As a non insertive question
Citizen has single federal file for all personnel.
Objective of research is objective
During description in file
As sealed Indictment within government as possession of journalist record is economy.
Obstruction is escalation of budget into file
Over life of citizen, depriving citizen of liberty.
I am a research journalist.
In poverty I research not creating poverty
This is to learn what you and all can't do
Can I be exonerated
For the crimes I never commited?
There’s no one to ask, I’m afraid
Which doesn’t make me uplifted
And its nowhere to go, I’m unseen
Cause my passport is shining too bright
Unwelcomed, I see the screen
But never I saw the light,
Of that special hour, before the evening
Covers your land, my reader
No rest for the wicked, believe me
Wicked isn’t me, but a leader
Of lemmings with human faces
Though I don’t belong to that file
I never cared for rat races
But for you I’m of common pile
Concerning about your peace
You cannot see what you’re not shown
It’s not an eyesight disease
But a mental thing, still unknown.
What you’ve bothered to pick
Is a heartbreak topic:
The mind Ended Love warps
And on one’s folly harps;
Just as heat could man burst
Still, Heartbreak Is the worst…
Men file in, bed defile,
You’re with an office file.
Joan does not claim it’s right
But expects not a fight.
You’d delayed wedding ring;
So, with Guys face The Ring…
You’d never known women!
I’ve not ruled them “vermin’’.
Let nothing be of deal
Let anything be ideal
If everything can't be heal
It definitely lacks gracious zeal
A mother lives for her only child,
Even The Decidedly Tiger-Wild
Her son’s unspeakable action mild,
Though a whole town has been beguiled.
A mother exalts her only child:
Never ‘The Ragamuffin’ styled,
Believing no of case filed;
The Crime Crackers numbers dialed:
Her son who‘d’ portrayed no candle
Nor his headache could handle,
Her daughter liable to wrangle
Because of an unreachable bangle.
A mother could tears check for her son,
Whose savagery had shone;
For her intractable male child
Whose rape cases have high piled!
Both sides want Land
Both sides want Kashmir
Both sides want Milk
Both sides want Kheer
No one wants Ranjha
Both sides want heer.
What could be more devastating than a piece of land.ARK
Would rather really set up a file
After all of my poems do compile;
In a cabinet all of them will store;
Go ahead and write some more.
God all my energy to me He gave;
From my many sins He would save;
While at me He had started to look,
Did end up writing one more book.
What happened much to my surprise
Was awarded with a Pulitzer prize,
All of my friends became annoyed;
Each poem I wrote they destroyed.
Read Only File
2/22/22
Miracle Man
Each day I add to my read only file,
as time breathes my present to past.
Many things there warrant a smile,
But many names and faces are glassed.
Entries made there cannot be changed,
though password is stored in my brain.
Stories told, have seen facts rearranged,
and sometimes, inadvertently, I may feign.
Others know some because they had a place,
some know little unless I opt to share.
My long past is but by a loving God’s grace,
I’ve had three score and ten and thirteen to spare.
“Yesterday is history. Tomorrow is a mystery. Today is a gift. That is why it is called the present.”
–Alice Morse Earle
Utterances people could like garments wear,
Except that they look the more naked;
Voiced ideas their hearers could bear
But much like the cruel whip of the wicked,
Their glad receivers betray a 'mental slackness
And are fetched a thickening darkness.
Confidential documents you could file,
Save that file jackets would keep laughing at you
Quite sure you 'd gone a crazy mile
With that which had turned out of the blue.
Lies every patience tries
And arrives away the Truth flies:
Lies are a southern pole to Northern Truth,
Never failing to dovetail into its halves;
To every man unhelpful like an aching tooth
What even a moron hears and violently laughs.
Should one merely settle for the word ‘Style’
In lieu of the more appropriate ‘Guile’?
A secretary asking an applicant to wait for a while
But still not nearing this anxious file;
Letting the doomed document and others pile,
Sometimes taking this to a shocking mile:
Many false phone calls and not-to connect dial
Freshly asserting how Man has been shoddily vile.
Even when Applicant starts raving, secreting bile,
Feet noisily attacking office tile;
He, mentally wishing for the contents of a poisoned vial
Or resourcefully arguing his case, Fertile River Nile…
It’s all BUREAUCRATIC GUILE!
Just Another Piece of Paper
David J Walker
It may be poetry or
It may be a bill
It may be an important document
Concerning my health
It may be something I may need
At some other time
Or it may be the unfinished
scribbled words
Of a manuscript
I may never know
She says “Why don’t for file these”
I know how good she is
About filing
Everything in its labeled place
Carefully encased in dark space
Where she will never see them again
But she knows where they are
And I grin and say
They are filed in my way as
Just another piece of paper
I will do something when
I don’t want to see them again
File Number
364 was especially hard to deal with today.
The worker made a check in the empty box.
She used red ink.
Wife beater,
drinker,
abuser,
low-life scum.
There were... more than one,
of each and a mix of all.
Spices for a bad recipe.
Too many files for one night,
one day,
one week,
one month,
one year...
one lifetime!
The young woman stopped at the corner.
Looked both ways.
No one around.
She turned...
and droved north.
Three miles.
Two miles.
Home.
A big place with lots of space.
Gardening, and animals.
A gentle spirit,
to unwind the unkind.
Stopped the car.
Got out.
Opened the trunk,
and smiled.
Potatoes,
tomatoes,
Rummy cube at night,
again and again with such delight.
Numbers on paper meant...
very little to anyone.
No one cared or stared.
But others would be ...
happier and well-fed.
Years of weary travel, sojourn soon to end
the time passed unseen, in elixir of youth.
Now sunset awaits, a shadow to descend
faded twilight greets, the inevitable truth.
Diminuendo of some whistling songbirds
vanish somewhere inside hearing aids.
Arthritis and denture, with forgetful words
bifocals now see, only butlers and maids.
Snow of winter has to melt in heat of sun
leaves of autumn, once brown they wither.
Rings on trunk of trees, counted one by one
bygone days.. can't they again be together?
In the last casino game, no one will ever win
Roulette wheel will stop, no one knows when.
Debris File of Life deleting to Recycle Bin,
An estuary flows... to Death, in final Amen.
Dated 5th June 2019
Sponsor Emile Pinet
A contest on aging
Seeing better from a distance,
than you ever could up close
The memories play like children,
in voices that you spoke
The truth is where you find it,
every season, every turn
Where space becomes entitled
—your soul to file or to burn
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)
Seeing better from a distance
than you ever could up close
The memories play like children
in voices that you spoke
The truth is where you find it
every season, every turn
Where space creates acceptance
—your soul to file or to burn
(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)
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