Best Lobby Poems
In the lobby of the courthouse
People’s demeanor
Are such a telltale
Casual and comfortable
The secretaries
Determined and debonair
The lawyers
Focused and unperturbed
The judges
And then the others
With scowls on their faces
Nervousness and concern
The weight of accusation
The slow ominous pace
Of being led directly
To the slaughterhouse
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
If we pray for other countries to prosper, real neighbor ...
As Old Cultures and Histories model, imbibe, declare ...
There would be fewer dark nations seeking refuge in whiter
Would you even consider praying for Nicaragua, El Salvador,
Gautemala, Honduras, and Mexico to reach more of their poor
With JUSTICE, fair prices for what they own, sell, barter???
Even as Scott Simon exposes HOBBY LOBBY, Bible Museum builder
Paid a fine ($3m) & helping denude Iraq of its Own, "war souvenir"
Of our celebrated warriors of freedom, and yes, capitalists-investor
Yes, you have to think hard and forgive me, for this NEWS
You may hide while ululating Fox, Skunk, Weasel News (fake news?)
As we who escaped here for religious reasons, send kids to our prisons
The unexamined life is not worth living, said Socrates
Who died rather than parrot what Religion and Politician needed
To hear, to let him continue teaching (Questions): Deductive, Socratic ...
I have drunk poison too, and something died, something living
Yes, Iraq can teach us that Occupation is worse than dying
The Museum curators still hide Gold Treasures, 15 years & counting ....
FOOTNOTE: Please google "HOBBY LOBBY," funder of Liberty University, too.
I ought to have, much earlier, added this NOTE:
"Hobby Lobby" is a leading American Company that prides itself as "Christian." It bought stolen artefacts looted from Iraq since the 1990s, and paid a fine of $3 million to the US Government. They also have enjoyed that dubious honor of helping "build" the Museum of the Bible in Washington, D.C. More love for Museums than for people alive today? You do the research & RE/consider ...
Wreaths
Paintings
Wall hangings
A decorator's paradise
Wooden cars
Paint brushes
Stick on designs
A child's moment to learn how to drive for the first time
Candle wicks
Candle scents
Colored wax
A candle maker's luxury
A hobby for all
Who come to seek out
Their good fortune
Hotel Lobby
To be in a lobby is oh such a shame,
Lonely and troubled it’s all such a game,
Suits and stubble typing like pawns,
Fed to the lions before going cold.
Success in their minds with a stench of despair,
As they desperately struggle to sustain a soul.
Battered and worn with the internet scorned,
Corporate specials are oh such a bore.
Stiffly dressed, there’s nowhere to hide,
A pint at the bar is a stretched slide.
Universal wallpaper from the hotel land
surrounds every painting that’s oh so bland.
Laptop in hand they now must run,
Pretending to be busy is all part of the fun.
The starch duvet awaits and morning will come,
Lies must be told and dirty deals done.
The significant shudder of newspaper pages echo the sterile breakfast tables,
Days of ignominy will consistently need snippets of stories to spin the reels.
Hotel Lobby
There is nothing quite so lived in as a hotel lobby.
The seats are worn with daily use, the lighting just the right depth to hide the shadows who have passed through its angles, sharpened with use.
The maître d' returns my watchful eye with disdain
I do not belong in this hotel lobby;
Too many children and shady businessman and painted women have sat where I am sitting, waiting for Charon's taxi to take them back. Even the staff are prepared for the shift change, when they can drop their suits of sophistication for a simpler garb to present to their families.
Only the maître d' has made his home here, in the twilight zone between the powerful heat rolling through his glass doors and simulated frigidness within. This lamp here is his candlelight for lonely nights of black-clad faceless staff with pinned-up hair.
I am here to observe the wakening of livelihoods; the pre-amble of business meetings; the preparations to an outing day.
Perhaps only after will I feel the need to sleep.
What we going to do, about addressing the elephant in the room
Leave it be behind you, rest of us will continue this meeting by zoom
By David Kavanagh
She swirls like desert sand
She has a natural curve of welcome
Complex, with the openness of a sensual woman
Each beautiful light-filled stroke artistic genius.
She is an overall intriguing pattern of love.
I came to this lobby today to write a poem.
Instead, I stare in awe, feeling humbled.
Who was the architect?
Surely one lone person did not envision this masterpiece.
Perhaps it was a committee of angels.
I feel I am in the presence of greatness.
I pick up my pen and begin to write.
A lobby's meant to represent
The building it is fronting,
To welcome all who enter
From the elements it's blunting.
It may be fancy, to impress
Or functional and boring
But either way, it greets us
From its ceilings to its flooring.
And whether an apartment, office,
Inn or a hotel,
The lobby sends a message
Not too easy to dispel.
It lets us know if we fit in
Or if we don't belong
And nothing can convince us
That our feelings might be wrong.
New Orleans’ 1962 ostentatious hotel lobby
extravagant crystal fluted chandeliers
highly polished walnut counter tops
opulent Italian marble floors
plush scarlet velvet cushioned couches
swankly brass and glass décor
luxury never seen after nineteen sixty-two
motel lobby in arkansas
close to the crystal bridges
young man with tattoos walks to large creamer
he begins to pump creamer into coffee
sees me and indicates I go ahead of him.
Ii shake my head ‘no”
tell him to go ahead, he will be quicker than me
two polite strangers making conversation
in a motel lobby in arkansas
I sit down to eat my breakfast
watching people sauntering in and out
four children skip past, giggling like faeries.
they could be from new mexico or virginia
There are license plates outside from several states
I marvel that people are vacationing
in the middle of the week in arkansas
His moustache was long and black,
silky at the ends, shiny almost,
slick with gel to keep the ends
turned up in a smile, even when
his lips didn't match. They look
like shoestring ends, she thought,
all perfectly pulled together on
either size of a bulbous nose.
She never asked his name, just
watched as he strode with
purpose through the lobby of the
hotel she liked to sit in, reading.
His hair was short, salt and
pepper, some would say, but she
didn't use spices, so she wasn't
sure. Not white like snow, not
black like tar, but in between,
like a new snowfall driven over
by dirty cars. She stared, just
a little too long and he turned his
head and smiled, wide gappy
yellowing teeth screamed at her
from underneath the black stache.
She turned to her book and read.
When others speak
in hushed tones,
behind closed doors,
my voice
rises
for the voiceless.
My heart
only knows
to advocate,
to persuade,
to fight
for the cause.
At the Oakland Airport Hilton Inn, I was working the evening shift, from 3 to 11 p.m.
behind the front desk on a Saturday at 8 p.m. Three Canadian boys, one younger
than the other two, shared a Junior Suite that connects to two bedrooms on either side,
each with two queen beds. Two Canadian Undercover Secret Servicemen were in the
other connecting bedroom, as the younger boy was the son of the Canadian Prime Minister,
Pierre Trudeau, 10-year-old Justin Trudeau, who’ll be the future Prime Minister of Canada.
He is on our VIP list, and now he has gone and stood at the Cashier Stand at the opposite
side of the front desk counter, where I went to assist him. He asked me, “Do you accept this
Canadian five-dollar bill for American quarters?” The Canadian dollar is one of several foreign
currencies for which we have an exchange rate of seventy-three cents to the Canadian dollar.
Although it didn’t break even, I gave it to him at seventy-five cents instead. I personally
covered the difference, a loss of a few pennies, of which I had notified the young Justin of
my neighborly gesture.
The three boys were attending The Day on the Green Concert—an event where various bands
perform nearby at the Oakland Coliseum. The boys were hoping to bump into Michael Jackson,
who performed there, but he took a side entrance, bypassing the lobby altogether. The boys
were taking turns playing Galaga and Asteroids on the gaming tables that were set up in the
lobby. I had notified the Canadian secret servicemen who shortly joined us in the lobby. They
sat at a nearby table, busted out a deck of cards, and began playing among themselves. The
lobby gift shop was closing, nearing 8:30 p.m. Young Justin came with cash from his friends,
asking for more quarters. After some time had passed, the boys called it a night, and they all
left, leaving the comfortably air-conditioned lobby to me.
Good to see, soneone grass roots.'
I wish them success,' and hope they
Really, stick in their boots '
I am sitting in a hotel lobby in a small town south of Des Moines
That means Iowa for those of you who did not know
I am drinking coffee with French Vanilla flavoring and sweetener
Waiting for my twin sister, listening to loud country western music
I would not mind the music if it was on a proper volume
It is weirdly loud and proud for six a.m.
as if it thinks it is better than rock and roll or bluegrass
my nerves are screaming