Photo Essay: This Week's Postcards to the President.

 

Today's timericks.

 

Somebody lifted the lid/off of the slow cooker -- drat!/The stew was still raw when we ate/Who was the darn dirty rat?/No one confessed to the crime/I quizzed ev'ryone in the house/Except, diplomatic indeed/my very own dear little spouse.

You can't have it all, Mr. Biden/when asking for Covid relief/That wage hike you wanted so badly/can no longer be your motif/You'll find as you're dealing with Congress/they're stingy on some basic rights/so pull in your horns for the moment/if you do not want the last rites.

No singing or chanting in churches/is what the Supreme Court has spoke/So we can go worship in safety/except do not utter one croak/Cuz if you are caught with a hymnal/the penalty could be extreme/a government drone just might zap you/with a discreet laser beam.

Prose Poem: A Poet Eats.

 

My uncle died and left me a whole warehouse full of canned goods.

Canned pickled beets. Canned succotash. Corned beef hash. Green beans. Water chestnuts. Sardines. Peaches. Diced tomatoes. Bully beef. Peas. Creamed corn. Golden syrup. Horse mackerel. And so on. 

All of it good until the year 2023. 

So I decided to make stews and casseroles with it all to feed starving poets.

I got a camp stove and began heating up pots of beef stew and blended cans of diced tomatoes for gazpacho and put up a sign in front of the warehouse (which, I forgot to mention, I also inherited from my uncle) that read: "FREE EATS FOR STARVING POETS."

My reason for doing this was quite cynical. 

I wanted to prove that there are no starving poets around. It's a myth.

They are all fat cats with cushy teaching jobs at universities, not emaciated artists like Knut Hamsun once wrote about.

They wouldn't show up to eat my sodium, sugar, and msg-loaded meals for all the tea in China. Not them highbrows!

(I love everybody, really, except phonies -- and there are a lot of them around.)

Nobody came the first day I did this. So I gave the food I had prepared to a group of telemarketers who worked in the next building over. They were selling time shares to condos in Hawaii.

I guess one of them knew somebody at some TV station or something, since the next day I was swamped with reporters.

By then I had installed a large oven and was baking green bean casseroles and stirring pots of slumgullion. 

I told them exactly what I was doing -- offering free meals to writers of verse. No strings attached. Eat all you want. Never a cover charge. 

Well, this got on the evening news and went viral.

And suddenly the shabby, timid, woebegone people started to trickle in.

I didn't ask them to prove they were poets. They didn't have to recite or show me their awards or degrees in English Lit. I just fed them. I figured if someone wants to call themselves a poet they have every right in the world to do so, and who's to argue it with them?

And none of them looked like prosperous and sleek university teachers, either. They all looked like a falling snowflake would knock them down for the count.

After about a week I was visited by a real gen-yew-wine professor of poetry from a nearby university. He was the real McCoy alright; he wore a black flowing cape and had a pair of pince nez pinching his nose. 

"What can I do for you, bub?" I asked him, not at all kindly. 

"I just received a twenty-thousand dollar grant to write about your fantastic enterprise, in iambic pentameter. I am here to observe your operations, in situ."

"Over my dead body" I told him, rolling up my sleeves. 

When I gave him the bum's rush out the warehouse door the crowd of tattered men and women who were eating my tuna casserole gave a cheer. 

I turned to face them, after wiping off my hands, and had to ask:

"Are any of you really writing poetry of any kind, or do you just come here for a free meal?"

A guy who looked like John Qualen came up to me, cap in hand, and said "We all have poetry in our souls, mister. Does that count?"

"Only in Harlequin novels" I replied. "Only in Hallmark Specials. But don't worry, pal -- let's open up some cans of three bean salad for good measure -- whaddya say?"

So I kept feeding these humble folk until all the canned goods were gone. Then I sold the warehouse for a tidy sum.

It turned out to be a good tax write off. 

Today's timericks.

 

My friends are very generous/when trouble's at my door/they're very glad to give advice/my faults to underscore/But should I need a ride or loan/they suddenly recall/that they must hurry off to hunt/aardvarks in Transvaal.

"Full employment!' once again is heard among the hosts/of people who grew tired of some prior empty boasts/Can Biden pull it off and bring us back prosperity?/It ought to be as easy as dividing the Red Sea . . . 

Now they say that Gerber has got toxic metals in it/along with many other brands -- now wait a goldarn minute!/I know the stuff tastes awful, but seems arsenic to me/is just a little worse than feeding babies msg/So mommies get your blenders out, and make the stuff yourself/rather than rely on poison from your grocer's shelf! 

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 . . .