Tag Archives: relationships

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

Ordinary Expectations

Need help moving?
If I’m free,
There I’ll be,
My friendship proving.

Last minute call
For an official for a game?
My open schedule’s to blame
When I don the stripes for basketball.

I’m built to serve,
It could be almost anything at all.
Need help? I’m at your beck and call.
Aiding others is my verve.

I’ll help with computers,
Lawns and leaves
And overgrown eaves,
Give rides to stranded commuters;

Give me a paintbrush,
I’ll apply a coat or two.
Hand me a sander, roughness I’ll pursue
‘Til you find the floor flush.

The way I’ve lived my life
I’ve set the expectation:
For my time you need no incantation;
You have but to ask.

But ask not, and my time quickly fills
With ordinary expectations.

©2015 H.K. Longmore

Expat

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

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

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

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

Warning Signs

A warning sign for some medications:
Do not take this with alcohol.
Another alongside the first:
Do not operate heavy machinery.

It’s important to understand
The reasons for the warnings,
Lest in contradiction
One finds self destruction.

A warning sign for construction zones:
Hard hat required.
Another near the first:
Danger High Voltage.

How many ways must it be said
To drive home the point
If you don’t know what you’re doing,
You’d best keep out?

Life is full of circumstances,
Has a plethora of situations
Where heeding warning signs
Might reduce pain and suffering.

A warning sign for emotional abuse:
Provoking others to jealousy.
Beware the heavy machinery.
Another right beside:
Abundant employment of the silent treatment.
Do not consume with ethanol.

If another’s versions of events
Make of them a saint and you something less,
Danger: High Voltage.
If always those versions vary slightly from what happened,
Beware: an attempt to take control may be ahead;
Hard hat required.

© 2014 H.K. Longmore

Related Posts:

  • Dating Emotional Predators: Signs to Look Out For – this article is what inspired this poem. A quote from the post: “I cannot count the endless number of abusers I have met who begin their ploys with superficial charm accompanied by self-absorption and an actual lack of empathy or substance…. Skilled predators are quite charming and you can easily learn to see through this by observing the way they exaggerate how they feel about you and their glib ways of showing you that they ‘care’ when they really don’t.”
  • 21 Warning Signs of an Emotionally Abusive Relationship
  • Why I Didn’t Realize My Relationship Was Emotionally Abusive
  • Spotting the Signs of Emotional Abuse – “Since emotional abuse can occur in so many different ways, it’s often difficult for a loved one — or even the abusers themselves — to recognize the signs of emotional abuse. Making things worse is the fact that many victims of emotional abuse become ‘brainwashed’ into believing that the abuser really cares for them.”

Winds of Countenance

Three seconds expand,
Future hangs in the balance:
I emerge, hurried.

She walks casually,
In the center of the hall.
She sees me, smiles;

A delighted smile,
A smile like the ones before.
Heart anticipates:

Oh could it be now
The long silence is ended?
But no words emerge.

I move right, hurried.
She pockets her smile, scowls,
Averting her eyes.

Winds of countenance
Blew the future with full force;
Future remains past.

© 2014 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