~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The city is a beehive~
hexagons stacked,
each buzzing with activity
morning, noon, and night.
Streets: wax-thin, sticky with footsteps.
Buildings: golden, leaning into each other,
their windows humming with fluorescence.
Every corner is a chamber~
workers trailing in, workers trailing out,
carrying briefcases instead of pollen.
The queen? She’s a rumor~
a shadow in the penthouse,
counting her hexagons,
her kingdom of glass.
And the honey?
Oh, the honey is the noise~
the honk and clatter,
the murmured deals,
the laughter pooling
in elevators,
thick as syrup.
We are all bees here,
dizzy with purpose,
lost in the comb.
poem originally written for and submitted to Ultramarine Literary Review for its urbanity contest, Febrary 21, 2026.
ALONE IN A CROWD
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
she’s alone in the bustling crowd~
around her, river of faces,
a current of hurried footsteps,
briefcases bumping, hushed goodbyes
archipelago of motion
no one notices her quietness~
train arrives, and she steps forward
departure’s anonymity
If those buried beneath us
could rise today,
would they run to any patch of sunlight,
make snow angels, heap-up snowmen,
stick blackened bones into white bodies?
Would they fashion a bright face
from tooth stumps and icy eye-sockets?
Sadly I imagine that some,
(the frost-jelled and un-melting),
might return to crumbling factories
or defunct offices,
their briefcases or tool boxes
stuffed with snow
to labor over epitaphs.
If those buried beneath our boots
could rise today,
would they moan, turning shriven features
to the frozen earth,
or would they run to any patch of sunlight,
make snow angels, heap-up snowmen,
sticking black bones into white bodies?
Would they fashion a bright face
from tooth stumps and sockets?
Sadly some,
the frost-formed and un-melting,
might hitch rides on the windows of cars,
return to defunct offices
(briefcases stuffed with snow),
to labor over epitaphs.
Lawyers are no joke.
They take life seriously.
Their briefcases and files are immaculate.
Their hair is in place. They are grown up acting.
Expensive? Yes. Annoying? Sometimes.
But they know how to make bad things go away.
Get one if you can; use them wisely. They are worth the money.
In the Barley Tavern I’m in tune,
having a couple before it’s noon.
There was no-one there to talk to,
‘cept for the barman Ken, and who,
joined me to share one or two,
until a couple of blokes in suits,
black ties, white shirts and shiny boots,
dressed up and looking like galoots;
who I was thinking to lampoon,
found themselves table and chair,
and put their briefcases down there,
and at the time I’m unaware,
but quickly found out very soon,
they had come in with lunch to eat,
and so from the cases at their feet,
they lifted out their little treat;
sandwiches, and took the opportune,
and that’s when barman Ken seen red,
watching these blokes as they fed,
so then he shouted and he said,
“Hey I’ve got rules in this saloon -
you can’t eat your own sandwiches here!”
they stared at Ken as if he’s *****,
(upset - they hadn’t bought a beer)
but Ken looks like a silly loon,
when they shrugged and gave a grin,
swapped sandwiches and had a win -
Ken had to take it on the chin.
I spoke to a daughter and she rallied another daughter who ran into
The hospital to save me.
she brought a beautiful purple vase, pink carnations, and briefcases,I think there were at least 53 for thee.
“what doctor has been here.”
“What does he look like? What is the medicine you take at three?”
Try to always bring
An assertive smart
Take-no prisoners
Daughter-to the
Hospital with you
Because not only
Will you get your meds,
They will get so flustered
You will get 3 dinners.
As my daughter followed Dr Try ToEscape
Back to his office to watch him data in my pills
And their frequency I grinned.
Angela, an adult was here
To make the Carens feel better.
We all cheered!
Same faces
old men
briefcases
must be working
early today.
She's still doing the crossword
yesterday's news
feeding her answers
reading the clues
nothing changes.
Baby in a carry cot
not a lot of scope to wriggle
but
giggling anyway.
The tube map's the same
I can name every station
from Epping to Ealing
feeling old, but not as old
as him
who looks like the reaper,
grim
is the word I would choose.
The gap's just a trap to
catch the unwary
it's never caught me.
A river appears in which
I fish for ideas
but nothing comes up to
bite me
it might be
I'm using the wrong type
of bait.
"Proper Pam im-promiscuity carries a
tepid torch against the blank footlights
of a dimlit digital marital marquee---last on the
billing of a car-null double featurette like
a black and white bijou plotless rerun
hand cranked by an arthritic arm;
pit pursuant of
quicksand lust with a gray gaze monotony
able to hitchhike from a plavce point left
only undetermined,
I've seen more action from a shoe sticky floor
or a large hole in an uncomfortable seat cushion,
not to "juxtapare" mind me but what a
chronofile, if briefcases couldspeak and not the
numbers from the credit card diction-ary of child
desires---stratfied pleasures far from TILT
lean calmly on majestic inconsequentials--like
ships passing in the night.
a blue ribbon in a cud chewing contest
A line of loafers march in step,
through halls of granite and of pearl.
A rare and vaunted holy sept,
heels all clicking, toes unfurled.
Through halls of granite and of pearl,
briefcases locked by secret code,
heels all clicking, toes unfurled,
two by two, sixteen all told.
Briefcases locked by secret code,
the minting men on orders high.
Two by two, sixteen all told,
Thirty-two pennies, no laces to tie.
The minting men on orders high,
a rare and vaunted holy sept.
Thirty-two pennies, no laces to tie,
a line of loafers march in step.
we are all built for hell but some have made modification to adjust their placement and still they have miles to go before their finished racin
so daily i enter my mental basement to destroy its encasement only to find its like beating a twig on the pavement
my courageous statements are met with resentment
my untainted patience is often more than should be given
and still im driven to keep winnin through unbiased livin
i refuse to envision my manhood in a compromising position
and my past transgressions are contradictions to my mission
since I strayed from the christians but thats my conviction
so i try to throw blessins in many directions in the form of lessons depictin the streets oppression
and this food i feed to my brethren is like feeding a cold congestion with no medicine for suppression
seeing as im spreading this contagion with no abrasions to the most evasive men in the nation
These beautiful black creations were supposed to be raising are raising hell in our faces and catchin cases with briefcases filled with life sentence phrases and sierra leone bracelets
I'm destined to change this.
One thousand dead businessmen
Zombies of emotionless regimen
Sharply dressed
Black suit and tie, freshly pressed
Leather briefcases, to seem professional
This march of skeletons is quite exceptional
DECAY
Burst into dust and wither away
Corruption and greed let them die
The next thousand corpse march includes you and I
Leaving the Station
Each morning
I step from the train
and march with the others
leaving the station.
The weatherman's warned of rain
so we're armed
with umbrellas,
our briefcases swinging.
Across from the station
there's an old hotel
high in the sky. King Kong,
everyone calls it.
In tall windows
old men appear,
disappear, reappear.
It is August in Chicago
and the old men wear
overcoats and homburgs
so no one can steal them.
They light cigarettes,
mumble and curse
at the daily parade
leaving the station.
Traffic is thick
but even in winter
no one looks up
since no one can hear them.
Donal Mahoney
Out of the office,
They pour at five-thirty'
In their shirts, coats, and ties,
Tired- but not really dirty'
In the parking lot,
They put their briefcases on the curb.
'Til they get their air-conditioned car unlocked.
Then-head for the suburbs.
Then there are the laborers:
Carpenters, welders, miners, and such.
Each night when they leave their jobs,
They're exhausted, and often to filthy to touch.
Many stop off at some convenient bar,
Which, frequently, is pretty near.
To quench their parched, dry throats,
With a round-or two- of beer'
Two different lifestyles;
As diverse as can be.
One may be repulsive to you;
The other one, repugnant to me'
Our God in Heaven looking down from His Throne,
Can observe both of these.
"They are my children I love and died for.
That is all He sees'
Arthur Ball (H.S.L.P.)
Septembe 1, 2002
today, sister, you are an adult
among the hurried ones in suits
attention cast to watches and briefcases.
today, sister, i cannot look
upon the numeral of your age
without the feeling i have missed something.
today, sister, it is not just a birthday.
the whole house has fogged up
with unknown feelings.
today, sister, my throat is dry
when i try to show my joy
of this day when you were born.
today, sister, perhaps
it is i who simply cannot fathom
that you are the child i grew up with
no longer.
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