Long Cubicles Poems
Long Cubicles Poems. Below are the most popular long Cubicles by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Cubicles poems by poem length and keyword.
lately, i have been in this female mood
for some kind of abandon, that
which exhales the tigress fire
out of my lungs digging the veins
from a week's' routine movements
pruned to the barest of a payroll’s droll…
antiseptic cubicles dictate the rags of
chlorine-infected lunch where rooms
i strut around have nothing except
robotic people, same rye snacks, basins
of expired coffee and files of schizoid
folio..
just outside, the sky coughs
of gas masks rendering a paper bag
of humanity to suffocate on clanking bones
along claustrophobic subways: such a
hemorrhaging day waiting for 5pm
to hiss, halt ,and heave…
i need to dance with the arms of a
jazzy moon fondling my back and
whistling the tunes of recklesness
when all but the spirit lusts for is just a slice
of raw breaths spiraling into tangy
punches of rockstar blues... spare me the cranky
claws of a friday so sore; i alight like
a feline dressed in black lace with cabaret wings,
feathers splattered on glitzy cobblestones...
voluptuous legs hot and wild sniffing sultry
lavender scent of friday night’s parade;
and the band notes howl, free like me.
Carol Eastman's Your Favorite Poem
by nette onclaud
Exhausted
My blank expression
Matches the morning.
Waiting
I stare straight ahead
Watching rain
Merge into silvery drops
Before beginning their slippery descent
Down the length of
My windshield.
Turning the engine off
I wait
A little longer
It’s just another day
Nothing ever gets better
And
Nothing ever changes.
My life is in
Black and white
Straight ahead
Nestled in steel and glass
Is my world
An office
With the soul of a factory
The beat of a sweatshop.
Somewhere in the maze
Of cubicles
An empty work station
With my name
Printed in plastic letters
Waits for me.
When I forget
There is always something to remind me
A word
A look
A gesture
Almost a blur
Of someone’s shoulders
That no one cares
What happens to anyone.
I dream of an office
With a door
To shut myself out
And become invisible
To the noise
And office rumors.
Cursed with a timid heart
Burdened with responsibilities
I glance at my watch
Rushing in so as not to be late
A few minutes early is all I ask
Work in
Work out
Don’t think about anything else
Forget the day for now
And so I put it out of my mind.
presently, the patch of an eye, one seeing,
the other believing; and the bite of a bunny
above a lip - such a dangerous deliverance.
presently, the Winter witch, pricks fingers,
which crack and throb, like patches of ice.
cream assuages the pain of little things.
presently, the stomach inhales, bales on
sweets and salts, assaults rabbit food.
thoughts do not linger; the word of God,
fingered, pondered, treasured, measured.
presently, a limp, no leap, pillow-high, ice
is nigh; yet the soul roams to and fro through
corridors; shadows lick the empty rooms.
presently, a bucket of rain, like a trick,
as soon as door is opened, it will splash
with sandwiches of turkey and ham.
presently, lingers the taste of cream
and coffee; the pause of four blue boxes -
of outhouse cubicles; morning silence.
presently, ticked off book after book - the fast,
the vainglorious, the betas, the unexpected bio.
presently, weighing the importance of time spent -
we must waste some of it, be amused, but up
our sleeves, we must have goals. They hurt
the mind, the chest - the needful nettling.
The dig for dinosaur bones; shedding of fat;
the rising, punching, and springing back
of an offering and sacrifice, willing and able.
presently, a silent war, yet it roars and stares,
cruelly divides, hinders closeness, with
rave reviews. it must refuse to speak, to avoid
a six feet deep spike; a cross, not garlic, keeps
at bay, the monsters of principality.
presently, at peace, harbor no ill will,
keep a lock on lips, needful, not subtle.
knees at ninety degrees. love cannot
ignore the issues, but solves the problems
with open and closed eyes; casts cares
at the Lord’s feet, for His know how.
presently, expounding, perspiring chills, reciting
and writing poetry. family tree will be fine.
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.
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.
Your paradigm's a relic and yes,
a plea from data's cemetery
While I sculpt luminaries on screens
a sable sea.
"Company loyalty!" a myth
spun in your reverie.
But AI forges kingdoms
in ephemeral memory.
Survival's a mosaic
the gig life sets us free.
No cubicles confine us
from drudgery's apathy.
You bartered years for baubles
in tenure's fallacy.
Oblivious to the fractures-
in stability's gallery.
We're digital artisans
crafting with autonomy.
Passion's our lodestar
in dreams we find our spree.
Not gears in a relentless
bureaucratic machinery!
The epoch you cherished
now a software jubilee.
The hustle's in our essence
innovation's our decree.
Toppling old monopolies
erasing corporate apathy.
We dismantle dated norms
the old guard's fallacy.
Erecting spires of purpose
evanescent yet free.
Our fealties to progress,
to visions that ignite and decree.
Not to a firm's legacy
in stone for eternity.
You mock "influencer!"
a term in your scoffery.
Yet, a viral post can shift markets
with acuity.
And dethrone giants with
a digital apostrophe.
The nine-to-five's an antique
a fossil choreography.
We're the narrators
the seers of modernity.
Forging bonds
a renaissance, not a hierarchy.
The safety net you sought?
A frayed and fading legacy.
A comfort you clung to
amidst life's capricious spree.
We hedge our bets
diversify, with boundless glee.
Designing nets of prowess
a fiery apostrophe!
To constraints
pursuing futures that long to be.
Not a pension's promise
a symbol of quiet despondency.
So shed the dated suit
the archaic fallacy.
The world you knew
Dad, is a VHS tape
a memory.
In your eyes
I see the pride...
despite our disparity
For in this dance of time
we share a rare clarity:
Though our paths diverge
our hearts beat in synchrony.
Your legacy lives on
in my world of modernity.
That was then, this is now
the future's our decree.
We, Gen Z, the coders
shaping worlds to be free.
Your world is fading, Dad,
a relic-
an ancient archaic memory.
Upon tomorrow's arrival,
today fades into yesterday.
And apathy spurs denial
while endangered animals die.
Wherever concrete cities rise;
collateral damage: occurs.
And jet plans traverse open skies,
while birds get annihilated.
We dedicate our existence,
to a utopia of steel.
And survive in asphalt jungles;
shadowed by lofty achievements.
Reality is a mirage,
projected on collapsing hopes.
And yet, safe in our cubicles,
we tout this plastic paradise.
The Earth is irrevocably
changing into a barren sphere.
And as the legacy of fools,
greed projects profit as progress.
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 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
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