Best Ring Up Poems
* This is the continued story from my Haiku ...Where is my food? About Woody the Woodpecker.
So, hungry Woody the woodpecker was yelling at the empty feeder for food:
Clearly that day, he was not in the greatest mood!
I was held up with a health issue, so a friend went to buy the suet block
I am not sure what happened, but he picked a box of many in stock!
Then, the cashier couldn't ring up the bar code, you see...
And imagine this...gave this long box to my friend for free!
I was surprised I ended up with a box of 12 suet blocks inside!
So no worries now, Woody has plenty of food to replace outside!
He talks a little different tune, when he arrives with food there too
- I take that as a happy Thank You -
Heidi Sands
11/3/22
I’m one hell of a guy
You should give me a try
I’m the kind you
Could take home to mother
I can fix anything
With a nail and some string
And I really am
Quite a good lover
I’m a nice king of fellah
And I’d like to tell ya
I’m nothing at all
Like my brother
I am clever and smart
And I have a good heart
And you’ll find I’m
An excellent lover
I’m a wonderful bloke
Now this isn’t a joke
I’m a man quite unlike
Any other
I am sweet I am kind
And I’m certain you’ll find
I am such
An incredible lover
So if you feel that way
And you want me to play
Just ring up
And give me a call
I’ll be with you tout suite
For I’m dying to meet
And I’m certain that
You'll have a ball
They travel
Distances
To work at the new factory
At the mall
To sell
To persuade
To show
To ring up sales
To stock shelves
And keep merchandise neat and attractive.
Customers
Look
Touch
Examine
Feel and perhaps
Buy.
Standing on their feet
Workers wonder
How does an
An $8.00 an hour job
Minus benefits
Zero coverage
Negative career
Compute
In their lives?
Their parents had jobs
Some for thirty years
In a real workplace
Free from outsourcing
Goods made in China
High unemployment
And foreclosures.
The store mannequin tells workers to break it up
Back to their counters
To do what they’re being paid for
But there is much more beneath the surface of his words
A threat
Real or imagined
The workers listen
Because there is nowhere to go
Nothing else to do.
In the new economy.
The young have energy
To organize
To demonstrate
To petition
For real change
Time is on their side
For a better tomorrow.
My phone rings…. I answer it but say nothing as I don’t recognise the displayed number and I can only hear ‘white noise’ at the other end. Okay I admit I’m going deaf and will be getting my hearing aid soon but that’s another story.
I check out the number on Google and see it’s scammers who ring up people claiming to be from Microsoft and unless you pay up heaps of money they will hack your computer. It was the second time they had called in two days so I’ve written a little script based on an old joke for when they eventually try again
Caller: Hello I’m calling from Microsoft
(before they can get on with the rest of their script)
Me: Oh are you the engineer, I’m glad you rang so quickly after I logged a fault call. Please can you help me, I have a terrible issue with my computer, well it’s not my laptop it belongs to my son ....
Me: You know the handy little coffee cup holder on the side, well it’s broken…
Caller: (getting cross as he can’t use his script) What the heck are you talking about…
Me: The coffee cup holder – you must know the one … you press a little button on the side of the laptop and it shoots out …it’s so handy for my coffee mug but it’s got jammed and it’s only half way out and I can’t use it.
Caller: Coffee cup holder - are you mad?
Me: No… I'm not mad but I have short term memory issues … but my son will be absolutely bloody fuming if I don’t get the coffee cup holder sorted. Can you tell me how to fix it?
Caller: Just hangs up in frustration!
I just need them to ring me now and I will be ready!
Short Story Contest N/A in contest judged on 9/27/16
Submitted to Take The Dagger From My Heart, Please Sponsored by Broken Wings
09~27~16
Stacks of Aloneness
by Odin Roark
He wandered here among the longings
And the forgotten,
Not many remaining properly covered,
Their dust jackets of protection
Long gone.
Worn and torn,
The many leaned fatigued in their shoulder to shoulder exile,
With an occasional entombment in plastic wrap
Sweltering in the heat of its many paged passion.
He saw there was something for every kind of aloneness,
Requiring only to be read,
Not bought and placed on another shelf,
But made companion,
A redemptive power for continuing,
often singular journey of aloneness.
A sudden draft from the entrance door
Fluttered the pages of an ancient pyramid travel guide,
The open page 86 sent miniscule sand afloat,
Including its stowaway squashed flea,
Having once bitten the privates of the book’s looting bandit,
Now reduced to but another powdery remnant of history
He gazed upon the shaft of light spotlighting the settling dust.
Such never-ending stacks of tomes, he thought.
A mix of direct and implied philosophy of time,
Some read and pondered,
Others once he knew were but color-matched bindings for
A decorator’s intellectual pandering to
A 5th Avenue looky-loo,
Someone wanting the perfect life,
A delusion her inheritance
Could ever accommodate.
And then…
There was this one opus, ‘til now he knew not of.
Here, the fortune of lovers lying side by side
Beneath the weight of print and paper,
Shared a vial of death, now empty.
A desperate love wanting only to be read,
To be understood as prohibited emotion
Reduced to a finite repose in the darkness of closure,
Like the unopened book now about to have its long awaited embrace.
From his hand he placed the worn book down for ring up.
The clerk opened the cover to reveal its eye-pencil message:
“To my love. May you live long enough to finish this.”
Smiling to the obviously homeless man,
the clerk said, “Just a buck, including tax. Gotta love a bargain, eh?”
“Yes,” he said. “They say the bard knew aloneness needn’t be lonely.
Think he was right?”
She shrugged.
He handed her four quarters.
'I'm having the children for dinner',
she meant it quite literally
a combination of the old
woman in the shoe and
Red Riding Hood's wolf
she was a peach most days,
til her blood lust went array,
still a humanitarian in some ways,
when it came to small-fry stew
she'd never cook up more than two,
gracious enough to ring up the parents
to inform them how well-seasoned
their children inexplicably were,
subsequently invited them for dessert
yet, she would never dine on
anyone over three - -
hardly tender enough to whet
one's appetite, when they arrived
told mum and dad the kids
had gone yonder for a quick dip,
proceeded to serve up
sugar and spice and
everything nice
on a fresh bed of
snips and snails and
puppy dog tails
Bon Appetit
Trick or Treat
O moon, to you I turn tonight
To you I smile with hidden delight
For in you I found my own charm
For you did ring up my love alarm
A love letter sent to my door
Signed in red ink, Moon
O my darling lunar Thor
I accept to be your SailorMoon
O moon, in your rays I bath
Your beauty I shall not scath
You are my only reason
You are my only passion
How to reply to your letter
Fatuously do I wonder
Maybe if I close my eyes
My glee shall turn to your skies
O moon, love me more
Make me the wife of Thor
I shall rule each of your molecule
As the Queen of all Majuscule!
Date : 8th April 2013
Great britain
Great big mess
Mess with the status quo
Mess with Merkel a bit more
More houses
More hugs
Hugs for the Scots
Hugs for the broker
Broker of Doom
Broker fiscal swim ring
Ring up the bank
Ring for a mortgage
Mortgage your kidneys
Mortgage your air
Air on the h string
Air plane escape plan
Plan your future
Plan your time
Time is running down
Time to grow a pair
Pair of sunglasses
Pair of people
People with a coup to plan
People will rise up
Up to their keyboards
Up to standard
Standard pronunciation
Standard stories
Stories for facebook
Stories small and great
Great old Church
Great big clock
Clock tick tocks
Clock won’t stop
Stop smoking those herbs
Stop polluting the air
Heir to what
Heir to nothing
Nothing risked
Nothing stained
Stained blue jeans
Stained glass window
Window of opportunity
Window of time
Time of your life
Time is a changin’
Changin’ anyone left behind
Changin’ our flag
Flag
Behind
Yikes, aside from mental
health re: psychotherapy,
which haint the worse
cyst phase of being
objectionably being called "old man",
this poem doth tack
toward the no body,
and will address
no illusory (no
app for) pretensions
alluding to verse,
the slow-mo ravages
of aging, evincing
and inching into
solid AARP universe
suddenly (moon if fish int lee)
impinges on endurance
even crimping poetic
raptures tubby terse
though (oh my this
muttering ole hound) chronologically
traversing that arbitrary, elliptically,
and imaginary Maginot line
i.e. almost three score year,
thy esprit de corps unlike
complaining crotchety curmudgeon
folks living here
Highland Manor situated
in Schwenksville, Pennsylvania,
not much older
than me do daily air
lamentations kvetching even
on days pitch perfect and clear
find some bugaboo to gripe about
which dispositions hardly
makes them endear
ring at least to myself,
a baby boomer
(lix orbitz licked) gear
ring up to enter
sixth decade of life,
when a tell tale battle
of the bulge paunch
finds mine equatorial zone
somewhat flabby, a mockery
of washboard blubbery
abdominal sculpted tone
engirdled with loathsome
ample "NON FAKE"
lovely jowly handles
which I hate, though
human flesh naturally prone
to the lowest point of resistance,
and finds these
lovely bones to groan.
Walmart
by Steven Pineda
There is a place that I work at that is called Walmart. I get ready everyday just to go to work for the evil corporation of slave drivers. The managers there are like giants holding whips slashing you and telling you to do there bidding. You do get a break ever two hrs but the water they give you is gasoline and is nasty and they shackle you to the store so you will not try to escape and run for your life. I stand at the register which is an evil machine that sticks its claws into you and doesn't allow you to move till you feed it money. And the thing you should be scared of is the almighty customer which you have to bow down to and do what ever they say. As I stand there waiting for them to come with all there nasty goodies their going to buy I tremble because I can hear the sound of their foot steps which is like nails on a chalk bored screeching towards you. If they choose you and go to your line beware for there are not forgiving and will throw you to the fire at a given chance. The first customers comes towards me and with whips starts hitting me and telling me to move faster to ring up there items so they can go home and dwell in they cave they came from. Hands hurting, Fingers bleeding this is the life of a cashier. At the end of the day I reach the doors and something magical happens I grow my wings back and fly home to enjoy myself. Then in return I become the customer and make another cashier bow down to me.
I would like to find God, the enquiring mind said,
But I don’t really want to have to wait till I’m dead,
And when I say find him, I do not mean in spirit,
If he really exists, I would like to pay him a visit.
I would like to be able to ring up and say,
Is it ok if I call round and see you today,
I believe we are made in his likeness, they tell
So if he’s like me, we should get on quite well?
Now please understand, I am not being blasphemous,
I would love to meet God with no church in between us,
By church I mean all of the third party religions,
Who like business are franchised in all of the regions?
The simile with business is very compelling,
Each religion treats God as if they were selling,
And to compete in that market they have to state,
They own exclusive rights to God and his fate.
To ensure that you don’t deviate from their path,
You follow their way or incur God’s wrath,
And no matter how good your intentions might be,
Your “with them or agin em “ or condemned eternally.
If There’s only one God, and he’s common to each,
Why should you believe, what those religions preach?
I still think that my way would be better by far,
And him being omnipresent, I don’t even need a car.
I.
they say
there exist languages without words
without syllables yet pronounced,
like the sharp clatter of fork and spoon and knife against each other
at dinners in our family.
a vase shattered to the floor last night
at an hour way past our bedtime.
sister and i know that only one room in the house is embellished with a vase
on the first floor with a vase
of red roses—
ravishing over the edge;
laden with sinister thorns under—
but we’re vigilant not to cast a glance at mom or dad.
just stare down at your food
and gulp down the curry of guilt and fright.
a vase shattered but we choose not to clean the floor.
the broken fragments of glass aren’t ours to sort.
instead, we slice the whetted tension with the clatter
of fork and spoon and knife.
II.
there exist languages without words
without alphabets yet comprehensible,
like the silence we were doused in
at dinner two weeks after granny vacated the premises
of the little room on the ground floor with baby pink walls and a turmeric aroma.
no clatter this time.
from my peripheral vision, i espy a tear trickle down mom’s cheek.
we sham it’s a raindrop lingering on her visage from the doleful stroll she took an hour back.
sister and i look at each other every time the spoon visits our mouths.
with furrowed eyebrows,
we gulp down the curry of remorse and despair.
dad’s eyes glare into zilch lifelessly
like granny’s face lying on the soft pillow in her turmeric room
before i had to ring up mom and break the news in words
after which words evaporated;
gulped down, refrained, pushed away.
bite in your tears because unlike the sky,
we were taught to sway our storms.
III.
in our household
there are no syllables, no alphabets, no words.
they say there exist languages without words
and ours is silence.
we could scream or lament or weep.
but instead, we gulp it down
in silence.
I was so sad I was about to cry
When she appeared in the corner of my eye
Being carried gracefully by the wind
I believe she wanted to be my friend
She had rainbow wings and big brown eyes
Like silver dollars floating in the sky
There was a reason that I was so sad
I’d lost the most beautiful thing I had
It was more precious than anything
For I’d lost my diamond ring
I had my ring since I was four
But now at 5 I have my ring no more
Dad and I backtracked my steps nice and slow
Searching for my ring both high and low
When the butterfly came floating down
Landing on my ring lying on the ground
I ran and got my ring up off the ground
Right here on my finger it can be found
I thanked Mrs. Butterfly with a smile and a tear
Waving goodbye as she disappeared
Into a rainbow that crossed the sky
My magic ring finding rainbow butterfly
Written by my daughter Michaela and I
(otherwise titled psalm to
Amelie Beth by Matthew Scott,
his genuine, gluten free and non GMO
poetic non fake appreciative guise.)
Ah, thee availed me reason to craft
a poem with rhyme or reason,
when I beheld unexpected email
exemplifying Christmas season
triptych most handily drawn pictures
by southpaw sister to think
on the other hand (right),
would be synonymous
with brother commiting treason...
Tempting as such crime
to oust Trump doth appeal
worst scenario... an utter
nightmare should commonweal
constituting United States of America...
blatantly, doggedly, ferociously...
crushing democracy fragile ethereal
frenziedly, maniacally, and unceremoniously
grinding into powder art of the deal
compliments those doughy
two hundred forty three pounds
with squishy feel
bearing full force upon
every square inch of each heal
commanding, forcing, and torturing
every American get down
on knees and kneal
until they simultaneously beg
for mercy with ear splitting squeal.
The ruthless "Fake" tyrant
cackles, gurgles, issues glee
as he doth reveal
his starkly totalitarian, ultimately
vindictive, wickedly surreal
punishment to every man,
woman and child for
not winning 2020 election yule
suffer where high crimes
and misdemeanors during
farcical impeachment trial miniscule
compared to reign of terror
he will violently unleash
rip pull sieve tides
substituting himself as top dog
thus, he forcefully usurps
permanent dictatorial rule...
Other than the above dystopian fear
your brother eagerly
awaits the new year
maybe joining activist group
(maximizing) plank - scare
ring up said apocalyptic near
possibility, cuz Trump equals sore loser
(methinks that an understatement)
nonetheless, what I write might
seem far fetched hear
say (grim heresy),
yet... look no further,
he doth plainly appear
as anti-semitic, bombastic, cataleptic,
demonic, egocentric,
graphic, horrific, misogynistic...
HAPPY NEW YEAR!
Well I just love me fishing with its peace and bloody quiet,
I don’t have to worry ‘bout the ‘dickheads’
and I don’t have to fight.
I can spend a week out on the river doing it with ease,
and if I argue with a fish I only argue with the breeze.
It is flamin’ golf that causes problems and a slight remorse,
with me irons and me putters handy
as I wander ‘round the course.
But lately I’m playing solo in a lonely golfing life,
so I slum around the house complaining to my wife.
She got sick of me one day when was I was grizzlin’ bad,
with me whingein’ ‘round about her feet
‘bout how it makes me mad,
that I cannot find a partner who wants to join me in a game.
“Why don’t you ring up Ted?” she said; but I denied that claim.
“Ted!” I said “Not flamin’ Ted. Ted’s a mongrel on the green,
as I found out on the course one day
that he gets awful mean,
and is prepared to toss his clubs and shape up for a fight.
Then my missus say’s “Ted’s placid and I find him to be all right.”
Well I said, “Would you play with a bloke who’s drinking all the time,
and makes rude gestures when you try to putt,
and then he tries to rhyme
stupid jokes that are not funny, and ‘accidentally’ hits your ball away,
Then tell you constantly you’re useless and don’t know how to play?”
Now my wife became indignant and she said, “Of course I wouldn’t.
That behaviour’s unacceptable
and I’m sure I couldn’t
put up with those childish actions” - So I stopped her and said.
“Well as it so happens playing golf - this also bothers Ted”.