Best Cubicles Poems
lately, i have been in this female mood
for some kind of abandon, that
which exhales the tigress fire
out of my lungs digging the veins
from a week's' routine movements
pruned to the barest of a payroll’s droll…
antiseptic cubicles dictate the rags of
chlorine-infected lunch where rooms
i strut around have nothing except
robotic people, same rye snacks, basins
of expired coffee and files of schizoid
folio..
just outside, the sky coughs
of gas masks rendering a paper bag
of humanity to suffocate on clanking bones
along claustrophobic subways: such a
hemorrhaging day waiting for 5pm
to hiss, halt ,and heave…
i need to dance with the arms of a
jazzy moon fondling my back and
whistling the tunes of recklesness
when all but the spirit lusts for is just a slice
of raw breaths spiraling into tangy
punches of rockstar blues... spare me the cranky
claws of a friday so sore; i alight like
a feline dressed in black lace with cabaret wings,
feathers splattered on glitzy cobblestones...
voluptuous legs hot and wild sniffing sultry
lavender scent of friday night’s parade;
and the band notes howl, free like me.
Carol Eastman's Your Favorite Poem
by nette onclaud
Categories:
cubicles, adventure, woman,
Form:
Light Verse
Your paradigm's a relic and yes,
a plea from data's cemetery
While I sculpt luminaries on screens
a sable sea.
"Company loyalty!" a myth
spun in your reverie.
But AI forges kingdoms
in ephemeral memory.
Survival's a mosaic
the gig life sets us free.
No cubicles confine us
from drudgery's apathy.
You bartered years for baubles
in tenure's fallacy.
Oblivious to the fractures-
in stability's gallery.
We're digital artisans
crafting with autonomy.
Passion's our lodestar
in dreams we find our spree.
Not gears in a relentless
bureaucratic machinery!
The epoch you cherished
now a software jubilee.
The hustle's in our essence
innovation's our decree.
Toppling old monopolies
erasing corporate apathy.
We dismantle dated norms
the old guard's fallacy.
Erecting spires of purpose
evanescent yet free.
Our fealties to progress,
to visions that ignite and decree.
Not to a firm's legacy
in stone for eternity.
You mock "influencer!"
a term in your scoffery.
Yet, a viral post can shift markets
with acuity.
And dethrone giants with
a digital apostrophe.
The nine-to-five's an antique
a fossil choreography.
We're the narrators
the seers of modernity.
Forging bonds
a renaissance, not a hierarchy.
The safety net you sought?
A frayed and fading legacy.
A comfort you clung to
amidst life's capricious spree.
We hedge our bets
diversify, with boundless glee.
Designing nets of prowess
a fiery apostrophe!
To constraints
pursuing futures that long to be.
Not a pension's promise
a symbol of quiet despondency.
So shed the dated suit
the archaic fallacy.
The world you knew
Dad, is a VHS tape
a memory.
In your eyes
I see the pride...
despite our disparity
For in this dance of time
we share a rare clarity:
Though our paths diverge
our hearts beat in synchrony.
Your legacy lives on
in my world of modernity.
That was then, this is now
the future's our decree.
We, Gen Z, the coders
shaping worlds to be free.
Your world is fading, Dad,
a relic-
an ancient archaic memory.
Categories:
cubicles, dad, daughter, father daughter,
Form:
Sestina
Upon tomorrow's arrival,
today fades into yesterday.
And apathy spurs denial
as endangered animals die.
Wherever concrete cities rise,
collateral damage occurs.
And as jets traverse open skies,
wild birds get annihilated.
We dedicate our existence,
to a utopia of steel.
And survive in asphalt jungles;
shadowed by lofty achievements.
Reality is a mirage;
projected on collapsing hopes.
And yet, safe in our cubicles;
we tout our plastic paradise.
Our planet's irrevocably
changing into a barren sphere.
And as the legacy of fools,
greed defines profit as progress.
Categories:
cubicles, earth, environment, feelings, imagery,
Form:
Blank verse
The lunchroom fart
of turbo pasta
scatters garlic teargas
laced with meaty mystery
without mercy to
flatten cubicles.
Chain-reactions
of Tupperware battles
erupt to devastate
once discerning pallets
until hobbled by stabs
of shrapnel to the gut,
prompting an exodus
of mournful bodies
propelled along that cloud
of processed misery
to wander, ashen-faced
along the concrete void.
Categories:
cubicles, satire
Form:
Free verse
I hurry to the ladies toilets
Because I need to use the loo
But all the cubicles are occupied
(There’s a stench of rancid pooh)
I stand there with my legs crossed
And I do a little ‘dance’
Oh hurry up and vacate the stall
Or I’m going to pee my pants!
I eventually hear a toilet flush
And I hobble through that door
But I need to wipe down the toilet seat
Removing drips from the butt before
I finally pull down my pants
And I dribble a tiny little pee
I’d thought my bladder was fit to burst
So there was no need for this urgency!
I can hear ladies chatter outside the door
Asking why is there such a big queue
My hubby tells me next time I need to go
I should sneak in the gentlemen’s loo!
3rd April 2017
Categories:
cubicles, body, humorous, women,
Form:
Rhyme
Old Women
Old women are forgotten wombs
whose graceless bodies have fed
the word, then been sent
to sit in its shadow
not quite seen, not acknowledged,
not nurtured
They are more patient than God
Old women are crucified
with nails of oppression and poverty
Equality is a Damoclean Sword
when age freckles out-number
soft, sweet patches of youth
Old women have scarred and bloody knees
from kneeling in submission to lesser minds
who felt bigger from the looking down
A rosary of sorrows is strung
through the weary fingers
of old women
They are hung on the crucifix of youth
and beauty to wither into dust
Alone in cubicles and corners,
frayed photos beneath their coats
Old women remember children
who have long forgotten them
They do not seek a man’s arms,
for that is not a refuge, but a honeyed trap
where souls are flayed beyond recognition
Such wondrous minds
Living libraries of life
Vision and experience left untouched
because it is not behind a pretty face
Behold the woman
She is a wealth of wisdom, power,
beauty and courage
yet she is left beside the road
of living
Her reckoning will come
Until then...she endures
Categories:
cubicles, courage, endurance, wisdom, woman,
Form:
Prose
We used to play Cowboys
We used to play Indians
We used to play Pirates
Sailing swift the Caribbean
Now we play worn out Doctors
Accountants counting others millions
Now we play overworked Business Men
Stuck behind cubicles locked inside buildings
We used to climb mountains
Explore backyard jungles
Always at the ready to take
The adventure set before us
Now we set the alarm
Every morning to wake us
Not ready for the adventure
Or where it will take us
We used to fly high like birds
Not knowing our limits
Along the way take what others would say
Knowing they really meant it
Now all we do is drive
Each other insane
Putting up with lie after lie
Day after day
We used to be kids
We used to have fun
Something we seem to have left behind
The day we grew up
Categories:
cubicles, life,
Form:
Rhyme
At
gray fabric offices,
cubicles divide us—
turn us into
refuges
with mock privacy,
as overheard conversations
drip from lips
endlessly smacking.
Sometimes
it seems insanity
squared—
nothingness
randomly speaking
in tongues
to cubicles
with no one there.
We
thumb tack
individuality
loosely
to coarse fabrics—
arms stretched out
from wall to wall,
as mouths open
to mirrored
silences
we never
scream.
Categories:
cubicles, angst, imagination, introspection, loss,
Form:
Free verse
There were special places
where the mind could hide,
way up in the branches
of a tall tree, safe within
a ball of leaves,
halfway to heaven.
Or on a bike aimlessly riding
streets when the hypnotic
hum of tyres and the constant
rhythm broke through
and sent me
into a pleasant trance
as if the body was floating
free of the ground.
Then there were places
where you couldn't hide,
dark and musty hollows
they called holy places
populated with legions
of dead souls sniffling
their sorrows
in the candlelit air.
Dark cubicles carrying
the odor of sin,
the sour breath of absolution
filtering through
a curtained grill.
And all around, images
of pain plastered on walls
pressing a claim
for love under the threat
of everlasting fire
just for refusal.
It all sounds silly now,
the hellish props stacked away
in an unused corner
covered in ash.
Discarded remnants
of an ill informed past.
And yet at times, I am sure,
I can feel something small
still twitch on the end
of a severed nerve.
I call out. But nobody
seems to be there.
Categories:
cubicles, anxiety, childhood, fear, religion,
Form:
Free verse
... but first we must establish one thing:
What kinda box are we talking about here?
If it's the pizza variety then no thoughts necessary!
Just dig in and put off consequences 'til later.
Though afterwards you might be hugging your gut,
saying, "I think I ate way too much!"
But hold onto that thought!
(before you lose your lunch)
Were you thinking outside the box?
I truly don't believe you were,
otherwise you wouldn't have gone for seconds
even as your face was turning blue.
(what did you eat the cardboard too?)
If it's a chess set you had in mind
I'd be mighty impressed it you DIDN'T
think outside the box.
... are you really that intelligent
to plan out the whole game before
you even take off the lid?
Now that's just crazy talk!
Course maybe that's not it either.
Perhaps you were thinking about
that Japanese number game.
(Sudoku... is that what you mean?)
Though to be honest 81 boxes
makes me feel a bit green.
The possibilities are truly endless it seems;
cubicles, board games, pizza shops,
warehouses, super markets,
(Heck, you're living in one, by God!)
So next time you bring up such a topic
you would do well to not be so vague.
It seems were all victims of this obscurity
... with origins more unknown than the plague.
Categories:
cubicles, humorous, imagination, metaphor,
Form:
Light Verse
Exhausted
My blank expression
Matches the morning.
Waiting
I stare straight ahead
Watching rain
Merge into silvery drops
Before beginning their slippery descent
Down the length of
My windshield.
Turning the engine off
I wait
A little longer
It’s just another day
Nothing ever gets better
And
Nothing ever changes.
My life is in
Black and white
Straight ahead
Nestled in steel and glass
Is my world
An office
With the soul of a factory
The beat of a sweatshop.
Somewhere in the maze
Of cubicles
An empty work station
With my name
Printed in plastic letters
Waits for me.
When I forget
There is always something to remind me
A word
A look
A gesture
Almost a blur
Of someone’s shoulders
That no one cares
What happens to anyone.
I dream of an office
With a door
To shut myself out
And become invisible
To the noise
And office rumors.
Cursed with a timid heart
Burdened with responsibilities
I glance at my watch
Rushing in so as not to be late
A few minutes early is all I ask
Work in
Work out
Don’t think about anything else
Forget the day for now
And so I put it out of my mind.
Categories:
cubicles, life
Form:
Narrative
You know that summertime is gone
when a chill is in the air
when snow is in the forecast
and hockey sticks appear
when kids with toques and earmuffs
show up on every street
stick-handling wayward tennis balls
on tar and on concrete
when flags of northern nations
unfurl on jacket backs
with favored players featured
on shirts and on backpacks.
In Canada we’re hockey nuts
we cannot get enough.
The only time it’s out of thought
is when the sledding’s tough.
It’s hockey, hockey, hockey, for nine months of the year
from Long Beach to the Grand Banks, Point Pelee to Ellesmere.
In this the blooming of the North, this land that we hold dear,
There’s talk of other sports at times but it’s hockey we revere.
The stars, the stats, the standings,
team trades and injuries
consume us all the season
and test our expertise.
In cubicles and staff rooms
at desks and boardrooms too
the talk is all of hockey pools
and who is picking who –
Russian or Canadian
American or Czech
Swede or Ukrainian
Finn, German or Slovack.
In Canada we’re hockey nuts
we cannot get enough.
The only time it’s out of thought
is when the sledding’s tough.
It’s hockey, hockey, hockey, for nine months of the year
from Long Beach to the Grand Banks, Point Pelee to Ellesmere.
In this the blooming of the North, this land that we hold dear,
There’s talk of other sports at times but it’s hockey we revere.
And when we’re old with fires banked
and we forget most else
we’ll hanker back to storied games
and golden stars whose very names
excite our feebled pulse:
Hull, Lemieux and Richard
Beliveau and Fuhr
Orr and Howe and Harvey
Gretzky and Lafleur
We'll hear again the rising roar
And then the call
He shoots, he scores.
In Canada we’re hockey nuts
we cannot get enough.
The only time it’s out of thought
is when the sledding’s tough.
It’s hockey, hockey, hockey, for nine months of the year
from Long Beach to the Grand Banks, Point Pelee to Ellesmere.
In this the blooming of the North, this land that we hold dear,
There’s talk of other sports at times but it’s hockey we revere.
Categories:
cubicles, sports,
Form:
Blank verse
"Screening Process"
They overtake, they overcome
Making us forget where we are from
Expansion of a new world means contraction of another
through unauthentic, pixilated possibilities
While pioneers stay in cubicles these days
They refuse to compute, losing touch, losing touch
Experience depends on going with the flow
Of electricity, pay the bill to get a thrill
how much absence of the outside do we need?
Our hearts have grown fond enough.
If we are taking one step forward,
Why does it feel like two steps back?
Sitting down we are planted, grounded
The sedentary seed supposed to grow, I merely
Wish to wash technology away
Doused in sheets and the rain of regret
To touch and smell and get a taste of the real
Let's go play a game of catch.
Categories:
cubicles, inspirational,
Form:
Free verse
Come chat with me and be my special friend
And we will all the internet explore
The blogs, the webs, the hours we’ll spend
We’ll hack and open each forbidden door
There we will sit at our desks
And listen to those in cubicles
As we drink our Red Bulls sitting at rest
Melodious sounds from infinite electricals
And I will make thee a bed recycled vellum
As the fragrance of ink and chemicals meld in
A cap of vines and violet plastic flowers
We’ll sit at our computers and wile away the hours
Categories:
cubicles, parody
Form:
Quatrain
The Queen
obvious to all who dare notice,
knows no peer.
Drones rush in to orbit in frenetic
sublimation; workers dutifully push
the floor buttons of departure
destinations,
releasing squadrons of gatherers
eager to conquer cubicles of source
data.
The Queen with mysterious grace,
wisely chooses reproduction mates
with visionary lineal accomplishment;
handheld devices whir complex
commands.
......not a word uttered
in the elevator.
04/06/16
Categories:
cubicles, culture,
Form:
Free verse