The System of Musical Chairs
" AI is of no use nor it helps anyone in this
Society ".
It repeats and is repetitive with no human
emotions to proceed to the next " Go".
Red Light? Does this System of Musical
Chairs seems like a game of charades ?
Backlogs, Deadlines, Quotas , Tracking
Numbers mazes of Red Tape.
Unlimited transfers pressing Numbers on
One's keypad just trying to reach a live
person.
Pointing fingers at team members in this System of the blame game on a monthly
basis.
What's the sense of Employees of the month?
When it creates disorganization.
Those two chairs have been there forever
My grandmother and grandpa used them
Sharing the evening sunset’s light
Holding hands and loving each other
They were there looking at each other when their time came
So, those chairs still remain as a tribute to their love
© Poem – XXII/VIII/MMXXV
LRET
Depression is one of those empty chairs.
Sit on a chair, empty except for my body.
I’m here!
In an auditorium.
Suddenly, there’s other people clapping all around.
Depression is one of those people.
Maybe me.
Clapping slowly, hoping no one notices.
Sit in a chair.
Everyone is clapping for me.
As I walk toward the bathroom.
Everyone is clapping for hours.
When I come back, they are still clapping in unison.
I have to go home.
Walk away, but I circle back.
Depression is one of those empty chairs.
With a spotlight on it.
I always crawl back.
Clapping more and more slowly.
As the energy rises.
Depression can only be one of us.
Sit in a chair, silently.
Although I want to shout, “That’s enough!”
While there’s a standing ovation.
Depression can only be,
A person who is slouching like me.
I ran downstairs
to play musical chairs -
how I do recall!
I kept repeating
changing seating
'til there were none at all.
A long life can be a blessing tinged in blue.
You may end up in a garish room.
A single bed, a straw chair like Van Gogh.
With very few friends left, if any.
Loves scattered about like gold flakes in drought.
If love lived next door, they wouldn't visit anyhow...
Nobody fancies being in the foothills of death.
If lower court grants bail one day,
High court stays, saying oh, no way,
Ah with judicial airs
Courts play musical chairs,
And the top court then stays the stay.
Too bad, justice delayed
When weighed, weighed and reweighed,
Perfection still remains at bay.
_______________________________
Happenings |05.07.2024| justice
Poet’s note: And this ditty wonders if the country (and the world as well) is aware that our modern judicial process has become extremely slow, and that millions of cases get pending (as in India). We should know, courts are manned by humans who in no way are perfect. That, seeking too much perfection is waste of time.
Family is like
Table and chairs, one missing
Is sadness to all.
I was wondering what a painting about one of my poems look like
Grimly gathering of gnarly letters
So take this one would it
slipperyness of eels in heels
Would my light one haze of neon faze
Would oil slick inks hint of tyres hanging cliff
Stuck between being and bee spell
Check one Czech too
slathering like squidwards tongue
Could you imagine if an artist paints your words
Would colour be redily available
Tones scared of the zones
ReaDy this inbRed distuRbEd if you
CaRED imploRed deRavED REaD
ErR closED follow the road
Penguins in trees with silk people sleeves
Peppered with sir and the gents
Belittle a little be
I mean we’re
would ewe start
I was wondering what a painting about one of my poems look like
Grimly gathering of gnarly letters
So take this one would it
slipperyness of eels in heels
Would my light one haze of neon faze
Would oil slick inks hint of tyres hanging cliff
Stuck between being and bee spell
Check one Czech too
slathering like squidwards tongue
Could you imagine if an artist paints your words
Would colour be redily available
Tones scared of the zones
ReaDy this inbRed distuRbEd if you
CaRED imploRed deRavED REaD
ErR closED follow the road
Penguins in trees with silk people sleeves
Peppered with sir and the gents
Belittle a little be
I mean we’re
would ewe start
chairs makers depend
on cow oak and co-workers
painting comes later
Janet did not know how well her boyfriend would do with her daughter.
She kept them separate until she was sure he might be “the one”.
Daisy, at four, did not need to fall in love with someone who might leave.
She had lost her own father, a man who died of cancer in two months.
Tom loved children, he had a plethera of nieces and nephews.
Wbo thought of him as a big teddy bear, nicknamed him “uncle Teddy”.
Uncle Teddy arrived with a little cosmetic case for Daisy, impressing her.
After dinner Daisy and Teddy sat in the “daisy chairs” watching TV.
This is when Janet knew she could fall in love with this man.
If you have bridge chairs, playing bridge
Is not their only use.
Try mah jongg or canasta -
Any game needs no excuse.
Or set them up for extra guests
So everyone can sit,
Especially if there’s
A fold-up table where they’ll fit.
The same goes for a coffee cup,
For cocoa or some tea
Can fill it up as well as java -
Wouldn’t you agree?
Of course, that coffee cup may rest
Upon a coffee table,
Which may hold books or magazines,
Despite its coffee label.
And yet, if you’ve a bookcase,
You may get some eye-roll looks
If the shelves have only knickknacks,
When it’s meant for holding books.
two white chairs sit waiting for the newlyweds in cabin sixty-two
they sleep late, most of us early risers now realize
gorgeous Bahama waters are bright turquoise this morning
tasty bacon smells waft from the D’Agosto family’s cottage
nature's calmness oozes in well with the Zen ambiance of whiteness
white sky, white chairs, white sand, and therefore paper-white bleach.
I am wishing the chairs were red, but I am an artist who loves color.
beautiful contrast of the turquoise sea to the beach is breathtaking.
my friend begins taking photographs. I smile at her enthusiasm.
this is our last day here, but we have never had a sky like this.
I am not sure if these enormous circles of white gray mean rain.
But I am sure the natives know.
Jonah, please, tell me more.
You serve your story raw:
Details that won’t ears bore…
Once your fine shirt I tore:
Your suspense did me floor,
When gaped I had my jaw…
Had The Priest first hands swung
And hit Catechist’s left lung?
Who’d called other’s wife “Whore”
And who “An Open Door”?
Were chairs at The Priest flung
And out The Catechist slung?
You make larger your tongue:
I want facts from it wrung…
Had The Priest a chainsaw:
Just tell me what you saw.
superficial courtesies
hollow social chatter
mundane inanities
are so wearisome
let’s go extempore
rid of habit patterns
free from all bondage
in communion with soul
16-January-2023
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