The Bird Feeder

 

---

The birds, they are a-chirping,
while the squirrels continue burping,
having eaten all the seed I had today.
My feeder's an attraction
to those squirrels who want some action
as my precious bird seed 'round the yard they spray.
I have tried to stop these creatures,
who may sport appealing features,
but who are a bunch of thieving jackanapes.
Grease and powder and devices
that I buy at dreadful prices
they just brush aside like some cheap pair of drapes.
How I yearn for a machine gun.
I would show those varmints mean fun;
send them back to hunting nuts in forest glade.
Then the finches and the blue jays
would be fat within a few days
and the swish of bushy-tails would softly fade.

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Furlough

 

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The latest craze in government is causing quite a row/asking clerks and bureaucrats to take a wee furlough/this will save us money! all the bigwigs smoothly say/consider it a gift, another unpaid holiday/the unions do not like it, cuz there is no guarantee/that taking such a furlough will prevent a layoff spree/they never furlough governors or presidents or such/that is something which I would enjoy so very much/in fact, shut down the government for all of the Spring Break/two weeks without that brouhaha would be a piece of cake.

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FW: from tim torkildson

 

---

Incandescent bulbs are wasteful, so we try out the fluorescent --
but they seem to give out less light than the moon when it's a crescent.
Or they last a mere ten hours, then wink out like a snuffed candle.
They're poisonous, so if they break you dasn't ever handle.
Expensive, hard to handle -- they are no walk in the park;
torches might be better when we must fend off the dark.

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Give Pop a Pill

 

---

Old folks better watch it and not spout off like a geyser,
otherwise their kids will say: you need a tranquilizer.
No one wants to listen to old geezers and their tales --
they are given pills to take the wind out of their sails.
Loneliness and boredom, not dementia, make them cranky;
yet the docs prefer to play narcotic hanky-panky.
Put away in nursing home, who wouldn't start to grumble?
But complaints are met with meds that make 'em stare and stumble.
When I'm old and feeble I will act just like a doll,
cuz I don't want them pumping me chock full of demerol.

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Eating Alone

 

---

I've eaten many meals alone, the table set for one.
No need to heed the dinner bell; I never have to run.
The pale moon of my dinner plate reflects my hungry face;
utensils frozen to my touch as if from outer space.
I read a book or watch TV while chewing on some greens,
then guzzle milk without restraint and end with jelly beans.
Or bite into a hamburger with juices running down
and turning every shirt I own a lovely shade of brown.
It all tastes pretty much the same, home-cooked or ordered in;
I doubt that I would notice if my bread were made of tin.
Why not come and dine with me, for better or for ill?
I'd sure enjoy the company, and might discount your bill.
 

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Bragging is a sin

Just wanted to share this enthusiastic email from a REAL, PROFESSIONAL, PAID, writer about my work; it gives me hope that some day I, too, may be in that position! 
 
 
> From: juliapreston@nytimes.com
> To: tork49@hotmail.com
> Subject: RE: READER MAIL: Julia Preston
> Date: Wed, 25 Mar 2009 13:26:22 -0400
>
> Dear Mr. Torkildson:
> I love this poem! This is the most lucid, succinct analysis of American
> immigration politics I have read in a long while. And you even made poetic
> art from the term hoi polloi.
> I would like to post the poem on nytimes.com so that readers of our
> immigration series can enjoy it as well. Would you mind if I did that?
> (Since you sent it in by the reader e-mail system, at the moment only I have
> had the distinct pleasure of reading it.) I'm seeking your agreement to post
> it signed with your name.
> Let me know. Thanks so much for writing,
> Julia Preston
>
>
> Julia Preston
> National Immigration Correspondent
> New York Times
> 620 Eighth Avenue
> Third floor
> New York, New York 10018-1405
>
> ----Original Message-----
> From: NYTimes.com [mailto:emailus@ms2.lga2.nytimes.com]
> Sent: Monday, March 23, 2009 10:08 AM
> To: juliapreston@nytimes.com
> Subject: READER MAIL: Julia Preston
>
>
>
> To: JULIA PRESTON
>
> You have received reader mail via nytimes.com. To respond to this reader,
> simply 'reply' to this message.
>
> READER'S NAME:
> tim torkildson
>
> READER'S E-MAIL:
> tork49@hotmail.com
>
> READER'S MESSAGE:
> The immigrant illegal is a bogeyman of sorts/haunting us at work, at play,
> and even in our courts/as economic crisis deepens all across the land/our
> fear of this poor fellow is continually fanned/by demogogues and red necks
> and the mindless hoi polloi/who claim they steal the coconut from every
> Almond Joy/overworked, exploited, and in fear of deportation/the immigrant
> illegal knows about humiliation/they do the dirty work that solid citizens
> abhor/when they're sick and crippled we just shove them out the door/oh
> immigrant illegal, I don't wish you any harm/neither do I find you have
> abundance of great charm/I wonder how YOUR country would react if I were
> there/without a proper visa, living off the thin blue air?/I don't think
> they would welcome me with open arms and smiles/instead they'd have me
> working behind bars on large rock piles/when I'm abroad I have to put up
> with so much red tape/why do you deserve all that malarkey to escape?
>
> ARTICLE REFERENCED (if any):
> A Slippery Place
>
>
>
>

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Gun Control

Gun control's a subject I am tired of discussing;
no one has solutions, so we just keep on a-fussing.
I have never owned one but it's nice to think I could,
especially the way things are now in my neighborhood.
People with machine guns and bazookas are insane;
they make me think the Constitution's policy is vain.
I wish the whole darn subject would decamp and just go south
and we could jail the people who are shooting off their mouth.

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Sweet Tooth

 

---

I can go without my vittles --
don't deprive me of my Skittles!
That sugar rush I do demand
from the Hershey chocolate brand.
Mallo Cups and Sour Balls,
Gummy Bears -- I heed their calls!
Cobwebs in the pantry mean
I will haunt the snack machine,
dropping quarters for a fix
of my favorite Pixie Stix.
Homeless, hungry, unemployed --
candy really fills the void.
When we have run out of money,
just give me some Bit-O-Honey.
 
Tim Torkildson
St. Anthony  MN

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Another Trillion

 

---

Another trillion for the banks; ho-hum, what else is new?
Toxic loans are coddled like a new-born put on view.
We pinch their cheeks and gurgle and promise them great sums--
always hoping they won't grow into depressing bums.
We spoil those toxic loans like kids inside a candy store.
We give 'em everything we got and then they ask for more.
We place them for adoption with palatial guarantee;
anyone who takes 'em is assured a gorgeous fee.
And just like bratty children who do not get discipline,
their copper-bottomed promises turn out to be plain tin.
Old P.T. Barnum would rejoice in all of this humbug,
as evil-smelling artifice we all are forced to hug.
When it comes to toxic loans I'm feeling kinda bearish --
throw 'em out upon bear rock and let them there all perish!
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

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The Medicine Cabinet

 

---

From: tork49@hotmail.com
To: kimode@startribune.com
Subject: The Medicine Cabinet
Date: Mon, 23 Mar 2009 14:16:41 +0000

I don't think that I can rest
'til I clean out the medicine chest.
There's stuff in there as old as dirt;
I hope to heck it is inert.
Vick's Vapo-Rub that stood the shock
of Vietnam and then Woodstock.
Ipecac that seems to be
from the Truman Presidency.
My grandma had these for her ills --
Carter's Little Liver Pills.
Chewable aspirin so decayed,
now it's just as hard as jade.
Band-aids with a sickly curl,
dating back to Milton Berle.
The Antique Road Show might aspire
some of these bottles to acquire.
Ah, the memories that tug
from my dad's old shaving mug!
And these tweezers that I trust
still are safe despite the rust.
I'll notify the state -- they might
declare it all an Historical Site.
 

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The Immigrant Illegal

 

---

The immigrant illegal is a bogeyman of sorts;
haunting us at work, at play, and even in our courts.
As economic crisis deepens all across the land
our fear of this poor fellow is continually fanned
by demagogues and red necks and the mindless hoi polloi,
who claim they steal the coconut from every Almond Joy.
Overworked, exploited, and in fear of deportation;
the immigrant illegal knows about humiliation.
They do the dirty work that solid citizens abhor;
when they're sick and crippled we just shove them out the door.
Oh immigrant illegal, I don't wish you any harm;
neither do I think you have abundance of great charm.
I wonder how your country would react if I were there,
without a proper visa, living off the thin blue air?
I don't think they would welcome me with open arms and smiles;
instead they'd have me working behind bars on large rock piles.
When I'm abroad I have to put up with so much red tape --
why do you deserve all that malarkey to escape?

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The Young The Old The Sugar

 

---

The battle of the sexes is now stale and growing cold,
with a shrinking job base, it's now: YOUTH VERSUS THE OLD!
Out of work old geezers tell the kids to hit the road;
while the whippersnappers text each other in some code.
Computers still are baffling to those of mature years;
but they hold no terrors if you're wet behind the ears.
The young are always online, looking for that big job break;
the old go stand in lines until their feet begin to ache.
The old are wise and crafty while the young are so naive;
the young are very flexible, the old love their pet peeve.
So when there is an opening, both sides had better run
(too bad the job is promised to the boss's lazy son!)
 
 
*******************************************
 
 
And now it's pure can sugar that is coming back in style.
High-fructose corn syrup is considered pretty vile.
Over processed and fermented, chemically suspect;
corn syrup makes you obese as your health is surely wrecked.
But - oh! - that pure cane sugar is a natural, safe, treat.
(Don't listen to your dentist; they are never too discrete.)
Mary Poppins sang a spoon-full helps to medicate
and sugar plums at Christmas-time?  A joy to masticate!
So put a pinch of sugar in your cheese and macaroni
(just between the two of us, this whole thing is baloney!)

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Taxing Times

 

---

It must be tough to take a puff
with taxes ever-soaring.
That nicotine takes lots of green
and don't improve your snoring.
But smokers, please, on bended knees
we ask you to continue.
Cuz if you quit we'll take a hit
in all our bone and sinew.
Your taxes keep our coffers steep,
though your health faces perils.
So buy those butts or budget cuts
will have us wearing barrels!

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The White House Vegetable Garden

 

---

The buzz around the White House comes from bees and not the press;
Michelle is turning farmer, weeding 'round the watercress.
Everything's organic, from the honey to the peas;
on the South Lawn rhubarb sprouts up higher than her knees.
Berries and tomatoes, kale and collards will take root
and if the times get harder she may plant a little jute.
Where once old Eisenhower putted golf balls by the score
now there's lettuce spreading and nasturtiums really soar.
Being a team effort, I am absolutely sure
the Cabinet will have its turn for spreading on manure.
Barack will do some hoeing and Joe Biden will inspect
each plant for mold and mildew and the terrorist insect.
Michelle, I do salute you --but I would not share your fate
when you put steamed spinach on your children's dinner plate.

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A New Comedy Team

Obama and Jay Leno do make a lovely pair/they ought to try Las Vegas or some big 'ol county fair/they give out with the zingers and never seem to stall/especially when joking all about a bowling ball/a comic in the White House -- Obama can relax/cuz people will be laughing when they get more income tax.
 

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Dust & Ashes

 

---

We spend our whole lives getting stuff;
we never can have quite enough.
But when the Grim Reaper
shoves us with his sweeper
it all disappears in a puff.
Our kids do not want our old trash.
To them it's a bunch of cold hash.
They've seen it for years.
It bores them to tears;
the only thing they want is cash.
So everything we have slaved for
is tossed out the heedless back door.
What was our passion,
now out of fashion --
It sits in a dusty thrift store.

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Bonus

Congress has gone bonus-hunting; they'll shoot them on sight if they can.
They seem to think they're on a mission with Tinkerbell and Peter Pan.
Magical things will develope when bonuses are hunted down;
Washington's portrait on dollars will turn to a smile from a frown.
If congress wants Fantasy Island, they'd better pass much sterner laws
making it highly illegal to go out and play Santa Claus.
 

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The Root of all Evil

 

---

The root of all evil is lust
for treasures that turn into dust.
That message is mixed
cuz dollars are fixed
with this motto: In God We Trust.
 

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Bonus

 

---

Don't I get a bonus for my oral hygiene care?
My dentist says my teeth will make all other people stare.
Don't I have a contract that rewards me with big bucks
for making funny noises that can sound like fire trucks?
And what about my nose hairs?  I have trimmed them every day.
It's morally imperative that somebody should pay.
Maybe I am not the best at anything I do;
still, I've earned a bonus and I'm taking it from you.
Sure, I'm bonus-happy -- that's American tradition:
Every time I screw up I am paid a big commission!

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Oh, For The Life Of A Hobo!

 

---

Oh, for the life of a hobo; a boxcar to call my own home!
Mulligan stew for my supper; dogs chasing me in a foam.
Begging for handouts from strangers and dodging the sheriff each day;
spending my nights in the hoosegow and treated like some rabid stray.
Oh, for the life of a hobo!  I'd skip down the road so carefree;
thrown from a train, I would holler, and not from the pain but high glee.
Drinking a bottle of Lysol and diving in dumpsters for fun;
why should I care if I never am listed with Bradstreet & Dunn?
Oh, for the life of a hobo, with head lice and bed bugs and fleas!
Never a boss to give orders; in winter beginning to freeze.
Join me and we will be hobos, and if the great heavens are just
most of the tycoons on Wall Street will join us soon down in the dust.

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