me seriously:  "Yes there is, Mr. Torkildson. And it's about to sweep the globe like a pandemic so devastating that it will be compared to the Black Death or Rinderpest."  

I stood there, aghast.

"Well, what did Helen have to do with any of that? I wanted to take her out for a smoothie." I blushed as I finished my last sentence; I had inadvertently revealed my feelings for her to a complete stranger.

The receptionist pressed a button and I fell through a trap door into a dank, bare, room with no windows and an empty paper napkin dispenser in the corner.

Helen was chained to the wall.

"Helen!" I cried, when I saw her.

She looked at me, her eyes dull with resignation.

"It's no use, Tim" she said to me, and I thrilled that she had used my first name.

"They've started the virus and it can't be stopped."

"Who started it?" I asked her.

"The Yoga Cartel" she said, choking back a sob. "My own people did this -- just to cut off the Pilates Gang. I couldn't stand thinking about what was about to happen, so I tried warning people -- and this is what they did to me . . . "

Her head fell down onto her breast. I went to her. I comforted her. We became prisoners of love.

When Task Force Biden finally broke down the door to free us we were too weak to walk out on our own -- so Joe and Kamala  helped us to their helicopter  --

and we got to spend a week in the White House, recuperating and sleeping in the Lincoln Bedroom.

 

Today's timericks.

 

People will not get their shots/thinking it is all ersatz/So the virus cuts a swath/while lunkheads stay very wroth/swallowing untruths wholesale/their ignorance proud to unveil.

Online brokers shilly-shally/when their stocks refuse to rally/but when they go through the roof/they say that is ample proof/for investors to cash in/on a sure thing; sure as sin/In a while will come the dawn/when suckers mourn: "It's been a con!"

Faulty masks, at prices high/come from China by and by/They are knockoffs that don't work/letting microbes dance and smirk/It is corny, but I say/for your health buy USA.

Today's timericks.

 

China looks at Myanmar/as another candy bar/it can buy and snarf right down/Making Uncle Sam a clown/We had hoped democracy/would make Myanmar more free/Now it seems that freedom rings/far from Rangoon's ancient kings/Biden may not have the clout/to push the military out.

Navalny's had his day in court/His opposition's been cut short/Putin once again has shown/he pulls the strings from Kremlin throne/In Moscow you can speak you mind/as long as Putin ain't maligned. 

I'm letting all my houseplants go/because they simply will not grow/I give them water, light, and air/and in return they sit and stare/then turn a sullen shade of brown/and wilt until they hug the ground/Now I have a pot of gravel/guaranteed to not unravel.

Today's timericks.

 

It's the little things in life that count/not what's in your bank account/It may sound corny and too glib/pablum for a babe with bib/But a haircut or handshake/is better than a t-bone steak!

Children lost and parents grieved/is all that Mr. Trump achieved/with his immigration plan/Now we have a better man/in the White House who might fix/this problem without politics/May his task force soon succeed/in repairing this foul deed.

Paper napkins and tp/need wood pulp immediately/otherwise the scarcity/will bring on emergency/China seems to have the pulp/for paper cups from which we gulp/Me, I think the best relief/would be to use banana leaf . . . 

Today's timericks.

 

The news ain't good from Myanmar/the military's gone too far/The generals have took control/which no one thinks is very droll/Civilian leaders are detained/Democracy again is chained/Around the world, and in Rangoon/tyranny is in monsoon.

 Free expression's very fine/Do we have to draw a line/so that nitwits who insist/on the use of hate and fist/have no forum for their trash/Or should we just let 'em gnash?/Make them mail their balderdash/and they will soon be out of cash.

Oh, a crisp ten dollar bill/always gives me quite a thrill/So it crawls with microbes vile?/Holding one still makes me smile/If you intend to be a skeptic/just hose 'em down with antiseptic!

Today's timericks.

 

Bubble, bubble; toil and trouble/stocks on Wall Street seem to double/like a glass of boba tea/filled with balls of rich bounty/How much longer can it last/until it bursts with mighty blast?/All I know for sure, my friend/I always jump in at tail end . . . 

Teaching kids at home is fun/Education as homespun/Parents teach all that they know/It's a job that's made of snow/Then the child, when grown at last/becomes a true iconoclast/Online courses can be added/It's a way to make time padded. 

A grizzled curmudgeon is what I may be/but my heart is open to romantic spree/I'd spend all my money on some great affair/and wind up a pauper who plays solitaire/On second thought, ladies, this Valentine's Day/I'll give myself choc'late, and solvent still stay . . . 

Prose Poem: Mr. Peabody.

 

"Show Mr. Peabody into the library, please."

That's what the lady said to me.

That's exactly what she said.

A complete stranger.

Never saw her before in my life.

Then she walked away.

At first I was able to put it

out of my mind.

A random remark from

a random stranger.

Not worth a second thought.

But then, about a week later,

I began wondering --

who is Mr. Peabody?

Could be a coded message

meant to warn me,

or threaten me.

Or throw me off the trail.

But I've never been involved in

any kind of spy business

or criminal activity.

I work in lawn care.

"Don't let it get to you, kid"

I told myself.

I thought about telling somebody

about all this -- 

but couldn't think of anyone

who would take an interest in

this odd, admittedly trivial, incident. 

And that thought --

that nobody in the whole

wide world took much 

interest in me --

depressed me badly.

So I went down to the 

Animal Shelter

and got me a dog.

A real mutt he is.

Ugly as sin.

But very affectionate

and intelligent.

I told him all about the strange

lady and what she said to me.

He listened attentively;

he seemed very interested

in the whole affair.

The dog and I worked out a theory:

It was a case of simple 

mistaken identity.

Like in a movie.

I owe that dog a lot.

And that's why I named him

Mr. Peabody.

Today's timericks.

 

I intend on aging well/looking for a magic spell/to give me both health and vigor/I take vitamins with rigor/Saw palmetto is the thing/With ginseng I'll take a fling/If these potions don't succeed/I'll check in to Walter Reed.

Let's take up a collection/for starving CEO's/so they will have some carfare/and a decent set of clothes/Their salaries declining/in this pandemic year/instead of champagne cocktails/they'll settle for a beer/If you should see one begging/with a cardboard sign/be tactful and don't tease them/about their small gold mine.

No catalog will suit me/because I'm roly-poly/my waistline is tremendous/my shoe size is unholy/From catalogues I'll order/only in the event/that they have outdoor trappings/so I can buy a tent.

Today's timericks.

 

Tainted software is endemic/not a problem academic/We are being squeezed like fruit/so that hackers get their loot/Since they float around like fog/we'd better switch to analog.

Household spending takes a dive/as pandemics still do thrive/Uncle Sam will send more checks/hoping spending muscles flex/But I gotta tell ya, Sammy/I ain't going to Miami/Any checks you send to me/go in the bank, that's Q.E.D.!

Marjorie Greene from Georgia still claims/voting conspiracies are playing games/with the election; that Biden's a cheat/Her brain cells apparently are Cream of Wheat/Why voters put her in Congress remains/something to puzzle the smartest of brains.

But with everlasting kindness will I have mercy on thee

 

Rude men and their justice raw

have no place in God's own law.

His justice mixed with mercy mild

all mankind has reconciled.

Everlasting kindness he

 shows to all eventually.