Category Archives: my writings

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

Determined

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

Apropos

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;
Dual-input,
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

The Dream That’s Been Haunting Me for the Last Two and a Half Years

I’ve been meaning to blog about this for a while now. There have been at least a couple of things holding me back, one of which is that I didn’t know how to do it without the content being “Mature”. I can do it without being crude or crass, but due to the nature of the dream, I would not recommend those looking for a G or PG post continue.

Also, I don’t want Google or other search engines getting confused about my typical fare, thus the actual post is at a different blog.

Taking the Fun out of Jokes (Or, Finding Truth in (Insensitive) Humor)

A coworker told a joke that went something like this:

A young boy with Down syndrome had moved to a new neighborhood, and was waiting for the school bus. When the bus arrived, the driver opened the door, and the boy said, “Good morning”. The driver slammed the door shut and left. Hurt, he told his mother about the incident.

The next day, when the driver opened the door, the boy tried again to be friendly, but got the same result. Again, his mother had to comfort him and encourage him to keep trying. But she decided she would walk with her son to the bus stop the next day.

In the morning, the mother walked her son to the bus stop and waited with him for the bus. The bus arrived, and the boy greeted the driver again. The driver slammed the door and drove off.

The next morning, before her son could greet the driver, the mother asked, “Why are you being so rude to my child with Down syndrome?”

The driver replied, “‘Cuz hees alway ma’on fun o mi.”

Most jokes have at least a shred of truth to them; that’s part of what makes them funny. But before we all decide this was a distasteful, insensitive joke (or, for those who already have, before we start deriding the teller), let’s consider what truth there might be in it. On one level, there’s the caricaturization of the speech patterns of people with Down syndrome. This is at once what makes the joke funny, and what makes the joke insensitive. A nice bit of irony, that the joke can’t be funny without being insensitive. But let’s not stop there, no. Let’s dig deeper.

What other truth could there be here? Let’s analyze the speech and actions of the boy and the bus driver. First, the bus driver. We know, from the end of the joke, that the bus driver assumed that the boy was making fun of him when he tried to be friendly. We can suppose that prior experiences taught him that when people talk to him the same way he talks, they are making fun of him. We can also suppose that as he matured, he learned the “flight” response was usually the best when it comes to “fight or flight”. So, he naturally dealt with the emotional sting of perceiving that he was being made fun of by closing the door and leaving.

The boy assumed that the bus driver, never having heard him talk, was a normal adult, and as an adult, was expected to act responsibly toward children. This expectation was rightly shared by his mother—indeed, she was likely the source of his expectation. So when the driver closed the door and drove away, he felt the emotional sting of being excluded.

So what can we take from this? I would say the deeper kernel of truth in this joke turns it from a joke into a short parable. We don’t always understand the motives of others, their life experiences, what burdens they carry. We would do well to seek to understand others before assigning meanings to their words or actions that aren’t there (or that maybe are, but they deserve the benefit of the doubt). Even here, with this joke, we can assume that someone telling this joke meant to be cruel or insensitive, or we can assume that they were telling it as a parable: “Please don’t react before trying to understand. Please don’t be hurt by what seems to be on the surface something cruel or insensitive; reach out to those around you and give them love, even if what you felt in response to their words or actions was pain.”

Given the nature of most jokes, I’m not convinced the teller was meaning it as a parable. But I’m willing to give the teller the benefit of the doubt: the teller deserves it, as much as the boy and the bus driver.

Discontent of Fabrications

Newly married man;
Wife made best meal she knew how.
Husband loved: a lie.

Stomach, day by day,
His repulsion enduring,
Same meal he received.

Stopped with honesty:
He cared not for it, never.
Served that meal no more.

Waxing didactic,
Say not, “I like” when not true,
Lest you reap encore.

Regarding a meal,
Natural pigmentation hid
By purple or red,

Movie or series,
Favorite sport or hobby;
Say not, “yea”, if “no”,

Lest thy discontent
Of thy fabrication born,
Fill eyes with sorrow.

©2015 H.K. Longmore

Shroud

The mountain calls out,
Beckons me to come hither,
See through snowy veil.

Snowy veil reveals:
Scrub oak, aspen, evergreen;
Hides boulders and streams.

In valley below
Fire blazes in the night,
Turning shroud ash black.

© 2014 H.K. Longmore