In cubicles of muted beige,
they bloom unseen
wildflowers mistaken for weeds,
plucked before their particular brilliance can unfurl.
The boardroom hums with spreadsheets,
pivot tables, KPIs,
while down the corridor,
a woman carries galaxies in her coffee-stained notebook,
algorithms that could reshape everything,
if anyone asked.
But they don't ask.
They measure output in hours,
not in the way her mind maps constellations from chaos.
In the break room,
someone laughs
the sound of a river refusing to run underground and upstairs,
behind mahogany doors,
they wonder about retention rates,
never tasting the specific honey of what makes hands want to build here.
Seeds can wait decades in dormant soil,
or they can ignite overnight if someone strikes the match,
leans close enough to feel the warmth already there,
says: show me what you see.
It is October 2145 and the night scene is in full swing.
All buildings that used to house offices now house nightclubs.
Also known as dayclubs now, because people have a lot more time.
Time to pursue hobbies and interests, time to do exciting fun things.
When my grandparents were young buildings were for working.
Many people had to be in their cubicles from eight to five, making a living.
People work from their houses, huts, boats, treehouses and berms now.
Our work day is now four hours, the rest of our day is for family.
I have heard rumors that people used to carry guns and kill each other.
We do not have any of that now. People are not frustrated or angry.
Government requires brain conversion therapy that takes care of this.
We have a health care program that works for everyone.
Mental illnesses are passe’ now also; something we have heard about.
But frankly, we have never seen it. It simply does not happen now.
It is October 2145 and people are happy. We each have a dog or a cat.
Some have both; it is a requirement, mandated by the government.
So that we stay upbeat and optimistic, which we do.
Deadlines, responsibilities
Cubicles, liabilities
Dour adulthood, I did attain
Alas, to be a child again
It was once easy to have fun
Racing on grass under the sun
We would find ways to entertain
Alas, to be a child again
Our moms said, "put your raincoats on"
Embracing water like a swan
And singing songs out in the rain
Alas, to be a child again
Imagination gave us wings
We became princesses and kings
And precious fantasy would reign
Alas, to be a child again
Kicking stones to school every day
I knew each flower on the way
To linger on that country lane
Alas, to be a child again
Glancing shyly, her long blonde braids,
A memory that never fades,
To only see my smiling Jane,
Alas, to be a child again
Now, bones don't move so well. They ache.
Falling apart, too much to take
Soon, I'll be walking with a cane
Alas, to be a child again
The everlasting search for truth,
And that cagey fountain of youth -
Why must it always be in vain?
Alas, to be a child again
I have been fortunate indeed
Into my dotage, I recede
I can't but think, as life does wane
Alas, to be a child again
A dash of cinemas in cider glass
resin slightly film cubicles adore
courts row corner circle O Picas
face quartered pairs apple' core
Herstory versus history mystery
Poe had Lenore a spirit anomaly
Frost's The Must Not Take Road
Chose what his small voice told
*Her spirit lives and his friend dies.
My Poe Rhyme: Coronavirus: Covid-19; and my Frost Short Story: The Road That Never Should Have Been Taken.
Because I could not escape from Life –
It rudely dragged me forth –
The chaos swirled, consuming all –
And Oblivion, my worth.
We raced through days – no time to rest –
And I, a frantic pawn –
My dreams and hopes, discarded, lost –
For Life's relentless dawn.
We passed the cubicles, where souls toiled
In fluorescent-lit despair –
We passed the screens of endless tasks –
We passed the coffee-stained chair.
Or rather – Life passed me –
Its deadlines, like a storm –
For only memos, spreadsheets, strife –
My soul, a uniform.
We paused before a desk that seemed
A prison of the mind –
The keyboard barely visible –
The mouse, a chain that binds.
Since then – 'tis eons – and yet
Feels shorter than a breath –
I first surmised the ticking clock
Led me toward my death.
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.
The nameless
in their ranks of cubicles
faces lit by a visual display,
numbers,
reflected in spectacles
a list to be picked,
like ripe cherries;
the soft flesh consumed
the empty pit spat out,
discarded.
The nameless;
harvesting
the nameless.
Outside the takeaway,
long shadows
mix and merge then part
in a constant stir of shapes
on a hot late afternoon
somewhere in a city
where half a million
will be lonely tonight
and a tenth of those
not have enough to eat
and perhaps a fifth
of the hungry
will have no home,
a million or more
will make love and maybe
a few thousand
will break up,
one person could be murdered
and a hundred mugged
or robbed,
whilst in dimly lit cubicles
across the town
about eighty souls
will die of natural causes
hardly making a sound.
Number 32, your order
is ready !,
have a good evening - thanks,
that didn't take long.
Jungle clamour
Banter twisted like vines
Lions with psyche scars
Monkeys as crackpot sleuths
Snakes in a labyrinth guise
Parrots preen an oily beauty
Giraffes creak in rumpled posture
Immersive labelling
My colleagues salivate slippery ambition
Pre-occupied with image
Our digital frontier, computer glitches
Terrain fighting, coffee muted
Hidden fracturing
Beasts that claw parchment cubicles
Self propelled advancement, perpetually out of reach
Few scraps of conscience
Strong scents prevail
All of us are watchers
seeding what cannot be grasped
spirited wishing
to pass beyond our bars
to re-write uncaged narratives
Poem composed: February 23, 2021
We were still free to dream,
however, a tax on any imaginative writing
that contravened the rules or regulations
for literary acceptability
or worse
were deemed counter-revolutionary.
In Poland, the last of the hold-outs
wrote odes to Chopin
but essentially all was well ordered and
compliant to the powers that be.
Now that Chinese is a compulsory language
for third graders
many have become re-programmers
for the old and recalcitrant,
but like all wrong-headed reactionaries
the old dwindle only to fade away
in disgrace.
All the false history books
have gone out of print.
Now we study the history of
our brave new world. It is
always sunny here in our
equally allotted cubicles.
Any misinformed die-hards
that wander the streets begging
us to return to the old ways
are quickly rounded up
and sent to our happy
and well attended
correction schools.
Chopin has now
been put on a no-fly list, but few
have heard of his dangerous sonata
or think of it at all anyway.
I'm in a preposterous pickle
Caught up in a pitiful plight,
Hands raised in a sign of surrender
Enmeshed in a garment too tight!
I'm bleating a plea for assistance
But nobody answers my call,
As changing room cubicles whisper
'She tried on a dress far too small!'
19.02.20
Pickle Poetry Contest
sponsored by Nina Parmenter
blank stonewall faces
narrow-windowed cubicles
~ hearts tear in cramped spaces
Look ... but don’t touch
Touch ... but don’t taste
Taste ... but don’t enjoy
Enjoy ... but don’t ever show it
A dispassionate display,
cold dish served on an ice tray
Heart beat is sub-zero,
Arctic thoughts are so cadaver cold
Bosom heat is distant Pluto,
Permafrost eyes are frigid windows
Cold fish caught in the Aleutian Sea,
Icebox lungs became frozen gill memories
Popsicle toes icicle fingers
Polar bear nose
Penguin echoes seem to glacial linger
Tropical grace melt ice-cold, igloo cubicles
Rainforest place warmly blow tear heart-shaped miracles
Show the passion ... but don’t ever let go of it
Let go of it ... but don’t ever forget how to find it again
And again and again and again ... and
keep looking for that loving touch
Searching beyond earth’s end
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
Be the blessing in the way people rejoice
When you bless their day
With compassion and empathy in vivid voice
To wipe away rows of sorrow from their lives every Saturday.
Be the blessing in the way people smile in a mile
Despite the pain that tears their lives
Asunder as misery reigns supreme for a while
Destabilizing the carriage of their marriage with noxious knives.
Be the blessing in the way people face
Challenges that singe and steal their peace
Of mind, rendering them impotent to address
Mundane missions and routines as habitudes of fortitude decrease.
Be the blessing in the way people handle
Queues and dews of obstacles and oracles
Predicting dark days that fondle
The trajectory of restless receptacles to imprison them into cantakerous cubicles.
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