Monthly Archives: February 2015


Author’s note: yes, yes, I know, I’ve bent the definition of expatriate a bit. Deal or chill.

What is an expat?
An expatriate.
Someone who used to live
In the country where you still do.

What made them choose to leave?
Did they feel by their country wronged?
A soldier and his wife felt so,
So off to her native Australia they go.

Have some chosen to leave
In pursuit of fortune or fame?
Perhaps on this some will lay claim,
Leaving behind family and friends lief.

Perchance they’re in pursuit
Of a lifelong ambition;
They want dreams to come to fruition,
To this end they uproot.

Are there ghosts from the past
Leaving them aghast?
A change of clime
Could be most sublime.

I once considered making Australia my home:
I’d soak my feet in South Pacific foam.
I counted up my likely score
To enter through citizenship’s door.

My chosen profession gave me a boost,
I’d just need a job,
And the score for this yob
Would let him in Brisbane or Canberra roost.

Heeding pleas
Of family,
Their fears I allayed,
And stayed;

Allowing me to sometimes host
Family parties and social gatherings,
And in the cling and clattering
I lost the ghosts.

Now, for one, ghosts gather up ahead,
As news fills him with dread:
He learns from the backchat
That a dear one wants to be an expat.

©2015 H.K. Longmore

The Hardest Prayers

Some may think it kind
To pray for others success.
But one may come to find
In that prayer, distress:

He wishes her success in her goals,
He prays fervently for it, but there’s a toll:
Much to his dismay,
Her goals will take her away.

Can he secretly hope she fails,
While praying she gets that letter in the mail?
No, ’tis selfish, ’tis not love.
He’ll send a unified message above.

Each time her departure is spoken of,
Part of his heart withers,
And though it goes against his druthers,
He’ll hope for that which sorrow comes of.

©2015 H.K. Longmore


No rule or guideline will stop him,
He is determined to see it through.
Nerves are naught out on a limb,
He’ll see it through.

Should it require interruptions,
Or patiently waiting,
A hook now baiting,
He’ll see it through.

If it brings his flesh to incorruption
By this his last act,
It will happen, he made a pact.
He’ll see it through.

He’ll say hello—ahem—
But for one small problem,
He’d see it done:
The cubicle is an empty one.

©2015 H.K. Longmore


He’s late so passes by with a nod.
She’s a step or two behind,
But he’s really got to go.

She’s on the phone;
Teaching from his youth
To not interrupt
Does battle with desire to talk
And wins the row.

He’ll try another jow.
Besides, “Happy Ash Wednesday”
Isn’t quite apropos.

©2015 H.K. Longmore

Seven Year Pursuit

She sees him below,
The one she desires.
She finds he inspires
As her heart closer grows.

He doesn’t know
It has taken a year—
But it is now clear,
She desires to be friend, not foe.

Year by year she closer comes,
In seven, she perceives,
Her goal she’ll achieve.
With delight she softly hums.

Six have passed,
She draws nigh,
And lets out a sigh;
Leans in to be kissed.

Excited for gifts next year will bestow—
She’ll have him aye, by and by.
In anticipation she finds the right tie;
She’ll decorate herself with matching bow.

But the cycle is done,
Her goal upheaved.
‘Twas quite naive;
Still, her heart is numb:

To Aphrodite Cupid will confide
That Valentine’s will have to abide:
The day for George and Abe set aside
Will never with her coincide.

©2015 H.K. Longmore

My Captor

There’s a song playing so softly
It must be coming from far away.
But it’s coming closer, getting louder.
I can neither draw nearer nor flee.

I am a captive; I am not free.
There is no iron filled with gun powder,
Nor chain about my neck that makes me stay.
The song continues, on the air wafting.

Louder, nearer, then stopping; a new song
Plays, and with increase is the volume changed.
Out of fear I want to escape;
Fear the approaching song will tear me from my dreams.

So loud, so close I want to scream.
I push off the cloth with which I am draped.
I face the captor who has me chained,
And break free to prove I am strong.

I leave my captor behind,
Covered in fluffy cotton and goose down.

©2015 H.K. Longmore

Give people high fives just for getting out of bed. Being a person is hard sometimes.

Patience in Anxiety

Oh Anxiety, what a treacherous friend you are!
You tell us you’re here for us, you’ve got our backs,
But when we need Patience, you make us quiver,
And our hearts, shaking, can’t abide your presence.

So we do what we must to reduce the worry,
We try to eliminate the things we can’t control,
Never knowing what might have happened
If we could have waited for Patience to come around.

© 2015 H.K. Longmore

Free Agent Actor

He is the only free agent actor;
All others just playing a part.
They look at him when news is given
Of another’s eventual departure:

Their eyes say,
“Have you forgotten your lines?”
The energy vibe he gets says,
“You jerk; just because you’re free,
Don’t ruin it for the rest of us!”

But no one gave him a script,
And some actions were expressly forbidden
Twelve moons ago; around the time
He was socially blocked.

And so he remains: blocked, forbidden;
No conversation as they go,
Signals not much different than before.

Hamlet-like, he utters a soliloquy:
“To stay, or not to stay,
To speak, or not to speak.”

He tries to stay this side of madness,
And allow Ophelia an escape,
Perchance to France with Laertes,
If her only other option is to climb a tree.

But he’ll not say, “Get thee to a nunnery,”
And he’d rather not boast of love
Greater than 40,000 brothers:
Philos is not eros, and it’s a rather grave boast.

Copyright© 2015 H.K. Longmore

Auricular Adventures

Sensitive instruments;
location finding.
Mine are fine tuned:

In his office, yards away,
A former manager a comment made.
My ears received,
My tongue quipped in reply.

Surprised, he exclaimed,
“You heard that?
I’ll have to be more careful
About what I say in here.”

A coworker standing next to me
As I washed my knife
And she sliced food for lunch:

Under her breath,
Perhaps muttered,
“I’m tired of you”

But my auricular instruments
Failed me, for it seemed there were gaps
Between the words heard
And what was uttered.

Did I miss words between “tired of” and “you”,
Or perhaps after “you”? My brain sees the gaps
But there’s no information to fill them with.

Was this directed at me?
Should I query in reply,
Missing information to supply?

But the moment has passed,
And my excellent ears
Have triumphed
And yet failed again.

Copyright© 2015 H.K. Longmore