Tag Archives: communication

A Sincere Comment

A sincere comment,
Misunderstood,
Does little to no good

When the person meant to smile
Is gone for a while,
Perceived insult to lament.

©2015 H.K. Longmore

Virtual Needle

“Have a good night,”
I say cheerfully.
Silence.

Again.

I sit down at my desk
And think to myself,
“My current playlist—Ophelia—
Is insufficient for the hour.
Where is the one
I created a year ago,
For an occasion much like this?

Ah, there it is, right below
Cryogenically freeze your heart and
Don’t leave your heart in a hard place:
Essential Oils for the Silent Treatment.”
I put the virtual needle on the record
And apply my musical pharmacopoeia;
Unsure of how my heart will emerge:
Frozen, hard, or healed.

©2015 H.K. Longmore

A Conversation among Synapses


Said the first: “Another poem on that?”
“Yes, because that’s where I’m at,”
Came the second’s reply.
“What will you say differently this try?

Perhaps a search is in order,
To avoid the border
‘Tween repetition and insanity?
Or will that hurt your vanity?”

The second obliged,
Conducted a search:
“Task”, the query supplied.
The results the idea besmirched.

Said the second: “To you I tip my hat,”
And gave the first a pat.
“The repetition would be neither sly,
Nor very wry.

It would turn the ardor
To bland horror.”
Argued the first: “You make a center of gravity
From that which is triviality.”

“Yes, yes,” the second cried,
“And you’ve thrown me from my perch!”
Then, letting his hyperbole subside,
A new thought train moved forward with a lurch.

©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

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

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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

The Cupboard in the Corner of My Atrium

My Atrium is no ordinary shop:
No wares are peddled,
We don’t do consignment,
There’s no cash behind the counter.

Here behind the fence
Of my serous pericardium,
You’ll find, if you request,
Emotions—free of charge.

But if you want an emotion
From my Atrium,
You’ll have to step up;
Step up to the counter and ask.

But if you want jealousy,
We’re fresh out.
Well, that’s not right:
We no longer stock it.

Jealousy is messy,
It gets in the cracks,
Turns the grout green,
Stains white things black.

Jealousy does not produce
Manliness nor masculinity;
Those are both best
Grown internally.

So when we find
A trace of jealousy
On the floor
Or oozing down the stairs

We fetch the mop
From the cupboard
In the corner
Of my Atrium.

So, what will you have?
What will it be?
You’ll have to step up to the counter
And make it known.

If you’d rather get your fill
From some other,
That’s your choice.
There are other customers at my till.

But the portrait I painted
While you stood outside
Window shopping
Is etched into the wall.

And there it will remain—
Whether you give your wants a name,
Or never come to my counter again—
In the middle of my Atrium.

Now, where’s that mop?

©2014 H.K. Longmore

Protected: Game Clock Time – With Links

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Game Clock Time

I’m told in certain circumstances in tournament soccer play, it can be advantageous to lose a game so that you play a weaker opponent next, and a stronger opponent plays a stronger opponent, possibly losing, thus allowing you to play the weaker team and win. I suppose it is possible that under certain circumstances, a tie would be advantageous, and possibly a 0 – 0 tie. That supposition is a required backdrop for this poem.

The hour appears to draw near
When the game clock sings
And the crowd will cheer;

And I will leave the field a victor,
Despite the score being zeros.
Not by my being a hero, no.

By: my fear of the unknown,
the strength side of my weakness,
my ultimatum uncommunicated, unfulfilled.

All shots on the goal missed;
Some deflected, others poorly timed,
And some badly aimed.

And though time remains,
I’m like a quarterback
Kneeling after the snap;

I must keep the ball
Centered mid-field
And watch the clock expire,

For fear a warning dream
Becomes my future,
And I don’t wake with a scream.

I must watch the clock run out,
From self-respect on a two-way street,
Where what’s good for the goose—

You may think I’ll be tired,
Running around in circles
Trying to keep the ball away;

But the only circles I’ll be running
Will be the ones in my mind.
There’s but two on the field:

The goalie and me.
Guarding the goal, the goalie won’t yield;
Never engaging me to take the ball.

I cannot enter the goal box,
So I set the ball at mid-field,
And slowly back away;

Still, the goalie won’t engage.

© 2014 H.K. Longmore

Almost, But Not Quite

He almost got out of bed early today.
Almost, but not quite.
He nearly hit a car as he squeezed past on the right.
Nearly, but all fears he did allay.

She almost ate lunch with them.
Almost, but not quite.
She nearly left in fight or flight.
Nearly, but she did not ruffle her hem.

He almost told her of his ultimatum.
Almost, but not quite.
She nearly kept her words from finding her kyte.
Nearly, but she swallowed ’em.

She nearly fulfilled the ultimatum.
Almost, but not quite.
He nearly broke it, had she been in sight.
Nearly, but he swallowed his “Hi”, literatim.

© 2014 H.K. Longmore