"Food is our common ground, a universal experience." - James Beard
Spice-sweet-sour-salt-starch-blended
dumplings, like dim sum...
Fish, meat, or greeneries filled
enzyme-fiber-mixed
nutrient cuisines...
They thrill my
tongue...
company memos are flowing out
escaping like fireflies in July
overly communicative
no confidences now
leaking information
losing credibility and integrity
hoping for likeability
worlds worst employee
no confidentiality
lack of professionalism
she has put our company at risk
jeopardizes our future and her own
a pomegranate’s
split vulnerability –
chinks in the armour
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
an autumn sunrise –
a bird’s melodious song
breaks the morning hush
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
September memos –
sporadic lightning scribbles
on congested clouds
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
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.
Magazine Madame measures mammoth mackerels
Manipulating measurements, marking misguided memos
Momentous mistakes moves and muffles meager mackerels
Manufactured mutilated memo mystifies many, milking money
Magazine magistrate Marine Morey measures mackerels
Making meticulous memories, mimicking Magazine Madame
“The Dead Life”
(Sleep is the Sister of Death, so I am told)
Wake every morning take a break from death. From the life I live inhaling immortal breath. Uncontrolled vision of lives lived in my head. Most nights are dreamy, some nights are sad.
Fears of our days under lights brightly shining. Return to us in quiet of solemn memos reminding, _ ponderings of undertakings stood above ground. Distant plains amid hasty travels vastly abound.
I’ve drowned many times almost in the same place. Searched for mother who vanished without a trace. I remember this building, vaguely the name of that street. Rippled roads, posing people, infirm ground Beneath my feet.
Of curious consciousness, tis fateful demand whilst I sleep. Wander as a babe in the woods, it’s meaning Lost as sheep.
(If I live the life above in the valley of Death as such, I am doomed to be a restless soul. So far I’ve learnt to not go/turn back it causes the ripples in the road. Keep moving forward. I must remember this upon my return!)
WHO ARE THESE AMBITOUS MEN
WHO STAND BEFORE ME
ARE THEE THE SAMETHAT TAKES
BARLEY FROM THE FEILDS
AND STORES IT IN THE CAVES
MIGHT THE MEN OF THE FEILDS
SHAVE YOUR BEARDS
TO SHOW YOUR FACES
OR SHALL THE WOMAN
OF EVENING
CAUSE YOU ILL
TO HAVE TRACK OF WHO
YOU'VE BEEN WITH
DO YOUR COUSINS IN FAR AND DISTANT LANDS
UNDERSTAND OUR WAYS
THAT YOU MIGHT SEND TO THEM
THE BARLEY OF OUR FIELDS
TO BRIGHTEN UP THEIR DAYS
DO PEOPLE EAT THE BREADS
FROM OUR BARLEY ON DISTANT
SHORES
SHALL I SEND MEMOS TO
DIFFERENT PLACES
SINCE YOU SEEM TO IGNORE ME
SPEAK THAT I MIGHT
HEAR YOUR LIES
STORIED TO A PERFECT DETAIL
WHERE ARE THE GRAINS FROM MY FIELDS
HAVE YOUR SATANIC PLOTS
PREVAILED
WHO'S SHIPS ARE HARBORED
TO RECEIVE GIFT OF THESE GRAINS
THEN THE CAPTAINS AND THESE SAILORS
CHORE TO DELIVER
THESE IMPORTANT THINGS
I SPEAK YE AS KING
ANSWER MIGHT
I THEN KNOW
SAY TO ME WHAT I ASK
THEN MAYBE I'LL LET YOU KNOW
Jessica James, oh what a name!
She sits in her window like a flower in a frame
She pushes out contracts, memos and letters
Is it true what they say that no one does it better?
When the long day is over she speeds to her abode
Ignoring every traffic sign posted along the road
Eating my microwaved Salisbury steak
Pretending winter is gone
Saving pennies to move our trash from A to B
Humming a sad little song
Writing memos and signing them well
What would happen if I actually fell?
Arguing religion with a guy from Maine
Taking my mind off the constant pain
Stepping out in the cold to smoke
Laughing life off like a joke
Tomorrow is the same as today
So I guess I might as well stay
center>
Memos To Myself
I write so many
Notes to myself...that perhaps
I’m only lonely!
On one of those old black-and-whites
with Orson "Spendthrift" Welles on board,
and many memos lying ignored,
the studio's money men took fright.
They brought in Stephen "hard man" Fier
to get the budget back in line.
If Orson begged a ball of twine,
he found his invoice scrutineered.
There's no incentive quite like hate.
One night, when craftsmen downed their tools
And wraps were safely wrapped in spools
the great director lingered late,
took brush and paint pot from the shelf
and daubed across one vast white wall,
"We've nothing here to fear at all -
except, that is, for Fier himself."
We never hear our own death knells.
Next day, the words were rubbed out, all.
Someone, in letters six feet tall,
had put, "All's Well that Ends Welles".
Low-level office drone,
you move cautiously in the corporate hive
Never bringing any attention to yourself,
especially when the pink slip memos fly by
The queen bee of your department,
protects her workers very well
Although from time to time,
she has a tendency to raise living hell
But you never challenge her authority;
you keep your head down, and your voice low
With five more years to a solid pension,
quietly pushing the papers is the prudent way to go
Make no waves,
utter no dissident voice
Management is always monitoring:
so even when they're wrong,
you say they've made the right choice
Keep pushing the papers,
let your conscience live to work another day
on company pay
Don't examine the papers too close,
do exactly what the company say
You ain't a fearless whistle blower,
you're just a low-level rung on the management ladder
A middle-aged balding guy with a bad bladder
So you keep pushing the papers,
'cause everybody ain't brave like Karen Silkwood
Meltdown of a nuclear reactor from faulty parts
the company sold, which you knew were no good
But you pushed the papers on through anyway,
'cause it was time to punch out at the end of the day
DON’T ANSWER THAT!!
That sound!!!
scratchy, tapping,
drumming,
at my door.
Unseen presence
silenced breath
scritching, scratching,
lightly tapping,
memos on
my unlocked door.
Reminders -
trembling moonlight -
distant daybreak,
far from sight,
dreams commandeered -
Pirate flags –
angel wings
lost in dark clouds,
tapping, tapping,
ever-rapping,
dead of night
or noonday napping,
rhythmic rumor
growing stronger,
knocking,
slowly knocking,
Life’s tick-tocking.
Last knock
cold knuckled rap
of “death’s” demand.
John G. Lawless
12/15/2015
I was rushing a project, due at 6,
With a messy top, I couldn’t resist
Arranging trays with photos of my man;
Such thick debris, a whole clean-up began.
A jar of expired tea spilled on my chest
Now, this made me shake off a lunch hour’s rest.
My hands pulled out scarves, lotion, and fake gems
From a drawer filled with old beauty items!
Then, I checked a pile of discs that was needed
Yet my eyes found notes, memos never read.
By 4 pm, job mates helped me wipe out
Heaps of litter, junk mail pouring like spouts.
Oh deadline came while I froze on page 1,
Knowing the boss would demand a rerun!
Sara Kendrick's Today I Accomplished
5/18/2015
1. When Satan was an Angel:
He discovered fault finding easy in the Heavenly Society.
No reason to put forth an effort to improve,
Just dis.
2. When the Sky-Boss wasn't around
He would slip memos to hes fellow workers,
"There is no union,
Nothing to coordinate the wants of the Winged Servants.
3. He claimed the Heavenly Chorus sang off key:
And sounded like it was suffering
From a case of group herpes.
4. He reminded everyone:
As often as possible,
That the Holy He created women as a lesser species,
:After all, Eve did come along as a side issue."
5. Wherever God asked,
"Are you working?"
Mr. D. would always answer in the affirmative,
Gut, his task was too often centered on group diffusion.
6. The final straw in his disposition:
Occurred after he had constantly complained to the Almighty
That the thermostat was set too low,
"I can't stand the cold up here! Why don't you do something about it!:
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