Teacher or Teaser?

Life teaches: a submission to dismal.
A validation of creation’s gradual
build-up of turture and rage- innocences
must soak in guilts; love shall fade off to lust.
Plain ineptness swallows our stolid senses.
Pace bonds with sluggishness; matter with dust,
adolescent dreams; timid temprament,
& memories dear are only of torment.

They aren’t ever lessons, they’re just teases.
The weather becomes harsh, yet favourable,
Fate’s sometimes pleasant, & sometimes displeases,
wearier the heart, the more it proves durable.
Youth well spent returns with haunting pain,
all hopes will die, then they will rise again,
love’s nothing but a cheap cheat at last,
& breath is inconsequentially fast.

The discourse pages are always refreshed,
the common blunder lurking to recur,
the rookie careful, eschewing being trashed,
the tutor playful, lighting up his bore.
The one is focused, desperate, serious,
the other- frivolous, bleak, ingenious.
Occurences are Life tossing a coin,
& it is tail when she kicks our groin.

Elder Banking

Shown below, is an actual letter that was sent to a bank by an 86 year old woman.

The bank manager thought it amusing enough to have it
published in the New York Times.
————————————————————————–

Dear Sir:

I am writing to thank you for bouncing my check with which I endeavored to pay my plumber last month.

By my calculations, three nanoseconds must have elapsed between his presenting the check and the arrival in my account of the funds needed to honor it..

I refer, of course, to the automatic monthly deposit of my entire pension, an arrangement which, I admit, has been in place for only eight years.

You are to be commended for seizing that brief window of opportunity, and also for debiting my account $30 by way of penalty for the inconvenience caused to your bank.

My thankfulness springs from the manner in which this incident has caused me to rethink my errant financial ways. I noticed that whereas I personally answer your telephone calls and letters, — when I try to contact you, I am confronted by the impersonal, overcharging, pre-recorded, faceless entity which your bank has become.

From now on, I, like you, choose only to deal with a flesh-and-blood person.

My mortgage and loan repayments will therefore and hereafter no longer be automatic, but will arrive at your bank, by check, addressed personally and confidentially to an employee at your bank whom you must nominate.

Be aware that it is an OFFENSE under the Postal Act for any other person to open such an envelope.

Please find attached an Application Contact which I require your chosen employee to complete.

I am sorry it runs to eight pages, but in order that I know as much about him or her as your bank knows about me, there is no alternative.

Please note that all copies of his or her medical history must be countersigned by a Notary Public, and the mandatory details of his/her financial situation (income, debts, assets and liabilities) must be accompanied by documented proof.

In due course, at MY convenience, I will issue your employee with a PIN which he/she must quote in dealings with me.

I regret that it cannot be shorter than 28 digits but, again, I have modeled it on the number of button presses required of me to access my account balance on your phone bank service.

As they say, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

Let me level the playing field even further.

When you call me, press buttons as follows:

IMMEDIATELY AFTER DIALING, PRESS THE STAR (*) BUTTON FOR ENGLISH

#1. To make an appointment to see me

#2. To query a missing payment.

#3. To transfer the call to my living room in case I am there.

#4 To transfer the call to my bedroom in case I am sleeping.

#5. To transfer the call to my toilet in case I am attending to nature.

#6. To transfer the call to my mobile phone if I am not at home.

#7. To leave a message on my computer, a password to access my computer is required.

Password will be communicated to you at a later date to that Authorized Contact mentioned earlier.

#8. To return to the main menu and to listen to options 1 through

#9. To make a general complaint or inquiry.

The contact will then be put on hold, pending the attention of my automated answering service.

#10. This is a second reminder to press* for English.

While this may, on occasion, involve a lengthy wait, uplifting music will play for the duration of the call.

Regrettably, but again following your example, I must also levy an establishment fee to cover the setting up of this new arrangement.

May I wish you a happy, if ever so slightly less prosperous New Year?

Your Humble Client

And remember:
Don’t make old people mad.
We don’t like being old in the first place,
so it doesn’t take much to tick us off.

Send ‘em Home

It is not much of a surprise
No prisons here a white comprise
would it be if none of theirs lack
Every indigo but black?

No one from Bombay hits run,
No Welshman ever clicks a gun;
All redhead who speaks the word ‘ain’t’
Is an automatic saint.

Fool! Who says slavery’s in the bin,
For what’s it called if you are in
Oslo, a 6-part-time jobs striver,
In Lagos, an Australian’s driver?

They lurk, conspire, hate, plant a tail,
Torture, convict, inject, jail,
Inject more, oppress, turn us to gnome,
Sign a ‘no return'; send us home.

Why not for each ten, send ten more?
For each twelve, a dozen score?
Why not borrow the phrase ‘fuck off’
For countrymen of Vlad Stoitchkov?

Send every Irish back to Ireland,
Welsh to their frozen Shire-Land,
All Yankees back to Western leather,
Arabians to sandy weather.

Why let Italians ruin our home
When we can throw them back to Rome?
All Albinos from Germany
Must abide by the same decree.

No Taiwanese, Koreans must stay;
Send them all back to Taipei.
Mexs to Cinco de Mayonnaise,
French to Napoleonian race.

Yet, to weep in lashing rain
Is nothing but to weep in vain;
Who would be treated jestly
Whose best tactic is amnesty?

A Sonnet upon Sonnetry

Some have argued that no one writes a sonnet 
perfect in metrics, rhythm and in rhyme, 
but these first three lines have duely outdone it. 
Here’s thus, a fruitful quatrain in no time. 

And with ten more hard lines to go, I worry 
about the fourty-five iambs not yet slain. 
Yet I proceed to the next territory 
and I make up a second sound quatrain. 

So far so good, I scribble my ninth line. 
My worries fairly and wearily shorten, 
as I bounce on the final quatrain’s seat. 
This leaves me two more lines to quarantine. 

Now check my syllables– each line’s five feet, 
count lines how you’ll, I warrant there’s fourteen.

Our Chemistry

They say opposite charges do attract;
our love is proof. Our atoms interact
as in the chloride of Sodium. I am
the sodium- brawny, tall, of precise gram,
whereas, you are a lighter chlorine gas
in human form– a disproportional mass.
You’re like the Bunsen burner, and I Sodium,
I melt when I see you– like heavy opium,
you’d not be just a phase I’m passing through.
I’d trust you, thereby not keep an ion you.
Hell with calenders, you’d mark your periods
on a periodic table. No row void.
You’d be the base, titrated in joint
against my acid- we’d meet at the end point.
We’d say ‘I do’ as does an acid says
to its alkali, and proceed to the phase
where our salt inherits my eyes; your lips,
& vapourise away the dilution in drips.
We’d live together as crystals of rocks
that not death, even, saps such strong-held blocks.
You’d be Nitrogen molecules, and I
an atom of Oxygen, and we’d ally
to an undying laughter, hap and mirth,
to live against the miseries of the earth.

Sonnet: Grind us down with your problems

Keep grinding. Life’s supposed to be a bed
of roses. Oh, how we all feel for you, son.
Wish we could know what’s going on in your head.
Too bad- as all we always have is fun.
Advice? Visit a joint, greet, have your seat,
& order your afflictive local drinks.
They could be cheap, so DRINK! Do no quit
yourself away ’til your eyes cease to blink,
and your steps start to tramp. If these means fail,
bargain a very safe area, a stool,
a copious length of rope or bunchy veil–
(a team of simple and regular tools).
A wooden ceiling will do- one with hook,
or jump, head-down, into a shallow brook.

Sonnet: The Modern Poet Laments

Thou thinkest that this generation lacks
the purity & form of fallen Bards?
We sucketh. Thou art right. We play the cards
but stab the rules. We are as loose and lax
as diarrhoea. We apologise.
We shall discard our paragraphs and lines
of arguments & premises sublime,
& proceed to employ “methinks’ & ‘thys’,
because this is the fifteenth century.
May we submit to archaism now?
Très bien. When cliche shall besiege thy brow..
& move a little down to blind thy eye..

Forgive me, extempore gods of rhyme,
but I shall rhyme in the language of my time.