Our Ticklish Subjects Theme - Page 2
27 poets contributed to this project. Read their varied interpretations and expressions on the theme of Ticklish Subjects below:
On this page: poems by Bernice Lever, Al Beck, Birgit Talmon, Donna Bechar, Jerry Breger, Darrell Epp, Helen Bar-Lev, Vyatcheslav Bart, Mindy Aber-Barad, Dina Yehuda, Eli Ben-Joseph, Hazel Haberer
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The following works are copyright © 2009. All rights reserved. No distribution or reprinting in any form whatsoever without written permission from the authors.
Bernice Lever
Bernice Lever, prize winning poet, is a retired college teacher, island living near Vancouver, Canada. “Generation” is her 9th poetry book. In her travels, she has read poems on 5 continents. Bernice Lever is active in many Canadian writing organizations and PEN International. A great grandmother, she enjoys listening to poetry and performing her own. She is blessed to live in a small town of creative folk in a mild rainforest climate. She prays for PEACE everywhere with food on every plate.
Balance Day
What do you want:
equality of Equinoxes
or superiority of Solstices -
choosing more light
or more dark?
Do you play in sunshine
or under the covers in night?
Politicians change your clocks
trick your waking and sleeping .
Four times a year, these mood swings
of the sun and earth
befuddle weather personnel
whose predictions grow
more erratic.
No wonder you can’t balance
your life,
choose which day
to celebrate.
Cameras Can't
Rocky Mountain lakes tease artists
with their ever changing hues:
blues, greens, wisps of cloud shadows,
aquamarine, turquoise; charcoal;
their translucent surfaces shift and ripple
with even the slightest summer breeze.
Oils, in warm sunlight, more quickly create solid
rock face slabs of mountains, glinting glacier basins,
lower levels of forested evergreen, even tiny bursts
of red at one’s feet: sprays of Indian Paint Brush.
Only layer upon layer by deft brush strokes
recreate this varying, bewitching surface,
this freezing cold water ever yearning
to return to its spawning ice floe.
Challenged talent and patience give each viewer
that rush of awe that painter captured
at Peyto Lake, Alberta.
Camera clicks can only catch one still
image of a living summer lake in the Rockies.
Al Beck
Al Beck is a Professor Emeritus in the areas of visual arts and interdisciplinary thinking. His14 books of poetry, drawings, essays and "autobiographitti" have been published over the course of the past 17 years. Al lives on 76 acres of woodland in a passive solar adapted-designed Japanese Teahouse with his gallery of art work next to it. The gallery is a two-and-a-half story high pyramid completely wrapped in copper. Al calls it a Pyrapod. The home and gallery are located north of Monroe City, Missouri.
School-rule Sonnet
What adventures rise up new within classroom's walls
Where testing crouches like beasts of prey Tempting
some learners to run away; When out from behind a
mind-rock crawl New ideas whose mellow fresh voices
enthrall Inspiring a light onto academic gray As
teachers' humanity comes into play; Without delay
students answer the call.
Encouraging Curiosity as Education's basic tool Is
fundamental to the process of how we learn. To
blend information with life's precious spices
Provides thinking magic using creative devices.
Rather than consume group-intellectual gruel,
Individuality's fire will continue to burn.
Techno-Blind
Techno-blind
Techno-blind
I've been left so far behind
It's like a knife has stabbed my life
And there is no ax to grind
'Cause now - YEP! -
I'm abso-bootly techno-blind
It's as if I'd yet not learned to walk
Or somehow never tried to talk
But computer world's a giant gawk
Hey! Who can-please-give-me some cyber-squawk?
I had a friend with too much pride
Although his ignorance he tried to hide
He ended up committing cyber-cide
Another victim techno-blind-fried
OK, I'm geekless I know; but should I seek
A very quick peek at some techno-magic
And what'II you do if I attempt to sneak
It away from you. Would that be so tragic?
Make it official or just an initial
Dive into this language I call "Ultra-freak"
Allow my mind to revive and rewind
To come-alive-as-a-geek no longer techno-blind.
If I don't attend this techno-feast
It'll make me feel like an extinct beast
Subservient but hot - I'm not;
Though my mental heat has somewhat increased
Techno-blind
Techno-blind
I've been left so far behind
It's like a knife has stabbed my life
And there is no ax to grind
'Cause now - YEP! -
I'm abso-bootly techno-blind
Father's Fervent Appeal
What language do you speak
which together we will understand?
Yes, I know it's supposedly English;
but are we able to extinguish
the communications distance
now in your command?
You've turned thirteen, child,
and this mental dance –
not quite performed with splendor –
leaves me in a temporary trance.
Some thoughts from my angle
may appear to you to be so cruel,
perhaps you'd seriously like to strangle
my pre-puberty's vile-verbal tool.
But I want to reassure you:
with a few more years in school,
maturation's prowling luminosity
will display the now-shrouded connection
between you and me.
Untitled
A break in routine
has its moments of joy.
What's easily seen
will often destroy
imagination's introduction
to unexpected intellectual
thought construction
which can never be taught.
Because what's new and raw
- even clever - leaves us in awe
Some new ideas emerge
from a less-than-solid
social foundation.
Others flourish after
the inevitable purge of
tradition's deterioration.
We loosely wrap our aggression's muse
in forms of obsessions we choose.
Birgit Talmon
Birgit Talmon is Danish-born. While living in Beer-Sheva she worked as a licensed desert guide as well as at the Ben-Gurion University. Is now a translator: Danish, English and Hebrew. Has studied prose and poetry with eminent writers in Israel and writes in the above mentioned languages. Has served on Voices Israel Editorial Board. A soprano, she has participated in several operas with the Philharmonic Choir of Tel-Aviv. Her works are published on her website www.btalmon.com .She publishes poetry and short stories in all three languages in anthologies and literary magazines in Israel and abroad.
Airmail
At the bottom of the
'HaBima' building site,
Six floors under,
A little man
With a big
Call from nature
Looks to the sky;
Cranes overhead
Airmailing
Oddities to and fro
-And his loo?
Then finally,
Cautiously,
Out of thin air,
It descends on the site.
Yesterday's was blue
Today's green,
But that's alright
As long as it's a loo
Donna Bechar
Donna Bechar, originally a Long Island girl, resides in Israel and is a long-time member of the poetry group Voices Israel. Donna's poetry has appeared in such publications as Ibbetson Street, Poesy, Full Circle, Voices From Israel, Determinations 2, Firm Noncommital, as well as in numerous volumes of the Voices Anthology. In 2005, her poem "Sneak Thief" won Second Prize in the Rueben Rose Poetry Competition, and other poems have won Honorable Mention, including last year's "My Father's Ankles". Donna is also involved in pottery and theater.
Will You
when i'm gone
will you edit my poems
will you carefully
invade their spirit
one by one
put them in piles
to decide which ones
can still work and
which to be closed
out of someone's dreams
will you tiptoe into
their crevices seeking
meanings caught between
dustballs and crumbling
mortar or will you find
solace, balmy breezes
museums you forgot to visit
ripened cherries on a
ten-year-old girl's swimsuit
or Volare soaring through airwaves
will you excavate or re-bury
recycle or scrap
or will you just dig right down
and with dirty fingernails pull
out blooming blooms
William
As a little boy, you were often left alone
To fend your own fun for yourself
Alone you sat, little blond boy with
Mischievous dark brown eyes, on the grass,
Legs crossed, pulling out blades, turning the gun
Over and over in your sweaty hands, looking
At trees and at how the sun hit the leaves
And thinking
Thinking
Always thinking
Neighborhood
I love my neighborhood:
its name roles off my tongue like rolling dunes
and cow-patched fields
It reminds me of those clean wide-open space days from
my sixties girlhood
in a suburbia still new and naïve
and still unfamiliar with cars chain-smoking mall to mall
It reminds me of those early sixties days
of clean green hills and pristine beaming
buildings and communities with perfect fresh-cut trees,
shrubs and flower-beds in social studies textbooks
about the resources and topographies of each united state
and in Dick, Jane and Sally books
It reminds me of those early sixties days when
Jane and Sally's milkman was really a milkman who loved his job
delivering milk with a shiny milky-white smile
with a voice you know sings happiness at being their milkman
who is a really nice milkman and only a milkman
and not some secret uncaught pedophile
Goddess
I'm standing in the shower
Davenning
Rivulets flowing down my back
Rapunzel braids made for escape
Skimming shoulders
Sliding into crevices
Though I guard my chest
Like a mummy
I think of those orthodox men
Rocking back and forth
To the tune of God
I now understand
The body's reflex of lament
I am a goddess of failed housewives
Breasts and belly are my landscape
As I stand like uncarved stone
And you, unskilled with a chisel
And ignorant of smoothing ways
Just jab at my ragged edges
Leaving me with scars
Jerry Breger
Dr. Jerry Breger is Distinguished Professor Emeritus of Economics at the University of South Carolina. He retired in 1993 after holding faculty positions at several southern universities. During his years at USC, he taught management and economics courses and served as Director of the Bureau of Urban and Regional Affairs and Director of the Center for Economic Education.
Politically Correct
It is always important
To be politically correct,
To be acceptable and agreeable
In what you say and do,
And never offend the powers that be,
Lest perchance they glance askance at you.
It is always important
To fit the ruling mode,
To go with the flow and uphold the code;
So when it is wrong you say it is right,
And when it is black you say it is white,
And when it is bad you say it is good,
And when you know you shouldn’t,
You say you should.
It is always important
To swim with the tide,
To get along and never be denied,
To be safe and secure and shun the fray,
Daring not tomorrow, caring just for today.
But somehow from somewhere deep inside,
You feel the guilt of a man who lied,
A hypocrite who hastens to hide
Pretending virtues he cannot abide;
How great the price in sacrificed pride;
Honesty and integrity, victims of neglect,
But at least you can say you’re politically correct.
Ugly Girl
Oh ugly girl I promise thee,
Next time around you’ll be
Blonde and pert and five foot three,
With big blue eyes and a brain so wee
That ne’er a thought will clog thy head,
Ne’er a tear thy heart will shed.
Meeting of the Board
They drank,
They smoked,
They laughed,
They joked,
And then to the business at hand.
In great soft chairs,
In hand-tailored clothes,
They discussed the affairs,
The worries and woes,
That brought them together that day.
To hire or to fire,
To sell or to buy,
To control or divest,
To do or to die.
These were the burdens they bore.
The committee report,
Was not long, but not short,
Not yes, but not no,
Not stop, but not go,
A decision had to be made.
The CEO stood,
Strong and mature,
And said that they should,
There were risks to be sure,
But rich rewards were at hand.
Then a small voice was heard,
A faint feeble tone,
Forcing each word,
Rising alone;
I know it will hurt,
It breaks public trust,
It blackens our name,
It’s unfair, it’s unjust,
Regardless of profit, I beg you desist.
The CEO’s wrath
Ripped the stale, vapid air,
How dare you complain,
It’s unjust, it’s unfair,
Our motives are noble and pure.
The CEO scoffed,
You whimper and whine,
Abandon this project,
Forego the bottom line,
You’ve lost your senses, but I have mine.
So now to a vote,
All in favor say “ aye,”
They clamored approval,
But for one muted sigh,
Thus it was done, a cause well won.
Then they drank,
And they smoked,
And they laughed,
And they joked,
And the meeting of the board adjourned.
Too Many I's
Are there too many I’s,
From the time you arise,
To the time you go to bed at night?
Are you so full of you,
That no other thoughts do,
Are you your greatest delight?
Well give it a rest, get a life,
Start thinking of others,
He or she or even they.
It’ll soothe heart and soul,
And set the mind free,
And brighten every day.
If you would prosper,
Take the way of the wise,
Forgo the way of too many I’s.
Darrell Epp
Darrell Epp is a poet, freelance journalist, and playwright whose work has appeared widely in magazines around the world, including Maisonneuve, Poetry Ireland,
Sub-Terrain, and The Saranac Review. Born in Toronto, he currently resides in Hamilton, Ontario where he earns a living locking up trains for CN Rail. He has published a poetry collection - Imaginary Maps.
Cherry Blossoms
discarded scratch-and-win lottery tickets
cartwheeling down barton st. e
(i wish they were cherry blossoms),
somehow further aggravating
the sweaty lassitude of july.
a sort of symmetry rolling in like a wave:
noumenal as childbirth, inevitable as
weather. history holds its breath.
random pigeons and squirrels
planning for the winter, i can
barely imagine tomorrow, the
discrete particles comprising
the ligaments of the day, the
world, its movers and shakers,
their suburban duplicitous daughters.
Grace, Like Snowflakes
addicted lifers who never had
a chance not even a warning
or a mother. spider tattoos
on the neck. cigarettes that
slow down time, somehow.
across the street everything’s
on sale: crates of stilettos and
strapless evening dresses. a
naked nervousness until here
it comes now like a deus ex
machina special effect a
benediction of snowflakes
an army of fly-sized angels
a hummable melody and a
reason to sing before gravity
pushes us all into history.
Angry Candy
go-getters, hard-chargers
laying it on the line,
doubling down and
hogging all the overtime,
pushing too hard too soon,
planning for the future--
and others who don’t even
resist: they give in to the
devil, his angry candy.
souls like bent coins
in hell’s slot machine,
pink slips, bills, voices
that molt into air raid
sirens drowning out
the self-help guru’s
yadda yadda yadda.
Attention Historians!
attention tenured historians,
the public wearies of your
improbable power fantasies
and dreary morality plays.
skip the mongol invasions
and hutterite geneologies
and find room in your
textbooks for the following:
the first cigarette, the last
hotel room, dorothee’s
footprints in the snow,
her favourite pyjamas,
the lost toys of kindergarten,
the ideal that begat the real,
the things that don’t change,
and the words for them.
Helen Bar-Lev
Helen Bar-Lev was born in New York City in 1942. She has lived in Israel for 36 years. Since 1976 Helen has devoted herself to art: painting, teaching and writing poetry. From 1989 - 2001 she was a member of the Safad Artists’ Colony where she had her own gallery. To date Bar-Lev has had 80 exhibitions, including 30 one-person shows. Her poems and paintings have appeared in numerous online journals and print anthologies. ‘Cyclamens and Swords’ with poems of Israel by Helen and Johnmichael Simon and Helen’s paintings has been published by Ibbetson Press, Boston, Mass. Recent books: 'In Moonlight the Sky Will Slide' with Katherine L. Gordon and 'The Muse in the Suitcase' with Johnmichael Simon. Helen was Editor-in-Chief of the Voices Israel annual Anthology from 2006-2009. She is the Senior Editor of Cyclamens and Swords Publishing.
On Vacation
This is a young-and-scrumptious-women-vacation,
you can’t escape it,
they crowd into museums
display naked on beaches,
cross mini-skirted legs on the metro
sit delicious by the pool
They are a menace to marriages,
a plague to us older souls
who once were young
and happy to entice
the husbands of others
barely aware
we were being naughty
But after all, is this competition?
because whereas the grandpas ogling those beauties
through dangling bifocals,
consider themselves attractive and dashing,
whereas they brag they are free as the wind
to enjoy and then leave the moment a relationship
turns into a hardship…
Let’s face it
the pendulum no longer swings in their direction,
their clock won’t tick-tock to the tandem
of twenty-year-ago physiques and physiologies
Of course, even forty-year-old marriages,
comfortable as old sofas,
know they mustn’t rest complacent,
so men look circumspectly
and their women continue photographing
the scenery
An Ode to a Dish of Fish
I thank thee Lord
for this fish
which sits healthful
upon this dish
eager to nourish
with omega-threes
blessed with less-than-expected
mercury
Any way you serve it,
so assert the experts,
fried, broiled, baked, poached,
fish will fix up
all of your ailments
from arthritis to sore throat
from back ache
to hiccups
And so with great conviction
I recommend to all my relations
and dear friends:
do eat fish at least thrice a week
But if Fate should decree
that it is you
who serves the fish to me,
I ask you sweetly
in fact I beg,
before you place it
upon my plate,
please, please,
remove the head
The Dressing Room
The dressing-shower-ladies’ room
has no mirrors
save those over the sink
for neck-up access and assessment only
bodiless apparitions
make eye-contact with themselves
Which is strange
until you view the naked shapes
in assorted stages of undress
distorted out of human recognition
like stocking sculptures stuffed with cotton
a display of obese sunbathed graces
A little lad stands wrapped neatly from neck to toe
in a yellow towel
snug as a mummy and frozen motionless
his eyes wander from one misshape to the other
And one wonders
if this three year old Friday
will put him off women forever,
determine his future gender attractions
or if, in his still and statuesque-like stance
the cogwheels of his mind twirl overtime,
choose the figure he’d like as a wife
I should break all convention and ask him
but I am busy dressing quickly,
there is barely space to breathe,
to maneuver into clothes
between me and this oppressive obesity
I did not realize his stare had settled my way
and embarrassed but a bit flattered
by his toddler-man musings
I gather my belongings
and hasten to escape
The Melon of Ill Repute
Last week we bought a melon
of dubious origin
sold by the roadside
it was enormous
and golden gorgeous
it winked, said buy me, I'm cheap,
like a woman of the night,
who teases, entices
and infests clients with diseases,
so we too were screwed,
by a melon raised in a sewer
with nasty creeping things
and microscopic horrors
for cradle companions
our tummies gurgled, burped,
gasped, almost collapsed
for the ensuing two days
in punishment for our melon-lust
in protest of our bad judgment
and you know what?
we knew it, everyone does
but we ignored the warnings
for that brief melon-fling
sitting pretty on the fruit stand
on an obscure road
near a village which waters
its crops with sewage
From now on food only
from our local grocery
Vyatcheslav Bart
Vyatcheslav (Slava) Bart was born in Soviet Kazakhstan in 1983 and has lived in Israel since 1994. He has recently finished his B.A. in English at Tel Aviv University, speaks/reads/writes Russian, English, Hebrew. Slava admits that 'this tangle of languages is not easy to ply'.
1.
Could it be only me, or do the trees,
One side in amber sunlight robed,
The other fumbling for the sleeve,
Speak thickly to me, slanting shadows
Straining across the glowing lawn?
A flame-barred bench with languor
Stretches to follow the calm curve
Of a quartz-spangled path;
A sudden flash – a call cut short
By the abusive palm of space;
Reflection-flooded panes flirt boldly,
But houses in shadow turn away,
Blind windows staring inward,
Mute reprimand in pale profiles;
Dissipating clouds are demonstrative
In their side-lit melancholy;
And a mirth-frothy fountain,
Light trembling in its belly,
Laughs mockingly at me.
2.
There will be days which like this line
Have never been before;
When I will pause to stoop over my thoughts –
Held between hemispheres like glowworms between palms –
And wonder at the trails in the wake
Of luminous but flitting flight
So wonder-slow to fade at dusk,
Remembering that somewhere in my notes
I have it all in verse.
3.
To capture discomfort in words as she,
Wrapped in worn-out worsted,
Tests with wetted fingertip
The iron's plane of polished metal,
Leaving to fade a sputtering fingerprint.
How easily does distance
Obliterate what solid seems, a face,
So full of rending reading matter, tapers
In space into a point on a plane; light step
Out of sight - she is a warbling flow of faucet water,
The clatter of a cake of soap in the sink,
The creaking of a rusty tap closed clockwise,
And dishes' chink and chatter in the kitchen,
A choking drain's hiccupping chortle,
Struck match's burst into brief life,
And the warm hum quilting all jagged edges
Of her unchanging chores - all this
So easily becomes again
The cornfield blond with acorn eyes, dull
With chronic headache and subdued frustration,
Ladling thin noodles into imperfect plates,
A soul in thin-soled slippers;
And will as easily remain
A single parting peck until
That fades into the air.
4.
That things may hurt I don’t deny:
A drop of blood drawn from a fingertip
Has this in common with the break of dawn;
But even suffering is song; remember
When you wish to die – the line
“I haven’t the heart to live” is harmony;
However wracking, everything inevitably is,
And even violence is versified,
And death, however gruesome,
Has beauty equal to a newborn’s cry.
Mindy Aber Barad
Mindy moved to Israel in 1977, has a BA from Washington University (St. Louis), and an LLB from Hebrew University. She practiced law, but writing is her first career choice. In 1997 she won second prize in the Jewish Librarians' Choice competition, for a children's story. Her poetry, stories, book reviews and essays have been published in Wild Plum, Current Accounts, the Jerusalem Post, the Jewish Press and other publications both on and off line. Most recently Mindy has become the Israeli co-editor of The Deronda Review.
Perfect Road Kill
Dark brown fur
Frames delicate vertabrae
That arch over ribs
Beside the asphalt
Thin femur indicates no dog
Perhaps a fox?
Wild boar?
Did it smirk
Right before it was hit?
“Did they hit you?”
I call into the dying cells.
“They just pushed me.
Please come get me.”
We enter forbidden Benjamin territory
To comfort
To collect
My son
Whose ears are red with the sun’s glow
And his smirk -
He was not hit.
The hilltops are ringed with boulders and bushes
The familiar gray/green
Is this really forbidden territory?
My footsteps ask,
As we stop,
And take a drink
Beside the asphalt.
Dina Yehuda
Dina Yehuda began writing when she was 12. She was inspired by her seventh grade English teacher, Penelope Bozarth, who demanded excellence from her students. Dina grew up in New York and studied English literature in Columbia University. She came to Israel and married her husband Yair in 1981. Dina lives in Mizpe Netofa in the Galilee. She has seven sons and a daughter and feels truly blessed with her family and community.
Not a Boy to Bring Home
He drives without signaling,
speeds up, then darts out,
deftly switches lanes.
a smooth poker player,
he appraises his hand,
smiles through the game,
his eyes are the color of slate
and when she's with him
she hears the gulls crying for the sea
she knows she would go
with him
anywhere.
That July
When we were nineteen
and life was unguarded
on the green lake in Pennsylvania,
summer stretched between us
like a flat white towel.
Now it’s July again,
not summer though
in Cape Town
where I count the pebbles
which dot the shore
like small regrets.
Had I not met you
I could lie back dreamless.
The Flood
Before,
we were princes of heaven, roaming the land,
while the earth covered cracks, hid faults,
yet underground, angry waters
were rising
Before,
we ravaged the daughters of earth,
believing the sky would always be our canopy,
yet overhead, clouds threatened
to crash down
Before,
we never imagined
that heaven could betray us,
we thought we were safe
in the arks we had made.
On His Death at Twenty
We pass each other
taking care not to break
into silence.
We throw words
to cover the bleeding
outside in.
We look up
not for answers
but in wonder
at the crooked half moon
and the clear white stars
which seem to comfort us
with their shining now
as if they were
still there
Eli Ben-Joseph
Eli Ben-Joseph was born and mostly raised in Brooklyn, New York. He studied classical languages and history as an undergraduate at Brooklyn College. He received a draft notice for Army service during the Vietnam conflict but served as a Russian interpreter in the European theater. After being released, he worked in the States for a few years and then came to Israel. Eli has done graduate work in English poetry and Western history at Haifa University, where he earned a Ph.D. He served as Head of English Studies at the Western Galilee College for 12 years and continues to teach English and Conservation Studies there.
Good Time Woman
Based on Mississippi John Hurt’s “Richland Woman Blues”
Red lipstick, spots of rouge, her hair hanging loose,
she's poured herself a double shot of fine booze.
She's been to a fashion shop, got a fine new dress,
panty hose and earrings: she wants to look her best.
Her hem is at the knee, the neckline is low,
She doesn't play fair, but lets a good time roll.
Husband's gone for a week: she's free all those nights.
She's waiting for some young man to hold her tight.
She's all set to go, she's expecting some treats:
Her heart is set on riding in the shotgun seat.
She's sitting round for a dude to come blowing his horn,
but if he gets there late, sweet woman will be gone.
Upon the day of rest, she's wears a smile and sings.
When she goes to pray, she sprouts pearly wings.
Hazel Haberer
Hazel Haberer is a member of Kibbutz Tzora since 1955. She is 75 years old. Hazel was a member of the Dror - Habonim Zionist movement in South Africa. She made Aliyah with husband Chanan in 1955. She has 3 children, 9 grandchildren. Hazel holds a Bachelor degree in Psychology from Wits. Univ. in S. Africa. She has written and performed a number of humorous skits in Hebrew and "Ingloo" (a synthesis of Hebrew and English).
Cricket in the Thicket
Little cricket in the thicket
Outside my bedroom window.
You choose to chirk at 3AM.
With unfailing regularity.
What a demonic quirk!
How can you be so chirpy
At such an ungodly hour?
I had the thicket thinned and trimmed,
But alas, to no avail.
You continued to serenade me
With your most unwelcome song,
Your quirky chirking so untimely,
I’d really rather sleep.
In despair I sprayed the thicket
And the chirk became a croak,
The leaves did shrivel and discolour,
The thicket became a shrub.
And finally you departed
To a greener, cleaner place.
I bade you farewell – but not adieu,
I don’t think that I shall miss you.
Modern Living
Try phoning any large concern,
What an arduous chore!
Press one for this and two for that
And then press three and four.
I don’t want recorded voices,
Or sweet music while I wait,
I want to speak to someone directly,
But frustration is my fate.
More music plays and then some more,
My patience does abate.
Press five and then press six,
More frustration
Total exasperation,
I think I need a fix!
I want to dial M for Murder…
I need more self control.
I finally connect with a human being,
Who tells me to wait my turn.
More music plays,
A whole concerto,
My mind is in a haze.
In the end I get to state my case,
Is this indeed for real?!
Have I succeeded? I’m not quite sure…
But I think I’ve clinched the deal.
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