Cubicles Poems | Examples

A Child Again

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

Not As It Seems

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.

When Death Stopped for Me

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.

Special Places

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.

Nameless

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.

Only Numbers Count

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.

The Office

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

Recalling Piano Sonata No 2 In B Flat Minor

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.

In a Pickle

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

Apartment Bloc 576

blank stonewall faces
  narrow-windowed cubicles
   ~ hearts tear in cramped spaces

Rules of Dispassion

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

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 You Desire

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.

That Was Then This Is Now

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

That's Why It's Called Happy Hour

A new day starts they enter the fray
Pushing, pulling get out of their way

 Hurry, rush, hectic pace
There's no stopping this rat race

Packed like sardines inside still cans
Off to cubicles and offices bland

Cubes to the left, cubes to the right
 Inside one big cube they hide

Bereft of excitement their mood subdued
 Fingers tapping, keyboard clicking
To their computers all day they are glued

5 PM comes the stampede starts again 
 And coincidentally that's when happy hour begins

You can find me on Instagram and
on poetrysoup.com

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