Narrative Poem: What's holding us together?

 

Ever since I learned of atoms as a child

I have been obsessed with disintegration.

I mean, c'mon -- what's holding all those 

atoms together?

Magnetism? Gravity. Electricity? What?

Some people are marked by an experience

with spontaneous combustion --

where a person just goes up in flames

for no reason.

With me, it's spontaneous disintegration.

And not just of people. Of things.

I have a memory as a small boy

of seeing a red fire hydrant near my house

slowly disintegrate before my eyes one

summer day. It was horrible.

Since then, I have worked at keeping

myself together.

I take collagen supplements.

If you take enough of it,

Elmer's Glue tastes rather sweet.

When I feel a loosening of my atoms

I immediately lay down in a tub of 

warm mucilage. 

So far, it seems to be working.

Of course, everyone else seems fine;

there's no reports of spontaneous disintegration

in the news.

Not that it would ever be reported

if it's been happening since the beginning

of time.

Something that happens all the time,

like dandruff,

is not newsworthy.

So I keep my eyes peeled.

And have placards printed that read:

"Keep yourself together!"

I just sent a shipment of 'em to

Lviv -- with rolls of duct tape.

One does what one can.

Narrative Poem: The Scooter

 

The scooter lay there. Abandoned.

Sadness welled up in me like bad clams.

I couldn't go on, but returned home.

Opening my vault, I took out a wheelbarrow

filled with money.

Then I wheeled it down to the abandoned scooter.

I announced in a loud voice that whoever

could tell me about the child who rode that scooter

could have my wheelbarrow of money.

A few people stopped to stare at me.

But otherwise they scurried about their loathsome

business like cockchafers on a banana peel.

I called 911 to report the scooter as evidence of

a terrible crime.

"Ah, some kid just left it there" said the 911 voice.

He sounded weary and jaded. "Call when you find a body."

I turned back to the sinister scooter --

only to find it was gone!

Someone had taken it while I was calling.

And they had snitched a wad of bills

off the top of my wheelbarrow, too.

So I went home and cleaned the kitchen floor.

Waxed it down with Turtle Wax. 

When you have a big heart like mine

you have to make things shiny.

Narrative Poem: The Flags.

 

We raised our flags to national unity in a cutting wind.

Our bare heads were bowed in solemn cutlery.

We rent our raincoats and covered our heads

with Gold Bond Powder.

The dedication was offered by a veteran.

Someone with a peaked cap and dentures

that kept slipping.

He spoke in a deep quiet voice. No one heard 

his words.

Then we buried a time capsule.

Filled with clocks and watches.

Above it a granite marker reading simply:

No Parking.

We will soon be forgotten.

And others will lift our banner.

To them we say:

Barkis is willing.

Narrative Poem: The Rock

 

It was 'Adopt a Rock' Week in town.

So I found an orphaned rock, with no

mountain to nourish it.

And took it home.

At first the rock was shy and frightened.

It wouldn't talk to me or eat anything.

But little by little I got it to open up, to

tell me its

name.

Heathcliff.

I nicknamed it 'Cliffy.'

I sent Cliffy to St. John's Military School

in Kansas.

But it was dismissed for medical reasons.

It was hard of hearing.

So I took Cliffy into the family transport business.

It worked as ballast in one of our ships.

But sailors are a rough bunch,

and Cliffy took after their hard ways.

Between trips it holed up in the local gravel pit.

When I tried to remonstrate with it,

it pulled a chisel on me.

Now we don't talk to each other anymore.

Sad.

Next time, I'll adopt a sandbag.

Unstable as water

 "Unstable as water, thou shalt not excel . . . "

Genesis 49:4

Unstable as water, my wavering strength

can rush unabated to flood any length --

or pool into sorrow for sins yet to come;

O Lord, I feel covered in black faithless scum!

Help me rejoice in thy promises sure,

and find in thy laws saving fountains so pure! 

Behind the Entenmann’s Cellophane, a Slice of Long Island Life. (NYT)

 Lucky East Coast residents, who had the sweetest brand

of goodies from old Entenmann's in all this famished land.

In the Midwest it was vain to look for Danish Twist;

nobody had such manna and there was no waiting list!

O Entenmann's, O Entenmann's, a storied treat to me --

a hungry little boychik from a chill Menominee.

Narrative Poem: Kyiv.

 Things were going pretty smooth at work.

I'd been back for a month

when the boss called me into her office.

She did not greet me wreathed in smiles.

She said "Torkildson, you've been in your

comfort zone for too long. Hasn't the

pandemic taught you anything?"

"Glub glub glub" I replied intelligently.

"From now on you're to keep your left

hand immersed in iced Tabasco Sauce eight

hours a day" she told me.

I thought to myself "Everybody else is

quitting their jobs and going to live in

Tahiti -- I'll do the same!"

But when I opened my mouth

out came: "Yes, ma'am. Glub."

I slunk back to my desk, where 

I found a stainless steel bowl full

of iced Tabasco Sauce waiting for me.

*******************

When I got back to my boarding house

that night my left hand was throbbing.

Mrs. Hoffnagel, the landlady, greeted me

at the door. 

She announced: "We're having salmon patties

for dinner tonight."

I said: "You know I'm allergic to salmon. May

I have just a salad please?"

"No!" she replied in ringing tones.

"I'm taking you out of your comfort zone

for your own good. Imagine -- you, 

a bachelor at 35! You need some shaking

up so you'll get on with your life." Her

arms were akimbo.

"But I lost my parents and my fiance

during the pandemic" I said quietly.

"Nevertheless" she shot back, performing

Katchaturian's Sabre Dance with a steak knife,

"You'll eat the salmon and like it. Your

comfort zone has held you back far too long!"

I slunk into the dining room and pretended

to eat the salmon patties --

pushing them under my plate when

no one was looking.

****************************

"Father, I have sinned" I started to say

to my priest while we were in the confessional.

The smell of wax candles always soothed me, so 

I had gone down to Saint Andrew's after dinner.

"Stop!" the priest commanded from the

other side of the grille.

A dormouse crawled over my shoe.

"You're too comfortable with your sins"

he said quietly. Butter wouldn't melt 

in his mouth; but margarine might.

He continued: "I want you to give away

all your wealth, join the Ukrainians

in their fight for freedom, and wear

sandpaper under your shirt for the rest

of your life."

*********************

I had my leg shot off at Kyiv. 

I traded the sandpaper under my shirt

for a ride to the nearest hospital in Macedonia.

There I caught the Coronavirus Lambda variant

and was quarantined in a comfort zone for six 

months. 

When I got out my feet smelled like 

the wick of a kerosene lamp.

But otherwise I'm still voting for

Ted Cruz when I get home again.

To save much people alive

 "But as for you, ye thought evil against me; but God meant it unto good, to bring to pass, as it is this day, to save much people alive."

Genesis 50:20.

To save much people God allows

the evil acts of men to rouse

the storms of war, deceit, and hate --

but in His hand are all men's fate.

He raises one, another fails;

but in the end His might prevails.

Haiku: 子どもたち The children.

 

Small and delicate --

this girl child looks at the world

through white angel's wings.

Hot tub in winter?

Are these kings and princes or what?

In my day . . . spinach.

Haiku: 3月の不機嫌な山々 The sullen mountains of March

 

rigid black wires

against the pathless pink sky --

the Sunday March grid.

Muted red melting

into the sullen mountains --

March Sunday morning.

Restore me, mountain!

Refresh me, waking sun glimpse!

March morning cornflakes.