Hoarding Birds: A Felony

Dozens of birds were rescued from a possible hoarding situation in a Rancho Bernardo apartment on Wednesday morning, a San Diego Humane Society official said.

A handful of Humane Society officers spent hours removing the birds from a home on Avenida De Los Lobos near Paseo Montanoso, placing them in boxes and then carting them out to a truck to be medically evaluated, according to the Humane Society.

As of 2 p.m., more than 80 birds had been seized.

It’s unclear what types of birds were located, but many were cockatiels, a member of the cockatoo family, officials said. The animals will eventually be transported to the shelter on Gaines Street.

San Diego officers with assistance from the Psychiatric Emergency Response Team also responded to the apartment to evaluate a resident there, police said.

LATimes.  @LAWinkley 

Hoarding birds; a felony

except upon the Bering Sea,

where sailors capture them for heat

against the cold and mist and sleet.

In other places, not too cool;

birds, too, need the Golden Rule.

Hoard not, or you'll hoarded be

whether bird or timpani.

After all, a bunch of drums

is not like a vase of mums;

no one cares if flowers bloom

all around the living room.

Kinda two-faced, after all --

why can't birds be wall to wall?

Maybe such propinquity

is their pickin' cup of tea!

Is this fake news once again,

written by a hacker's pen?

Birds, I bet, are very keen

to be packed in like sardine.

Holy Hannah! I declare;

this bird story isn't fair.

 Feathered friends should sue the Times

for such libel and high crimes.

The Constitution guarantees

I can hoard both birds and bees.

What I want to know right now:

where have those drums gone, anyhow?

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Still Lives

Revere Clinic.  2019.

Revere Clinic.  2019.

Revere Clinic.  2019.

Abandoned License Plate. Provo Utah.  2019.

Deseret Industries. Provo.  2019.

Deseret Industries. Provo.  2019.

Deseret Industries. Provo.  2019.

Deseret Industries. Provo.  2019.

Song of the Caravan

TECÚN UMÁN, Guatemala—A caravan of Central American migrants seeking to reach the U.S. is set to swell in coming days as thousands gather at Mexico’s southern border waiting for humanitarian visas that have become much easier to get under Mexico’s new government.

Around 5,600 Central Americans are awaiting visas at Tecún Umán, on Guatemala’s border with Mexico, Mexican officials said Tuesday. The visas would allow them to continue their journey north without the risk of deportation from Mexico.

WSJ  @jmontesWSJ  

Afoot and determined, we take to the road;

these wide brown approaches to our new abode.

We've heard that fresh visas in Mexico will

give us free passageway up and down hill.

Good fortune is gone from our poor native soil;

the government plots all our dreams to despoil.

Our children as soldiers or young racketeers?

Better we all should break through new frontiers!

We're done with the groveling life of a pawn,

so wear out our sandals to find a clear dawn.

The stars up above testify that our aims

are not addlepated or frivolous games.

We hear that the Hefe up North has decreed

he doesn't want us or our hardworking breed;

he's building a wall that he thinks will prevent

asylum for us without his mean consent.

We also have heard, though it's hard to believe,

he separates fam'lies without a reprieve.

Children are taken from parents by force,

imprisoned and fed only food that is coarse.

But even if true, we are coming his way.

We're using our feet to create a new day;

our numbers increasing, we ask but a chance

to see that our children can thrive and advance.

We carry no weapons, our shield is the hope

that we will find friends who will help us to cope.

Americans, look upon us and construe

that there but for God's grace goes your journey too!

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

Tim Torkildson

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

torkythai911@gmail.com

Available for birthday parties and Rotary Club luncheons

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

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