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. 

Freedom Convoy

 "For 23 days starting in late January, downtown Ottawa served as a parking lot for hundreds of heavy-duty trucks, pickup trucks and other vehicles, operated by individuals who said they were fed up with the social restrictions and vaccine mandates meant to contain the spread of Covid-19."

WSJ

Tommy the trucker was fed up to here;

the rigid restrictions jabbed him like a spear.

Masking and vaccines and other gimcracks

were weighing him down like the gasoline tax.

Nobody could tell him what he ought to do.

He'd act as he wanted and eat barbecue.

So Tommy the trucker and some of his chums

got in their cabs and began beating drums.

They headed to Ottawa while honking and beeping;

which kept lots of people from napping and sleeping.

Snarling all traffic, this patriot Tommy

continued with actions that truly were balmy.

Stores had to close and a riot kept brewing

while Tommy the Trucker and friends kept on stewing.

They wanted strong drinks in their favorite pub

without any masks while they snarfed down the grub.

This Convoy of Freedom, this bandwagon giddy,

was finally stopped by police of the city.

Tommy the Trucker was soon shooed away.

His hero's work done, he went home without pay.

Home without pay, but his head still held high;

he'd proved to Trudeau he was Freedom's good guy.

A seat in the Parliament would be his, at worst;

he just had to learn how to read a book first.

A child's Sunday afternoon

 

The ham with cloves 

from all the kitchen stoves

sits upon the table drear

waiting for the presbyter.

Dad takes out his dentures,

while speaking of debentures. 

Mother disapproving,

the dishes all removing.

Sunday TV shows

with their trope-infested prose;

how I long for some ice cream 

to sweeten up my young blood stream.

Canned laughter as I cry

when it's time for beddy-bye.

But I take the Sunday funnies

into bed with fairy bunnies.

So the Sabbath day I keep

while I'm hopping off to sleep.

Then the voice of Allen Funt

from downstairs says I'm a runt.

Haiku: 完璧な降雪 The perfect snowfall

 

the perfect snowfall --

so quiet it doesn't sigh;

blank white on green slate.

the perfect snowfall -- 

asleep on a pile of wood;

old rivals at peace.

the perfect snowfall --

fast falling off the branches;

so goes all our dreams.

Shirley.

A baby picture --

on the dirty barren grass;

so distant and lost.

Ice and salt melting

together on the asphalt --

winter soup du jour.

nobody calling --

but everybody talking;

welcome to the noise.

 the old leather chairs --

faded and cracked and worn out;

like those who sit there.

Narrative Poem: Help Wanted.

I went to work at Pizza Shack for fifteen dollars an hour.

It was a good gig while it lasted.

Then the boss yelled at me for sneezing on the dough.

So I left. Just threw off my apron and walked out.

There was a bus waiting for me outside. To take me to the rope factory.

Where I got twenty dollars an hour. For inspecting rope.

But that was as dull as dust. 

Sensing my dissatisfaction, I was approached by a headhunter.

She offered me my weight in gold to supervise a robocall center.

In Nebraska.

But who wants to live in Nebraska?

It's a great place . . . if you're a cornstalk.

She sweetened the deal by saying I could instead

go to the island of Bali and handle the robocall center there.

That sounded better, so I took the position.

But when I was flown to Bali the island had sunk.

In a recent typhoon. There was nothing left.

But floating coconuts.

So I went back to Pizza Shack. As the manager.

They let me live in the owner's penthouse apartment.

I bathe in the milk of Assyrian she-asses.

My assistant applies kohl around my eyes twice a day.

I have the power of life and death over thousands.

But still, the work is not all that fulfilling.

So I'm signing up with the Coast Guard in April. 

I already passed their physical. 

 

Haiku: 曇った山 Cloudy mountain white.

 

Even dull mornings

are brighter than the day's end;

cloudy mountain white.

dead white and dark green --

both struggle to carry on;

the finches bellow.

the finches bellow 

because their tree branch burned down --

no more closet space.

sleepy man in chair

what put you so much there?

are you a lazy slob

or is this a full-time job?