She had straightened her hair,
She had to seem more ‘presentable’
No longer were her curls, wild and free,
Now tamed by expected conformity
She was the only black girl in the room,
The atmosphere suffocated by others judgement,
They whisper and laugh -
Yet she still remains professional
She has no other option,
She gives a polite, strained smile
She has to keep calm,
She can’t give a reaction
She doesn’t have the privilege,
To defend herself without any issues,
She patiently waits, her eyes on the clock
Waiting for the moment prove herself for the job
Now it is her turn - she enters the room,
She sits down, then smiles at the interviewer,
She is qualified, miles ahead of the other participants,
Despite her being the most qualified, she won’t be considered
She did extremely well,
Not one stutter,
She was impressive,
But they already had a ‘diversity’ hire
A secret rule,
Is one black person,
Just so HR can’t accuse of racism,
As soon as she leaves, her resume is ripped up
I had heard about the new cult in town, the gray rabbit express
It was stated that the followers did not show much happiness
They dressed in gray outfits, dresses usually, and rabbit ears
What is your main concern? I asked the sheriff. What are your fears?
I wonder if these girls were abducted, you need to interview them.
at the gate I was turned around by guard dog named Flem.
knew what his name was because he had a sign on his collar, in blue.
I ran from this compound, feeling threatened, ‘tis true.
The girls did not attend public school, but they sometimes came to town.
never alone; their chaperone was close and always gave a frown.
I tried to speak to them a few times, but they ignored me and my voice.
I gave up finally, said the most aggressive interviewer in town, Mrs. Joyce.
I saw four of them on the street one day, walking in a solemn line.
I said good day and asked how they were, none of them said “fine”.
They ignored me as if I had not spoken at all, brainwashed maybe.
Soon joined by another cult chaperone, her lapel said McGee.
FLY
So, you’re wanting to be a pilot, son
Free as a bird way up there in the sky
It is an important job, as well as fun
You look so keen, and I do know why
Leaving all that boring stuff way behind
I can see that you just really want to fly
We take only the fittest that we can find
You realise this is the best job, bar none
But to this interviewer role I’m resigned
Thank you, Wind, for sitting with me -
A most uncommon interviewee.
Glad to help, won't you take good notes,
So that you may avoid misquotes?
Sure, I think that would be a crime.
Tell our readers how you spend time.
I love to travel everywhere,
So many places I move the air.
I have pushed ships across the sea
To new lands of opportunity.
I caress folks' faces and skin.
So they feel good outside and in.
I convey smells of fresh baked bread,
Jasmine flowers and roses, red,
The happy shouts of kids at play,
And singing birds to start the day.
Do you ever find that you get bored?
Are there more pastimes you've explored?
I make ladies' hair come undone.
I swiftly rustle skirts for fun.
I blow a hat off of a head.
I'll make a field goal miss instead.
Sometimes, when I get furious,
I'm a cyclone, injurious.
Thanks Wind, I've enjoyed our meeting.
This will be engaging reading.
And so, the interview ended.
Notes on which the piece depended,
Placed on the cafe table, unbound,
Were blown here, there, and all around,
As the interviewer was taught,
The Wind's a guy who can't be caught.
his nose was distracting
but so was mine
i listened to it ; in the car on the way
there
the bass was in my brain
what if he'd never heard it?
the questions kept coming
questions about
stuff
thinking about the book of judges
i saw paintings
i followed him home
hid beneath the window pane
but heard nothing
i didn't get the job
Seven applied for the position of traveling mayor.
Glorious sunrise shined upon the eager new applicants.
Welcome splurge of information came forth rather quickly.
We appoint watchers to take notes on contenders.
Spit dribble out of a mouth twice –ugh!
The concept of napkin never entered his mind?
A divorce does not affect your chances anymore.
The highway of life is freer these days.
To clarify, this event is the starting place.
No protest of unfairness will be tolerated here.
We recruit people as far away as Nebraska.
Old Officer Farley is our most intense interviewer.
The charity of strangers brings food for breakfast.
Try chicken and waffles it is scrumptiously delicious.
The address on our resume’ should be current.
A reform of the application is not tolerated.
This edition is the tradition we always use.
How shallow or deep, words are your choice.
The crystal decanter is full of lemonade now.
Just another mayor race in our fair city.
Son wore fuzzy socks and crocs
Loved them for the comfort they gave
He would often say my shoe rocks
When torn new one he would crave
This went on even in teenage
Went to college wearing them
Never bothered like a sage
When teased a song he would hum
Wore them on the day of interview
Not bothering about what others say
Much attention it drew
Interviewer noticed I must say
They found it very funny
Dress properly! If you wear it
you'll never earn money
He said I don't care a bit
Comfort is my only aim
It is ok if you go by shoes
I find your excuse lame
To obey I flatly refuse
He got the job that day
He did what he felt is right
Live comfortably every day
With copycats don't fight
18.06.2021
For fuzzy socks and crocs,Francine Roberts
What is the criteria to work in this office?
The prim interviewer began rattling off statistics
About education, degrees, experience.
I looked around at the staff I could see.
Everyone I saw was female, blonde, twenty-two, and 36, 24, 36.
They dressed in short skirts, wore high heels and their nails were points.
Not a few of them.
All of them.
Experienced in what? I wondered.
Knowing I would not make the cut.
Of course as you may have guessed, I didn’t.
Being a poet means (of course ) that I am not rich
So I headed off to the food stamp office
Across form me while I wait
are 3 females
One is a Moslem!
Another an African American with a larger hat
than I have on
My name is called out
I would like to tell the interviewer
that I have had 4 poems selected for inclusion
in the NY Times
I douibt he would care
Once when I worked for an executive recruiter
someone - referring to poetry said
"you can eat the paper"
when I let him know I had poetry published
I guess I'll eat the paper
maybe it will be delicous
When growing up as a only child
always so loved to get a letter
living in countryside few folk around
postie delivery made me feel better
Leaving school no great intentions
but had within me real desire
to be a postman delivering mail
this would be a job I'd never tire
I did once get interview appointment
nervous I was with my stammer
the interviewer questioned my resolve
to communicate with public, real hammer!
But amazingly I was offered position
doubts then had filled my mind
confidence lapsed to do the job
so declined offer never again to find
So my desire to deliver unfulfilled
but life's been good all the same
never the less it would have been nice
anyway wasn't meant to have my name
The interviewer is watercolor...green.
The artist, antiqued abstract.
He probes for her deepest sable secrets.
She offers pale nothings from her musky attic retreat-
He nibbles away with baby teeth.
She slugs him in his ochre gut.
With vague stone frogs croaking from
the cracks of black souled mountaintops.
Her being lies in the shadow of shadows.
Briefly exposing its oily head
From ancient mind scribbles and mayhem.
The path to her treasures is overgrown.
With the bluest bile and hungry thorn.
He's too soft -too green to ever see.
To bushwhack and bleed.
To seek the trailhead.
Like she slashed and bled
'til her soul was partly cleansed-
He's unable to see what she clearly saw.
So back and forth they go.
Into a see-saw nothingness...
Goddess of abstract - watercolor man
A dead end of a dance.
Her aurora left her long ago.
Seeping lovingly into her paintings.
An explosion of mental mitochondria.
Hanging from dingy gallery walls....
She places her wrinkled flower face.
Deep into her burnt sienna soul...
The interviewer has been flayed.
The interview is over.
It behooves me to tell you this but when you visit my page
You open yourself up to some very creepy events
For instance, you will be carrying on like it was a normal day
When suddenly you'll burst out into incontrollable laughter
Just hope and pray there's no one around
Especially when you're attending the funeral of a friend
Also if your applying for a new job
And the interviewer asks you if you've ever had a brush with the law
It's not a good idea to look around shiftily
Quickly put your hand where you might be packing some heat
And tell the interviewer you were once a member of the FBI
So this is just an advanced warning
Be prepared and don't schedule any serious business meetings
It could mean your job... don't say I didn't warn you!
© Jack Ellison 2014
Interviewer: What is your piano to you ?
A piano is my lover; an intimate body who trembles and illicits sighs and groans under my careful touch
A piano is my companion; a loyal friend who stands and waits patiently and unconditionally
A piano is my voice; a passionate manifestation of my emotions when physical expression fails me
A piano is my soul; an innate fragment of my heart, mind and body that gives me life and purpose
A piano is my heaven; an ethereal sanctuary that offers me refuge in my otherwise immoral world.
What if I interchange
my place with you tactfully
and be the interviewer ma'am,
you the nervous interviewee?
My jumbled head with statistics
from economics to weight of moon
and from Osama to Obama,
will be a blank space soon.
I will measure you inch by inch
taking a careful look at you,
suddenly without an apparent cause
let out a huge naughty guffaw.
This will make you nervous more
sweat beads appear all over face,
casually I will enjoy this,and
let my mind to start caress.
Very much enjoy change of roles
with the peoples surrounding me,
frequently I am the Boss of all
anytime can be 'he' or 'she'.
What if I want to judge this time
to get the first time judgement taste,
will you sponsor write a poem
and enter in your own contest?
=============000==============
A child was interviewed on breakfast radio in England,
The interviewer asked what she thought of the world,
He said,'simple I'm perfect and the world is imperfect.'
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