Postcard to President Trump

Flight 13 to Hoboken

United is reviewing an incident that left 250 passengers stuck on an airplane on a small Canadian airfield for about 12 hours last weekend, prompting some to email airline Chief Executive Oscar Munoz.

WSJ  

Passengers on Flight 13 had boarded and were seated;

flight attendants had made sure each passenger was greeted.

Peanuts were delivered to those hungry for a treat;

the atmosphere was homey as shoes came off tired feet.

The engines raced, the engines roared, as takeoff was beginning.

Babies had been quieted and old folks started chinning.

The pilot on the intercom said weather in Hoboken

was rainy with a touch of wind and cloud cover unbroken.

The in-flight magazine displayed some tropic mountains soaring;

but otherwise the mundane prose and photos were quite boring.

Instruction on the masks and floating pads reminded all

that planes were merely metal tubes that actually could fall.

The big bird on the tarmac ran, majestic as a swan.

The Tower gave the go-ahead to climb into the dawn.

So Flight 13 to Hoboken was soon up in the air;

it looked to be a peaceful flight without a single care.

Then . . . 

like the wonderful one-hoss shay in poetry revered,

the chassis of that plane did shake, and metal groans were heerd.

The passengers were much alarmed; the flight attendants, too.

The captain on the intercom announced it was "Code Blue."

Code Blue! The very name struck fear in liver and in lights;

was this to be another one of those dread missing flights?

The engines sputtered out at once; the fuselage did crack;

the turbulence was awful and down came the luggage rack.

Luckily the pilot was as cool as cukes in snowbank;

he radioed an SOS and said that this was no prank.

He white-knuckled the steering wheel down past the fleecy clouds

and landed in a meadow that was lacking airline crowds.

Then . . . 

passengers and crew together gave a gladsome shout,

until they found the doors were jammed and no one could get out.

The meadow where they landed was so far out in the sticks

that no one round about knew how an airplane door to fix.

The peanuts were exhausted and the booze was gone as well;

the sober hunger pangs were getting very hard to quell.

The babies now were squalling and the old folks had to pee;

the bathrooms overflowed, which did not cause a jubilee.

Passengers grew surly, the attendants sat and wept;

 it now seemed an eternity since anyone had slept.

Suddenly an Air Marshal revealed himself to say

that they were all arrested for felonious horseplay.

Then . . . 

the tumult that erupted at this blatant disregard

for liberty and justice hit that Marshal pretty hard.

They passed him down the aisle just like a mosh pit votary,

until all that remained of him was part of his left knee.

"I'm hungry!" yelled an older man, "and I don't care a fig

about taboos against the eating of some fresh long pig."

The passengers and crew now eyed each other with suspense;

it looked like someone soon would be referred to in past tense.

But just then a mechanic from the airline did arrive;

he pried the doors all open, which made languid hope revive.

The emails that those passengers then sent the CEO

of the airline made him cringe and caused his ears to glow.

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

Tim Torkildson

"The Poet Laureate of the New York Times Newsroom"

torkythai911@gmail.com

Available for Company Picnics and Swap Meets

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

Postcards to President Trump

The glittering baubles that women pursue

Female presidential candidates are also battered by professional consultants who claim to understand voters, and who tell them to be strong but approachable, warm but steely, mom but dad, young and bouncy but wise and grave. These operatives are the swarming locusts of politics, eating all in their path. They never say, “Let’s just settle down and be mature, as the moment seems to demand it.” Male candidates face this too, but for women it is more so—more nervous and defensive.

WSJ  @Peggynoonannyc 

The glittering baubles that women pursue,

that men in the past kept from their dainty view,

now include leadership roles in the state,

CEO honors, and top magistrate.

Gone are the days when a woman would toil

with suckling infant and hot Crisco oil.

Schooled in hard science and quite self assured,

they've learned to be fearless from all they've endured.

The pendulum swings and our age has arrived

at a time and a place where no woman's deprived

of all that she ever has wanted to be,

and we can dispense with all male sophistry.

And thus as the year twenty-twenty draws near

running for Prez is a woman's career.

Whether from Congress or bizness or home,

gal candidates across the country do roam.

They're proud and mature, and have something to say

that men cannot utter in just the same way.

These women have pondered about what's to do

to bring glory back to the Red, White and Blue.

And while I'm inclined to applaud their desire

to bring to the campaign both reason and fire,

I wonder how many of the fairer sex

will actually run starting this year, or next.

Forgive my disquiet as I contemplate

opening up such a potent floodgate;

as more and more women decide with relief

that THEY ought to be our Commander-in-Chief.

From corporate boardrooms the women will march

to give the campaign expertise and some starch.

From schools and academies women depart

to run with their soul and their brains and their heart.

Stores must close up as they lose their cashiers,

and pole dancers leave as men cry in their beers.

Housemaids and even the svelte ballerina

start in campaigning at park and cantina.

They know how to raise a tremendous war chest;

for women, at funding, are simply the best.

No bank can refuse them; no pinched billionaire

resists when referred to as "my teddy bear."

Please do not declare I'm a male chauvinist;

since men, for their funding, great buttocks have kissed.

I'm only attempting to paint a true scene

of what women running will actually mean.

I know it's a cliche and threadbare old trope,

but men without women to help have no hope

of living a decent and happy existence

without women's expert and charming assistance.

If women are gone on the campaigning trail,

we men left behind will most certainly fail.

We'll die from starvation, and loneliness too;

we'll forget how to breathe while our faces turn blue.

However, I shall not attempt to implore

women to come back to home or to store.

They have ev'ry right to go off on their own

to seek education or wealth or a throne.

When back from campaigning, please don't be averse

to treating us better -- though we deserve worse.

We'll try to do better, to shave and to please --

as soon as we find those doggone lost car keys!

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

"The Poet Laureate of the New York Times Newsroom."

https://www.nytimes.com/2018/06/25/reader-center/newsroom-poet-laureate-limericks.html

801-310-4804

AVAILABLE FOR BAR MITZVAHS AND TURKEY SHOOTS

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

Marie Kondo vs My Clutter

The tenets of "Marie Kondo-ing" your home are simple: Hold every item you own. If it sparks joy, keep it. If not, get rid of it.

LATimes  @jessica_roy

I've always thought Americans were good at showing gumption

when it comes to hoarding and conspicuous consumption.

Even as a toddler I had some strong obsessions

with collecting bric-a-brac as valuable possessions.

I kept a box of gewgaws in my bedroom as a boy;

baseball cards and rusty keys that gave me scads of joy.

Nickels from Ontario; a mainspring from a clock;

a piece of yellow sulfur; and a broken Stanley lock.

In MY mind it was treasure, worth the ransom of a king.

With passionate delusion to this trash I had to cling.

And when my mother got fed up and threw it all away,

I started leaking brine and felt to moan: "Alack-a-day!"

After that I vowed that whatsoever came to me

should never be subjected to hygienic scrutiny.

Whatever I had bought, or found, or gotten as a gift,

was guarded with a zealous eye that did not ever drift.

And so I came to manhood, with a closet full of dreck

that grew and grew like Topsy, without hinder, without let.

Croquet sets and lawn darts, with a smattering of tools;

lava lamps and Christmas lights -- a pair of leather mules.

A road atlas of Texas; Coleman lanterns and some rope;

a Swiffer without handle and a bar of laundry soap;

Hires root beer extract and a Shriner's soft red fez;

a Michael Jordan poster and a dozen empty PEZ.

To inventory all of it would take a hundred years,

and still you would not get to the remotes and rabbit ears.

The printers and cassette tapes and the cables color-coded;

the battery rechargers and the bath oil beads (exploded.)

Now my garage is filling up with trinkets and cheap trifles,

including self-help books and half a dozen BB rifles.

I have to park the car out on the curb come rain or glare;

and where to put the StairMaster is causing me despair.

Even Marie Kondo could not break up my logjam.

It's part of me just like the shell is part of any clam.

I think I'll shave my head and join a Buddhist monastery;

all my worldly chattels they can take to sell or bury . . . 

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

Why was my postcard to President Trump returned to me as 'postage due: 21 cents"?

You can plainly see the stamp on it. Is this a cover up -- or a conspiracy -- or just USPS incompetence?

The Bullfrog and the Elephant

Said the bullfrog to the elephant: "I wish I were as large

as you are, mighty pachyderm -- so that I could be in charge!"

The elephant looked down upon the bullfrog with disdain.

"It takes more than just size" he said "to truly rule and reign."

"Patience and forbearance, plus a healthy grain of salt,

are needed to see others as an asset not a fault."

"I may be big and massive, but that don't give me the right

to tyrannize all others who are smaller in my sight."

So saying, Mr. Elephant trudged off o'er dusky veld

while scheming Mr. Bullfrog his ambition was not quelled.

(And if you think this fable has contemporary feel,

I won't deny it could refer to some big blonde schlemiel.)

That bullfrog wanted really bad to show who wears the pants,

and so he hopped on over to a hill of fire ants.

"Obey me!" he cried shrilly, as he glowered at their heap;

the ants began to sting him til away he had to creep.

After he recovered from their stings he tried to force

his will upon some grasshoppers feeding on rough gorse.

He threatened to devour them if they did not obey;

they spit dark brown tobacco juice all over him in play.

Beside himself with anger, that old frog called on the mice

to give him their obeisance -- but they answered back "No dice!"

To the pond where he was born at last he went in shame,

where tadpoles of his vast pretensions made a merry game.

Stooping in the muck and mire, feeling far from spry,

that bullfrog didn't have the pep to nab a passing fly.

Sobbing in frustration, he began to gulp down air --

and suddenly began to grow in size, all unaware . . . 

Until a soft shelled turtle who was sunning on a log

exclaimed in wonder "Lookee there; the king of this here bog!"

Heedless of the consequence, the bullfrog pulled in more

air until he looked a bit like some small dinosaur.

"Ha ha!" he rumbled as he grew, "At last I am the King!"

He squashed all opposition as his flippers he did fling.

Bigger, and then bigger still, he grew with keen inflation,

lording over slugs and snails and even tough crustacean.

But such a bloated eminence he couldn't long sustain.

He finally exploded with a roar of grief and pain.

The elephant meandered by that pond soon after, saying

"Hot air is not the way to reign -- it keeps no rulers staying."

Mean Tim

Dear Amy;

Your snail mail has been coming to my address this week. I am saving it for you. The Nice Tim would offer to mail it to wherever you would like. But the Nice Tim is dead; you killed him.

Now the Mean Tim is running the show. So if you want your mail you’ll have to come and get it yourself. If you don’t respond to this email to tell me when you’ll be coming for it I’ll throw it out.

The Mean Tim wants you to know that he has not reneged on his offer of marriage. He thinks you still need a secure and stable place to live and be appreciated for all your fine qualities. And that place, to begin with, is right here at Valley Villas as Mean Tim’s loving and loyal wife. Unless you have financial means of supporting us that I know nothing about. So Mean Tim must insist you fill out the Financial Assets form and submit it to the PCHA office. Mean Tim will wait for you to convince yourself that this will not harm you in any way and that it will show to Mean Tim some of the respect you have so often denied him.

Do not email Mean Tim any more of your fuzzy psuedo gospel idee fixes. Once we are married Mean Tim expects you to suppress them as harmful fancies to both yourself and others. You and Mean Tim will study the gospel by reading the scriptures, not turgid propaganda from shysters and con artists. Mean Tim expects you to use your brains and heart to further his career as a humorist, not work as a shill for snake oil companies and shaky theology.

Mean Tim must tell you that he has deleted unread all your emails this week. The only way Mean Tim will ever read your emails again is if you put in the Subject Line this sentence:  I Surrender Dear.  It is based on an old Bing Crosby song:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qXGv-rd-bvA

Mean Tim sincerely believes it’s time you had a husband who ruled with a firm hand. Mean Tim doesn’t care if you like that or not, as long as you accept it as part of the marriage contract. Perhaps if you show Mean Tim how loving and reasonable you can be, like you used to be long ago, he will loosen the reins and repent of his grim decision to be the one and only boss in this marriage. But right now it’s Mean Tim’s way or the highway.

Remember, I’ll delete anything without reading it that does not have “I Surrender Dear” in the subject line.

Your devoted villain,  Mean Tim.

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

Response: Dear Tim,

    I had hoped to chat tonight. But no problem to chat face to face later. I saw "Zookeeper" too. Kevin James does a good job of following the instructions from the animals, just like you. Insult, compliment and demand. Gets them every time.  But that's not the lasting relationship. That's the one where he decides he doesn't like who he's turned into and he leaves her for the one who gets him to be himself.

     I know that you wear a mask. You wear a mask to protect the guy who is unsure of the God you think you know. If you were Gollum you couldn't be more worthy of what awaits you.

     Tim, what are we going to do? I know in my heart that I will not be able to keep quiet when there are things to understand. It would be wrong to make a person promise that. It would be wrong for me to accept that kind of treatment. God doesn't treat people that way. What makes you believe that I would want to live in that oppression?  You alluded to the idea that if I was respectful there may be a way for you to repent of being the one and only boss in the house... where is our footing? Are we able to get on equal ground?  How is treating me scornfully any kind of respect for yourself or our family?  The things I've said are true. You called them fuzzy, with a few other epithets to insult me. I've been insulted before so I'm not sure what you hope to accomplish by whipping up on me now. 

     Do you believe that I have treated you scornfully as I asked questions about the actions you have done?  Can you address with equity anything I've been asking? How can I believe you when you say you love me when I know you've been lying all your life? The wearing of the mask makes for a double mind. As long as you hide Dr. Jekyll from Mr. Hyde he won't hurt anyone. Hiding is what we don't want to do. God always knows what's going on. In James 1. Right after the verse that says to ask of God when you lack wisdom he cautioned to be firm in faith nothing waivering for a double minded man is unstable in all his ways. You say you have a stable place there. I know that if I were to get there it would not be a stable place anymore. Together we are volitile, we could be dynamic because of the skills we both have. Looking at the patterns in our lives will show you how unstable if you look at even just the time line. The only way way we can be stable is to be united in the one true God. I cannot comprehend the God you've made up for yourself. Your God has only tyranny and oppression. Equality isn't in the word picture you sent me.

Yours,

Amy

Email response from Amy, thus: I'll be there to pick the mail . Mean Tim has assumed something in the acceptance of the marriage contact but I'm not sure what. Will there be a monthly Temple attendance with both of us?

So I surrender, dear one.

Email response from friends in Thailand and Hawaii:

As usual, you are unusual.  

I think that your email to Amy is well thought out and honest, and clear in its content and you are clear in your mind.  I think your position makes sense.  If she accepts your conditions, it will be good for her and for you, and for the two of you.  Perhaps she is the type of person who needs the authority figure, and that you be the one she cannot conquer, except by love, and then it will be an even relationship.  

But that's my perspective.  I'd guess most any American woman would reject your conditions.  But this is your life.  You are willing to give her something.  You don't have to.  But you will if she accepts your conditions.

I'll now ask Wan Lee what she thinks.  I'll guess that she'll say "Why offer marriage if he's not willing to love and accept her?"  But I'm usually wrong, so let's see, after she comes back from the bathroom.

waiting ... waiting ...

Well, I was 100% wrong.  "That's good.  That's fair.  Sometimes tough love is necessary.  He's helping.  He doesn't want to drag himself down to that empty meaningless.  He offered something positive that's good for Amy.  It's wise for him to put those parameters clearly, instead of unconditionally.  He knows Amy the best.  She might drive him nuts.   It will be clear to her."