Short Offices Poems
Short Offices Poems. Below are examples of the most popular short poems about Offices by PoetrySoup poets. Search short poems about Offices by length and keyword.
on this day
it for play
after hard work
some or jerks
we drink like pink
it not kink
we just get it started
is
NEW YEARS EVE OFFICE
PARTY
its years end
we had sane blend
we all chip in
office friend
and had a plan
also hand a music band
and got it started
it was
OFFICE CHRISTMAD PARTY
Not literally but many offices are
This is big, worst than Saars by far
Hard to remember
Causes bad tempers
As always, we just sit and play our sitar
its a long day
so some play
you can bet
they play checks
some rest feet on the desk
some muzzle
and play the puzzle
none this is a crime
OFFICES WORKER PASS TIME
Finding love
Looking in restaurants, offices, the gym
Finding one's true love
The changes are slim
But a miracle happened
The path became clear
You never gave up
Now your soulmate is here.
Hear the keyboard’s staccato concerto,
an unacknowledged music whose echo
is known intimately by dull, bored minds.
Offices, which shut out the light with blinds,
hum with rhythm as background to life’s show.
Some are contractors-
Some to supply-
Some are drones in offices-
Some in courts tell lie-
Where can I but sell-
Can anyone tell-
The dreams and thoughts of life-
Can anyone tell me-
How to be the merchant of dreams?
(sami)
Form:
When do we knock off?
Home offices, not for toffs,
I stagger to the desktop,
Yikes, another job!
Guess it won't take me long,
Piss off my phone, should be my song,
We can afford gas for cars vehicular,
But not allowed anywhere particular,
So, we work in the home office,
Jobs designed for masochists!
Tunbridge Wells a town in Kent
Traffics woe on residends '
Takes away is the only logic
Council offices in payment frolic
Causing motorists to vent '
Vacant shops abd stagnant flow
Traffic bottlenecked no go '
Monson to mt pleaasnt back
Green as cabbage, sense a lack
Sad to note that, such is so.'
these unconventional cats who are dicks
forties detectives to you out of comic strips
make others nervous anyway me
go by their last names, like Marlo or Spade
interrogate usual suspects under spotlights
look to save a damsel or two
offices are dirty
in a sordid side of town
I run from these dicks
My brother slain
Lover crushed by train
No freedom colleagues in chain
poverty politics no gain
Floods lose of property heavy rain
Country men mistreated in country foreign
Continued fight for justice lot pain
A lot of corruption yet no strain
People in offices no train
Oh Lord this is like a bullet to the brain
I can’t be
sharing
my body
with you
who’s now a shallow pool
though the room is offices
I can hear them panting now
his saliva wet every bedsheet
he’s your boss
your CEO
I’m quite
resistant
to reform
proposals
Hip hip hooray, I accidentally found a post office
That is still open. Anyway, I saw a person go in
Without throwing a brick.
Most post offices have closed around us.
I would have run back to my house for my letter
Except is would have been a thirty-two mile hike.
I do not even want to walk that letter
to my mail box and put the flag up.
A nurse saunters by
wearing all black
even black nursing shoes
I never saw that before
The ones with super hero scrubs work with children.
But which patients does she work with?
Do they think of her as a real nurse not wearing white?
Questions to ponder as I see masked bandits
enter in and out of doctor’s offices, sharing this germy common room.
Caterpillars are transforming
to butterflies
Dead thousand-year trees
are now infested by mushrooms
Analogue televisions are being
replaced by digital television
Radios and CD Players are being guided
to the technological graves by ipods
Post-offices are being wiped out
by emails and facebook
I am almost reaching thirty
tears of age!
It seems that everything
is aging
Sitting here in an adult diaper,
‘cancer free’ I’m told. Thumbing through
a booklet of kegel exercises
for men, this.
After nine long years, in and out of
specialist offices, batting around my prostate
like a handball.
I knew it would come to this from the get-go,
but foolishly fooled myself into believing otherwise,
cause.
Even when I win I lose,
that’s just
the way it is.......
A crotch-heavy man called, "The Goat"
Ostentatiously loved to gloat
Until Donald Trump
Groped more than his rump
Thus clinching the Red Dawn Key vote!
*Readers should keep in mind Trump's greatest
success has been focusing the world's attention
on a Vanity Wall, whilst "All the President's Men"
enter vacant federal building and offices to
plant/alter/remove "evidence" and documentation!
He sings so sweetly, my puppies perk
Up their ears. They love my grandkid
As much as I do. Larry opened the door
And Tyler ran in. He asked me why my
Treadmill was dusty. I said it's nice
Outside, so I prefer to walk. Then he
Asked for a Coke. I said it's in the
Fridge. His daddy got him a blue cup.
Gary's explaining the new stuff on a
Computer Diedra gave me. Michelle's
Offices are like mine. She's like me.
Normally, the three offices of prophet, priest, and king were distinct from each other, with no overlap. That is, a king was not a priest or a prophet. A priest did not function as a prophet or a king. And a prophet simply did a prophet’s job without trying to be a either king or a priest. But Jesus Christ perfectly fills all three roles simultaneously: He is the Prophet, Priest, and King, to the great blessing of the world.
Beware serious, uptight, overly stressed people.
I lurk in the classrooms, school hall, libraries, Wall Street,
business offices.
Yes even in the churches. My influence will spread.
There will not be a single person who can escape my presence.
I have existed before the dawn of time and will remain when
you are just dust here on Earth.
But, when you arrive in the afterlife I will still find you.
Who am I? I am Laughter.
At
gray fabric offices,
cubicles divide us—
turn us into
refuges
with mock privacy,
as overheard conversations
drip from lips
endlessly smacking.
Sometimes
it seems insanity
squared—
nothingness
randomly speaking
in tongues
to cubicles
with no one there.
We
thumb tack
individuality
loosely
to coarse fabrics—
arms stretched out
from wall to wall,
as mouths open
to mirrored
silences
we never
scream.
If those buried beneath us
could rise today,
would they run to any patch of sunlight,
make snow angels, heap-up snowmen,
stick blackened bones into white bodies?
Would they fashion a bright face
from tooth stumps and icy eye-sockets?
Sadly I imagine that some,
(the frost-jelled and un-melting),
might return to crumbling factories
or defunct offices,
their briefcases or tool boxes
stuffed with snow
to labor over epitaphs.
In the memorizing firelight flicker
comes rebirth
as the valley of Crocus flowers
becomes a corporate castle of skyscrapers
the taller the better
The middle of Croydon
once of offices
has seen it possibilities light up
like a condensed can of milk
The ill afforded indigenous
are shied away from rent
replaced by a smart set of commuters
with a whiff of disdain
for the ailing amenities of Croydon
The guilt of the urban class
Fall snow fall,
Over the moaning Paris’ ground,
Let your descending snowflakes a
Healing blanket for the city
To weave
And
Charlie’s slaughtered cartoonists
To enshroud!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
09 JANUARY 2015
PARIS (Reuters) - Twelve people including two police officers were killed in a shooting at the Paris offices of the satirical weekly Charlie Hebdo on Wednesday, a police spokesman said in an update on the death toll.
Is man a fool?
Fool for who?
Who is he?
He is nothing
Nothing at all
All his life
Life is a struggle
Struggle for something
Something to eat
Eat for what?
What his body needs
Needs he never meets
Meets nothing but troubles
Trouble everywhere
Everywhere he goes
Goes to work
Work for people
People in the offices
Offices they built
Built from his sweat
Sweat from the inside
Inside gets sick
Sick, until he is dying
Dying, dying and dying.