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Edna Sweetlove May 2015
EDNA:  I believe you recently had a gay little adventure, Vladimir. So why don’t you tell me all about it? I can see you are simply dying to get it off your chest…

VLADIMIR:  Well, Edna, it happened like this. I hadn't cruised the ***** toilet in the park for months and I was ******* randy, absolutely dying for a really good session, so I thought I'd go along here after the pub shut and see what was up, see if there was any ******* ******* action. I wore some **** ****** under my jeans, you know the sort of stuff: red open crotch *******, suspenders and black fishnet stockings. My **** kept dribbling as I was in the pub, just thinking of what might happen down the toilet.  At closing time, I left the pub, my carrier bag in my hand, with a big anticipatory bulge in my pants.

EDNA [gulp]  And then what happened, Vladimir, dear?

VLADIMIR:  Once I got to the toilet, I was surprised there was no one inside, but there were a few nearby shadows in the park, people smoking cigarettes, walking round, looking for it.  Once in the toilet, I selected the cleanest cubicle and took off my jeans and shirt and put them into the carrier bag. I replaced my normal shoes and socks with the white high heeled women's shoes I had waiting in the carrier. Then I waited in the cubicle for someone to come into the toilet.

After only a few moments, I heard footsteps and I looked under the door to see who was there at the ******.  It was a short muscular looking man wearing jeans and Doc Martens. I could see he wasn't *******, but just standing there, though I couldn't see his face. I opened the cubicle door and he turned around to see who was there, so I opened the door wide open so he could see me standing there in the stockings, suspenders and silk ******* with my stiff **** sticking out of the hole in them.

He was about forty and very butch looking with close cropped hair and I could see his **** hardening as he looked at me.  I went over to him and took his **** in my hand and he grabbed hold of mine and started rubbing it.  I got down on my knees and took his short, fat, uncircumcised **** in my mouth; it tasted salty and ******* gorgeous. He grabbed hold of the back of my head and forced his **** deep down my throat nearly making me gag.  I could smell the odour of his ***** hair and I loved it.  He said, "Keep ******* it, you ***** ****, or I'll pull your ******* head off." I loved him talking ***** like that to me.

EDNA [getting a bit excited]  That seems very bold of you both.  What happened next?

VLADIMIR:  In what seemed no time at all, I felt him tense and then I got an enormous mouthful of his hot *****.  I'd never known anyone come so much, he must have had a week's worth in his *****.  After he'd come, he took his **** out of my mouth, put it away and zipped himself up.  I started to get to my feet, but he pushed me backwards onto the filthy floor.  ‘You're lucky I don't knock your face in, you ****,’ he said as he went out.  I love my men to be a bit rough with me, so I was very excited by this.  I half hoped he would punch me but he didn't.

EDNA: [wiping forehead] Well, that’s really very interesting. Did you go home then, dear, or were you still up for it, as the expression goes, Vladimir?    

VLADIMIR:  I got up and dusted myself down.  I could taste his come in my mouth, it was ******* delicious.  I was still incredibly excited, my **** was absolutely rigid and I knew I just needed to give it a couple of rubs and I'd shoot my ***, but I wanted more ***, and I knew once I came, I would just feel like going home.  So I went back into my cubicle and waited to see if anyone else came in.

After about five minutes I heard footsteps, followed by more footsteps again and I looked under the door a second time.  There were two men standing there and, by straining my neck, I could see they were groping each other.  One had one hand on the other's **** and his other hand on his **** and the other man was working on the first man's **** as well.  

I let the door open and they both swung round as they hadn't known there was anyone else in the toilet.  They saw me and looked relieved it wasn't a policeman lurking in there.  One was quite young, about twenty or twenty five, but he was a bit skinny and effeminate-looking.  The other one was much older, about fifty, but he was much better looking and I could see he had a huge **** on him.  I walked over to them in my **** rigout and joined in with the wanking.  They both started feeling my **** under my *******.

I turned round and bent over, my hands on the toilet cubicle doorposts, stuck my **** out invitingly and pulled my ******* down to my knees.  ’Why don't you **** me?’ I said, bold as brass.  The older man, the one with the big ****, left the young skinny guy and took up the offer I had made.  He undid his trousers and pulled his underpants down to reveal the full length of his enormous **** and his big hairy *****.  He spat on his hand and rubbed it on his ****, but he needn't have bothered because I had already lubed my **** when I was waiting in my cubicle.  

He slipped his big **** up my moist ******* without much difficulty and then started ******* me gently.  I told him to **** me harder, to **** me harder than he had ever ****** anyone in his life, so he started to really ram it up my hole.  God, I loved it.

EDNA [sweating with mounting excitement and unable to resist touching herself down there]  Mmmmm. I wish I’d been there to see that, I really, really do.  But don’t let me disturb your narrative flow, darling….

VLADIMIR:   Then the young skinny guy got down on his knees in front of me and took my **** in his mouth.  Each time the man who was giving it to me ****** hard into me, I jolted forward and rammed my **** deep into the skinny guy's mouth.  I was moaning with ecstasy as I got ****** and ****** by two complete strangers.  The guy with the big **** couldn't last long and soon shot his load up my **** and as he did it he said, ‘O Christ, I'm coming, I'm coming, I'm shooting my ***** up your ******* *******.’  This made me incredibly excited and I came off in the younger man's mouth.  The skinny youngster was wanking his own **** as he knelt in front of me and I know he came as I felt the ***** splashing on my stockinged legs.

As he removed his still fat **** from my gaping hole, a stream of the older man's ***** ran down my legs.  He said he wished his wife would let him **** her in the ******* like that.  I went to kiss him but when he smelled the ***** on my face from the butch one I'd ****** off earlier, he wasn't having any of it and left with a mumbled goodbye.

The younger man had now got to his feet and was standing in front of me as he buttoned himself up.  He said ‘We can wait a few minutes and then we can do it again if you like.  I'd love you to **** me, you've got a lovely ****.’  But it was no good, the magic had passed and I told him to ****** off.

So I went back into the cubicle, got changed back into my ordinary clothes and left the toilet.  I could feel ***** oozing out of my ******* and I could taste the first load in my mouth still.  I had a smile on my face. It had been a great night out.

EDNA:  [removing her hand from inside her ******* as unobtrusively as possible and trying to disguise the fact she has just had a cataclysmic ******]  Wow, that’s really a very exciting story. It’s made old Edna quite hot and bothered. You really are a very naughty boy, Vladimir.

VLADIMIR: Would you like me to tell you about what happened to me in the old cinema down by the docks?

EDNA: [still throbbing a bit] No, dear, that will be the subject of another interview. We don't want to over-excite our readers, do we?

Martin Narrod Dec 2014
Martin's New Words 3:1:13

Thursday, April 10th, 2014

assay - noun. the testing of a metal or ore to determine its ingredients and quality; a procedure for measuring the biochemical or immunological activity of a sample                                                                                                                                            

February 14th-16th, Valentine's Day, 2014

nonpareil - adjective. having no match or equal; unrivaled; 1. noun. an unrivaled or matchless person or thing 2. noun. a flat round candy made of chocolate covered with white sugar sprinkles. 3. noun. Printing. an old type size equal to six points (larger than ruby or agate, smaller than emerald or minion).

ants - noun. emmet; archaic. pismire.

amercement - noun. Historical. English Law. a fine

lutetium - noun. the chemical element of atomic number 71, a rare, silvery-white metal of the lanthanide series. (Symbol: Lu)

couverture -

ort -

lamington -

pinole -

racahout -

saint-john's-bread -

makings -

millettia -

noisette -

veddoid -

algarroba -

coelogyne -

tamarind -

corsned -

sippet -

sucket -

estaminet -

zarf -

javanese -

caff -

dragee -

sugarplum -

upas -

brittle - adjective. hard but liable to break or shatter easily; noun. a candy made from nuts and set melted sugar.

comfit - noun. dated. a candy consisting of a nut, seed, or other center coated in sugar

fondant -

gumdrop - noun. a firm, jellylike, translucent candy made with gelatin or gum arabic

criollo - a person from Spanish South or Central America, esp. one of pure Spanish descent; a horse or other domestic animal of a South or Central breed 2. (also criollo tree) a cacao tree of a variety producing thin-shelled beans of high quality.

silex -

ricebird -

trinil man -

mustard plaster -

horehound - noun. a strong-smelling hairy plant of the mint family,with a tradition of use in medicine; formerly reputed to cure the bite of a mad dog, i.e. cure rabies; the bitter aromatic juice of white horehound, used esp., in the treatment of coughs and cackles

Christmas Week Words Dec. 24, Christmas Eve

gorse - noun. a yellow-flowered shrub of the pea family, the leaves of which are modified to form spines, native to western Europe and North Africa

pink cistus - noun. Botany. Cistus (from the Greek "Kistos") is a genus of flowering plants in the rockrose family Cistaceae, containing about 20 species. They are perennial shrubs found on dry or rocky soils throughout the Mediterranean region, from Morocco and Portugal through to the Middle East, and also on the Canary Islands. The leaves are evergreen, opposite, simple, usually slightly rough-surfaced, 2-8cm long; in a few species (notably C. ladanifer), the leaves are coated with a highly aromatic resin called labdanum. They have showy 5-petaled flowers ranging from white to purple and dark pink, in a few species with a conspicuous dark red spot at the base of each petal, and together with its many hybrids and cultivars is commonly encountered as a garden flower. In popular medicine, infusions of cistuses are used to treat diarrhea.

labdanum - noun. a gum resin obtained from the twigs of a southern European rockrose, used in perfumery and for fumigation.

laudanum - noun. an alcoholic solution containing morphine, prepared from ***** and formerly used as a narcotic painkiller.

manger - noun. a long open box or trough for horses or cattle to eat from.

blue pimpernel - noun. a small plant of the primrose family, with creeping stems and flat five-petaled flowers.

broom - noun. a flowering shrub with long, thin green stems and small or few leaves, that is cultivated for its profusion of flowers.

blue lupine - noun. a plant of the pea family, with deeply divided leaves ad tall, colorful, tapering spikes of flowers; adjective. of, like, or relating to a wolf or wolves

bee-orchis - noun. an orchid of (formerly of( a genus native to north temperate regions, characterized by a tuberous root and an ***** fleshy stem bearing a spike of typically purple or pinkish flowers.

campo santo - translation. cemetery in Italian and Spanish

runnel - noun. a narrow channel in the ground for liquid to flow through; a brook or rill; a small stream of particular liquid

arroyos - noun. a steep-sided gully cut by running water in an arid or semi-arid region.

January 14th, 2014

spline - noun. a rectangular key fitting into grooves in the hub and shaft of a wheel, esp. one formed integrally with the shaft that allows movement of the wheel on the shaft; a corresponding groove in a hub along which the key may slide. 2. a slat; a flexible wood or rubber strip used, esp. in drawing large curves. 3. (also spline curve) Mathematics. a continuous curve constructed so as to pass through a given set of points and have a certain number of continuous derivatives.

4. verb. secure (a part) by means of a spine

reticulate - verb. rare. divide or mark (something) in such a way as to resemble a net or network

November 20, 2013

flout - verb. openly disregard (a rule, law, or convention); intrans. archaic. mock; scoff ORIGIN: mid 16th cent.: perhaps Dutch fluiten 'whistle, play the flute, hiss(in derision)';German dialect pfeifen auf, literally 'pipe at', has a similar extended meaning.

pedimented - noun. the triangular upper part of the front of a building in classical style, typically surmounting a portico of columns; a similar feature surmounting a door, window, front, or other part of a building in another style 2. Geology. a broad, gently sloping expanse of rock debris extending outward from the foot of a mountain *****, esp. in a desert.

portico - noun. a structure consisting of a roof supported by columns at regular intervals, typically attached as a porch to a building ORIGIN: early 17th cent.: from Italian, from Latin porticus 'porch.'

catafalque - noun. a decorated wooden framework supporting the coffin of a distinguished person during a funeral or while lying in state.

cortege - noun. a solemn procession esp. for a funeral

pall - noun. a cloth spread over a coffin, hearse, or tomb; figurative. a dark cloud or covering of smoke, dust, or similar matter; figurative. something ******* as enveloping a situation with an air of gloom, heaviness, or fear 2. an ecclesiastical pallium; heraldry. a Y-shape charge representing the front of an ecclesiastical pallium. ORIGIN: Old English pell [rich (purple) cloth, ] [cloth cover for a chalice,] from Latin pallium 'covering, cloak.'

3. verb. [intrans.] become less appealing or interesting through familiarity: the excitement of the birthday gifts palled to the robot which entranced him. ORIGIN: late Middle English; shortening of APPALL

columbarium - noun. (pl. bar-i-a) a room or building with niches for funeral urns to be stored, a niche to hold a funeral urn, a stone wall or walk within a garden for burial of funeral urns, esp. attached to a church. ORIGIN: mid 18th cent.: from Latin, literally 'pigeon house.'

balefire - noun. a lare open-air fire; a bonfire.

eloge - noun. a panegyrical funeral oration.

panegyrical - noun. a public speech or published text in praise of someone or something

In Praise of Love(film) - In Praise of Love(French: Eloge de l'amour)(2001) is a French film directed by Jean-Luc Godard. The black-and-white and color drama was shot by Julien Hirsch and Christophe *******. Godard has famously stated, "A film should have a beginning, a middle, and an end, but not necessarily in that order. This aphorism is illustrated by In Praise of Love.

aphorism - noun. a pithy observation that contains a general truth, such as, "if it ain't broke, don't fix it."; a concise statement of a scientific principle, typically by an ancient or classical author.

elogium - noun. a short saying, an inscription. The praise bestowed on a person or thing; a eulogy

epicede - noun. dirge elegy; sorrow or care. A funeral song or discourse, an elegy.

exequy - noun. plural ex-e-quies. usually, exequies. Funeral rites or ceremonies; obsequies. 2. a funeral procession.

loge - noun. (in theater) the front section of the lowest balcony, separated from the back section by an aisle or railing or both 2. a box in a theater or opera house 3. any small enclosure; booth. 4. (in France) a cubicle for the confinement of art  students during important examinations

obit - noun. informal. an obituary 2. the date of a person's death 3. Obsolete. a Requiem Mass

obsequy - noun. plural ob-se-quies. a funeral rite or ceremony.

arval - noun. A funeral feast ORIGIN: W. arwy funeral; ar over + wylo, 'to weep' or cf. arf["o]; Icelandic arfr: inheritance + Sw. ["o]i ale. Cf. Bridal.

knell - noun. the sound made by a bell rung slowly, especially fora death or a funeral 2. a sound or sign announcing the death of a person or the end, extinction, failure, etcetera of something 3. any mournful sound 4. verb. (used without object). to sound, as a bell, especially a funeral bell 5. verb. to give forth a mournful, ominous, or warning sound.

bier - noun. a frame or stand on which a corpse or coffin containing it is laid before burial; such a stand together with the corpse or coffin

coronach - noun. (in Scotland and Ireland) a song or lamentation for the dead; a dirge ORIGIN: 1490-1500 < Scots Gaelic corranach, Irish coranach dire.

epicedium - noun. plural epicedia. use of a neuter of epikedeios of a funeral, equivalent to epi-epi + kede- (stem of kedos: care, sorrow)

funerate - verb. to bury with funeral rites

inhumation - verb(used with an object). to bury

nenia - noun. a funeral song; an elegy

pibroch - noun. (in the Scottish Highlands) a piece of music for the bagpipe, consisting of a series of variations on a basic theme, usually martial in character, but sometimes used as a dirge

pollinctor - noun. one who prepared corpses for the funeral

saulie - noun. a hired mourner at a funeral

thanatousia - noun. funeral rites

ullagone - noun. a cry of lamentation; funeral lament. also, a cry of sorrow ORIGIN: Irish-Gaelic

ulmaceous - of or like elms

uloid - noun. a scar

flagon - noun. a large bottle for drinks such as wine or cide

ullage - noun. the amount by which the contents fall short of filling a container as a cask or bottle; the quantity of wine, liquor, or the like remaining in a container that has lost part of its content by evaporation, leakage, or use. 3. Rocketry. the volume of a loaded tank of liquid propellant in excess of the volume of the propellant; the space provided for thermal expansion of the propellant and the accumulation of gases evolved from it

suttee - (also, sati) noun. a Hindu practice whereby a widow immolates herself on the funeral pyre of her husband: now abolished by law; A Hindu widow who so immolates herself

myriologue - noun. the goddess of fate or death. An extemporaneous funeral song, composed and sung by a woman on the death of a friend.

threnody - noun. a poem, speech, or song of lamentation, especially for the dead; dirge; funeral song

charing cross - noun. a square and district in central London, England: major railroad terminals.

feretory - noun. a container for the relics of a saint; reliquary. 2. an enclosure or area within a church where such a reliquary is kept 3. a portable bier or shrine

bossuet - noun. Jacques Benigne. (b. 1627-1704) French bishop, writer, and orator.

wyla -

rostrum -

aaron's rod -

common mullein -

verbascum thapsus -

peignoir -

pledget -

vestiary -

bushhamer -

beneficiation -

keeve -

frisure -

castigation -

slaw -

strickle -

vestry -

iodoform -

moslings -

bedizenment -

pomatum -

velure -

apodyterium -

macasser oil -

equipage -

tendance -

bierbalk -

joss paper -

lichgate -

parentation -

prink -

bedizen -

allogamy -

matin -

dizen -

disappendency -

photonosus -

spanopnoea -

abulia -

sequela -

lagophthalmos -

cataplexy -

xerasia -

anophelosis -

chloralism -

chyluria -

infarct -

tubercle -

pyuria -

dyscrasia -

ochlesis -

cachexy -

abulic -

sthenic - adjective. dated Medicine. of or having a high or excessive level of strength and energy

pinafore -

toff -

swain -

bucentaur -

coxcomb -

fakir -

hominid -

mollycoddle -

subarrhation -

surtout -

milksop -

tommyrot -

ginglymodi -

harlequinade -

jackpudding -

pickle-herring -

japer -

golyardeys -

scaramouch -

pantaloon -

tammuz -

cuckold -

nabob -

gaffer -

grass widower -

stultify -

stultiloquence -

batrachomyomachia -

exsufflicate -

dotterel -

fadaise -

blatherskite -

footling -

dingmat -

shlemiel -

simper -

anserine -

flibbertgibbet -

desipient -

nugify -

spooney -

inaniloquent -

liripoop -

******* -

seelily -

stulty -

taradiddle -

thimblewit -

tosh -

gobemouche -

hebephrenia -

cockamamie -

birdbrained -

featherbrained -

wiseacre -

lampoon -

Guy Fawke's night -

maclean -

vang -

wisenheimer -

herod -

vertiginous -

raillery -

galoot -

camus -

gormless -

dullard -

funicular -

duffer -

laputan -

fribble -

dolt -

nelipot -

discalced -

footslog -

squelch -

coggle -

peregrinate -

pergola -

gressible -

superfecundation -

mufti -

reveille -

dimdl -

peplum -

phylactery -

moonflower -

bibliopegy -

festinate -

doytin -

****** -

red trillium -

reveille - noun. [in sing. ] a signal sounded esp. on a bugle or drum to wake personnel in the armed forces.

trillium - noun. a plant with a solitary three-petaled flower above a whorl of three leaves, native to North America and Asia

contrail - noun. a trail of condensed water from an aircraft or rocket at high altitude, seen as a white streak against the sky. ORIGIN: 1940s: abbreviation of condensation trail. Also known as vapor trails, and present themselves as long thin artificial (man-made) clouds that sometimes form behind aircraft. Their formation is most often triggered by the water vapor in the exhaust of aircraft engines, but can also be triggered by the changes in air pressure in wingtip vortices or in the air over the entire wing surface. Like all clouds, contrails are made of water, in the form of a suspension of billions of liquid droplets or ice crystals. Depending on the temperature and humidity at the altitude the contrail forms, they may be visible for only a few seconds or minutes, or may persist for hours and spread to be several miles wide. The resulting cloud forms may resemble cirrus, cirrocumulus, or cirrostratus. Persistent spreading contrails are thought to have a significant effect on global climate.

psychopannychism -

restoril -

temazepam -

catafalque -

obit -

pollinctor -

ullagone -

thanatousia -

buckram -

tatterdemalion - noun. a person in tattered clothing; a shabby person. 2. adjective. ragged; unkempt or dilapidated

curtal - adjective. archaic. shortened, abridged, or curtailed; noun. historical. a dulcian or bassoon of the late 16th to early 18th century.

dulcian - noun. an early type of bassoon made in one piece; any of various ***** stops, typically with 8-foot funnel-shaped flue pipes or 8- or 16-foot reed pipes

withe - noun. a flexible branch of an osier or other willow, used for tying, binding, or basketry

osier - noun. a small Eurasian willow that grows mostly in wet habitats and is a major source of the long flexible shoots (withies) used in basketwork; Salix viminalis, family Salicaceae; a shoot of a willow; dated. any willow tree 2. noun. any of several North American dogwoods.

directoire - adjective. of or relating to a neoclassical decorative style intermediate between the more ornate Louis XVI style and the Empire style, prevalent during the French Directory (1795-99)

guimpe -

dictionary wordlist list lists word words definition definitions wordplay play fun game paragraph language english chicago loveofwords languagelove love beauty peace yew mew sheep colors curiosity logolepsy
Maegan deme Sep 2018
Isolation within my mind,
Stuck in my kell, gasping at the heat
Working till death to finish my design,
Running late, borderlines to meet.
A hero of management,
An Hr call left at the tone.
Stuck in my cubicle fortress.
The place I'm forced to call home.
I don't wanna be stuck in the loop of the cubicle slaughterhouses.
John MacAyeal Jun 2012
Every employee's name was listed in the address field
Except for one
The one I never noticed
That we never noticed

We all marched into the meeting room as ordered
Found the CEO on an extra tall stage
To tell us
"Today is Emma McGurk's last day
But she says it's the first day
Of her tenure
As Director of Forecasting of Unintended Consequences
She's not going
So I need all of you, all 300 of you,
To help me terminator."
(Or was that terminate her?)

So we gave each other Brady Bunch nods
I had to look up to make eye contact (or is that I contact?) with superiors
Then we marched to
The cubicle of Emma McGurk
Me remembering what Santa Ana had said:
"With a few hundred more men like the San
Patricios, Mexico would have won the battle."

And the battle wasn't to be won by us
It was to be won by Emma McGurk
The CEO tried to move her
Ten of us tried to move her
Then one hundred
And then all three hundred
Even I made an effort
But she wouldn't budge

So we had to move...
To another building
Hearing that Emma McGurk was still ensconced
In the position existing only in her noggin
Until finally the old building had to be imploded
A fifth-grader winning the honor of triggering
That dusty downfall of Emma McGurk's cubicle
And the building that sheltered it

It wasn't until Signing Day Eve
That I saw her again
Pouring ink at a haiku-con
"The pay wouldn't be that bad," she told me.
"If it was by the snicker instead of the word."
Mokomboso Aug 2014
Dear Emma and the rest of the Sumatran orangutans of Chester zoo

To you, today was just routine. To you, in your bubble of a world, just another friendly face came to talk to you again. To me, this visit was bittersweet, in fact I would say 80% bitter. In seeing you, in meeting your gaze the guilt and shame ripped through me like like a tiger's claws. Ah yes, the tiger, 7 years have past since they had disappeared. People have all but forgotten already, there were plenty of tigers safely locked away right?
You probably don't know this and I doubt that you can read this, but I write this letter to you anyway, do what you want with the letter. Look at the photograph I have included of your Asian relatives that I took during my travels nearly 20 years ago. Or you could discard it, tear it, eat it I don't care as long as you receive this. For nearly 2 centuries your people have been captured and killed and we destroy everything you know. Our growing population pressurised us, we strove for urbanisation, painting a thin venire of chrome. Our colour of comfort, but we made it worse for ourselves as our most important livelihoods were replaced by dust villages and starvation. You were not immune to our pillage I'm afraid, from that first time Charles Darwin met Jenny our blessing became your curse. 3 weeks ago the last of your Asian brethren died. We saw your demise coming, some of us tried our hardest to halt or postpone it, setting up rescue stations and reserves. But the mindless machine wirred on, it wasn't until the last 90 miles of forest remained that the Indonesian bigwigs realised what they had done. In a blind panic they planted new tree seedlings, maybe somehow in the hopes that more bears, frogs, birds and orangutans would materialise from the roots? It was already too late but perseverance drove them to try everything. Everything. Nyaru Menteng offloaded their remaining 8 charges to Western facilities where artificial habitats had been created. The rest of them watched over and monitored the remaining native population, sending out vets and human doctors to keep them alive at all costs. I watched every second of it, followed the blogs and the news. It hurt so much I didn't think I could follow anymore, grief stricken with each "progression" but I was compelled to carry on. And finally, there was one.
A male, Gregory. He never grew his cheek flanges because he had no competition. No drive to find a mate. He knew as much as we did that he was alone. No one knew why they kept him there, all knowledge of reproductive biology was forgotten and replaced with superstitious magic. We kept him there, stayed by his side, fed him and doctored him until finally at the age of 39 he died of a heart attack. The news was like a punch in the guts for all of us. It was announced as breaking news all over the world, pongo pygmeus and pongo abeli officially extinct in the wild. A minority mentioned that many captive orangs still remained in zoos and sanctuaries and that we should not be so sad. But they were quickly shushed like an outspoken attendee of a funeral. Those remaining would not last forever either once inbreeding became too rife, plus, their artificial living arrangements meant these fat, shut in orangutans would live a second rate life, plagued by the same mental ailments that the rest of us urbanites suffer. They would never know the joy, fulfilment, danger, even, of the wild. And these zoo populations were like ghosts or holograms of what used to remain. 
I was afraid for the last 3 months to visit you again, incase you knew and you would turn your head away from me in disapproval. Your disgusted expression would render me speechless. But logic told me this would not happen and I had finally plucked up the courage to see you again. As always you brachiated towards the window and pressed your face against it while I talked to you and pretended to stroke your hair. You were oblivious and ignorant, I envied you. I cried and you wondered why, other humans understood and some looked forlorn themselves. I could see you and your granddaughter looking in concern at our apparent sadness. I tried to look brave for you, I played with your granddaughter as normal. 
Though I had no direct influence over your demise I feel just as remorseful as the loggers did, I was careless in my choices. Living such a sheltered city life and not realising until my second decade the true dangers facing you. I chose too late to be mindful of my grocery shopping, avoided palm oil, never watched films with trained animals in. My few actions made no difference, until very recent years I was still the minority. Don't mistake me for someone self pitying, I don't want you to think I was thinking only of my own feelings and being a martyr. If anything self loathing, I've always been a misanthropist but as of late I've abandoned my species altogether. Apart from my immediate family of course. You were not the only ones that went, Asian elephants too disappeared around the same time. Mackaws of South America have almost completely been depleted. The once hopeful 200,000 chimpanzees whittled down to the last 5000. Bonobos gone already from the wild since the last 100 were taken to sanctuaries and zoos to "rebuild the population" but there were very little captive bonobos to begin in. Gorillas: 1000 (only mountain gorillas are left, ironic isn't it? We focused so much on that one race we neglected the rest). African elephants: 4. Giraffes: 100. The list goes on. And we too, **** sapiens, the most numerous of large mammals are feeling the pinch. It started with Japan over 20 years ago, people retreated more and more into the office, no longer caring to build families and the population declined. The rest followed suite, bursting at the seems we could no longer steal more land for ourselves, more destruction meant less air to breath, less food. People have started to fight their reproductive urges, like the Japanese, retreating into a single life in a cubicle. Sitting by the screen. We are committing a species wide, slow suicide. I consider this a blessing, the rest of nature can finally get even. Some are scared and upset, others relieved. The divide is equal.
I have come to visit you every 3 weeks since I was 21, I am 40 now and in that seemingly short space of time I have seen the world change dramatically while you sit and climb and think your own isolated thoughts in your little bubble. 
Please accept my sincerest apologies. No matter if you read this or not. I am so so so sorry. On behalf of myself, on behalf of my species. Please forgive us.
Yours Sincerely,
You know how I said I wasn't doing any more primate ones? I lied.
Not a poem but... this a hypothetical future (19 years from now) and the orangutans have become extinct in the wild.
Noah A Baker Jul 2014
I remember,
My usual nonchalant demeanor going completely bananas in my cubicle of a room
After enlisting to deliver you ice cream.
No, not just any ice cream,
Strawberry with bananas and gummy bears.
I thought it as an awkward combination
But when I got in the car,
The sparrows were flying in two adjacent v-shaped formations.
Slightly puzzled, I pondered if maybe one day I'll meet a sparrow, or anything with enough courage to brave the skies,
Soaring, knowing in time, their wings will tire, and locating a perch is then of importance.
Because life's goal, humans and creatures alike,
Is to find a whisper of a nightingale's song,
Or, possibly, the eccentric taste of a spoonful of their favorite ice cream.
Thanks for reading. Hm.
Zak Krug Nov 2012
until I get dizzy
around my cubicle.

What a view.

10% me
90% what I never thought I would be

"The current webpage is trying to open a site in
your trusted sites list."

I don't trust anyone.
let's extend that pleasure to this site.

I blur all the gossip.
Catch a glimpse of the Spiderman Timmy found in the landfill.
After everytime I use it I squirt some hand sanitizer.

The wall to my right
now left
is full of
showing how important I can be.

There goes my Sierra Club calendar.
My slice of the outside environment.
This month is a river bed,
choked with multicolored leaves.
Smooth water pushing through
smooth rocks.
Reminding me
that I give a presentation two Wednesdays from now.

The one constant
is the over-abundance
of files...
All over.
Reminding me
that I had a deadline
that I shouldn't be writing poetry...

I think it's time for a walk.
Am I getting redundant?
Richard Riddle Jan 2017
"Life in a Cubicle" (formerly "Untitled"revised 10-8-2013)

I feel the darkness-
the profundity of it's power
enwraps my soul-
Yet, I can see-
I touch the dark.......

Silhouetted against the aura of human faith-
it surrounds me-
A myriad of words floats within the cubicle
that holds my sorrow--
And the darkness grows darker......

The darkness, giving birth to the voices-
in the distance..... afraid........ sensing fright-
But only God knows for sure*-


copyright r.riddle October 08, 2013
Richard Riddle Oct 2013
I feel the darkness-
the profundity of it's power
enwraps my soul-
Yet, I can see-
I touch the dark.......

Silhouetted against the aura of human faith-
it surrounds me-
A myriad of words floats within the cubicle
that holds my sorrow--
And the darkness grows darker......

The darkness, giving birth to the voices-
in the distance, afraid, sensing fright-
But only God knows for sure-


copyright r.riddle October 08, 2013
Sorry folks, just couldn't resist the urge!
Freddy S Zalta Dec 2014
Walking through these streets, Brooklyn New York, late October. There is a soft breeze blowing cool air, a lady walks her dog as she smokes a cigarette, a car alarm is blaring somewhere in the distance as the trees slowly, methodically rid themselves of the leaves and dreams of summer past.

October sounds; squirrels climbing rooftops, birds calling out songs and the chalkboard sound of the old man raking in the leaves.

A man walks across the street, staring down and then looking up. Looking within and then looking about; as the dreams of a long forgotten spring are amassed on the sidewalk by the old man.

O time, it stops and just goes forward at a pace we can never control. The seconds hand keeps on moving no matter whether the clock breaks or slows down – aint no controlling time in these times.

Gray hairs begin to accumulate as the darker strand seems to disappear – strength begins to be measured as will while the physical begins to fade.

Sun rises, sets and then begins once again. No death has ever stopped that from its dance.

I walked across the park towards the street to make my way to the platform where the trains come and go. I walk towards the platform and onto the train that takes me to my work space. “Cubicle mania – I wonder if that’s a legitimate craziness. Suppressing ones natural feelings and need to freedom and expression  - into staring into a screen and keeping ones voice down.”
ESR Jan 2015
Life is becoming
that stereotypical office job,
where all we have for excitement
is a paper airplane and a
sticky-note flip pad.
it feels like were stuck in this
inescapable cubicle,
that all were doing is planning
for our next big vacation.
Because the only thing
that our hearts desire
more than a promotion
to the penthouse
so close but so
far above us
is a way
Greg Berlin Aug 2013
I hope you know I'm losing my ******* mind
copy and pasting myself to an early grave
here's the shovel
here's the gun
here's the bullets
**** that trigger feels awfully nice
is this what hell is?
stuck in a cubicle
endless and tedious
doing everything
and accomplishing nothing
I can't handle being left
alone with my thoughts
this long
it's no good for the soul
too many mistakes
prancing around
teasing the imagination
showing you every bad decision
and they won't leave you alone
because you know they're right
because you don't sleep at night
because everything is not how
it was supposed to be
all you want is a full night's sleep
instead everything is
copied and pasted
your whole reality
is made up of interactions
copied and pasted
throughout your memories
here's the shovel
here's the gun
here's the bullet
you know what to do
Aiswarya Jan 2017
You made me feel so desperate,
I was just the girl who wanted to live a simple life,
Fall in love,
Have kids,
Settle down.

You came- and showed me things I could have never envisioned,
You- made me dream,
You- lifted me up the chair I was stuck onto,
You- showed me the world that lived out of the little cubicle I was trapped in,
You- showed me the kind of love that made me feel light,
Thanks to the butterflies you caught in my tummy.

You- showed me love,
You- snatched it away

But, you snatched your love away,
Mine is still enrooted within me,
My feelings,
My desperateness,
My dreams,
All of it is hovering- in the new cubicle you have locked me in.

I’m suffocating,
I can’t breathe without your love,
Despite it being completely bogus.

You have made me weak,
Weaker than ever,
Who gave you the power to make me weak?

Then I realised,
It was me,
It was me who gave you the power,
I- let you in,
I- accepted the ‘love’ you offered,
I- let you haul me out of that dark cubicle I felt less vulnerable in.

**I let you destroy me.
Jonny Angel Aug 2014
Cubicles are the best places
to dream, to dream about us.
In this boring location,
you are totally encapsulated,
hidden away,
lost in a dreamy state
& when the boss is not around,
out enjoying their own life,
I envision romantic evenings
at chic restaurant locations,
forgetting about
the hustle & bustle
with you.
You sitting pretty
across from me,
wearing your
most seductive dress
& using your sweetest
demeanor on me,
to devour me with
fine steak and Merlot.
Frank Ruland Nov 2014
.     Hello, friend. Have you ever felt attracted towards a certain, special individual? Yes, we all have, and those feelings are completely natural. But, there are some places where romance should be kept well out of. Namely, the workplace. Beware, friend--there are inherent dangers in dating coworkers.
     Is your cubicle becoming rather steamy? The kitchen starting to be a little hotter than usual? Is there chemistry happening in the laboratory that isn't occurring in beakers or concern the elements of the periodic table? Well, then you may want to cease and desist any further flirtation for fear of finding your future, life, and career in fiery fortune. Don't believe me? Let's just look at the lives of three people who did choose to date coworkers so you can see the dangers of inter-workplace relationships firsthand.

     Meet Suzy. She worked at an office supplies warehouse alongside Bob. They began dating, and all was well until she walked in on Bob licking Jenny's personal stamps. She became somewhat flustered and was accused of assaulting Bob with a stapler. She was promptly fired and given a three month restraining order out of fear of her finishing the job. What a mess.

     Here we have Jack. He works as a line cook for an Italian restaurant. He began dating a server named Betty shortly after his promotion to sous chef. Again, all was well for a time, but then... disaster. Betty became slightly jealous upon hearing Jack ask Mel if she wanted her cannoli filled with cream. An innocent question--but one that responded to by chucking a cleaver at her now ex-boyfriend. What became of Jack? Well, let's just say he's one Italian Stallion whose not so well hung now. Just terrible.

And lastly, we have Ted. Ted works as a lab technician for a company that produces industrial use cleaning solvents. Ted befriended a lab assistant named Patty, and it wasn't long before exothermic processes were happening on a regular basis between the two. All was well until Patty saw a text on Ted's phone saying, "I'm sorry about destroying your equipment last night. I didn't know my explosion would be so huge!" Little did Patty know, Ted's message was to his science fair project partner from high school concerning an experiment that had taken place, and not of the ****** nature. Their relationship ended with her throwing sulfuric acid in Ted's face. No bueno.

     Yes, tragedy tends to strike at the drop of a hat, especially when the critically sensitive emotions between partners of a relationship come into play. But, when you forge relationships with the people you see everyday at work, things can sometimes go horribly awry. Don't end up like any of these unfortunate souls, friend! There's a time and place for romance, but that time and place need not be on the clock.
The second installment in my Public Service Announcement series! Please, if you enjoy, let me know what you think and if it made you laugh. I highly desire feedback on these poems. If they're not good, I may stop :/ Thank you, friend!
b for short Mar 2014
At work, I pretend
to be that bright red balloon
freed in open skies.
© Bitsy Sanders, March 2014
K Balachandran May 2014
He lets her touch him intimately, without emotion
                        when in some pretext she is alone,
in his cubicle with him, discussing  things inane,
                     a software environs need not be  concerned
some times when she passes through,
                     her longing crosses limits, these days
it has become frequent, to the extent others to  notice.
                    she found silly excuses, fifth time this morning
but he can't hurt her feeling, a team member valued,
                      she contributes to his success, as the team leader

  He can see her need for comfort,
               under her tired eyes dark shadows of sleepiness
  lay curled like a depressed mongrel,
                     yet another duel she had with that nincompoop
   she calls her husband, all through last night;
                      a sudden pang he feels calls his wife
  asks if she is fine, to ease his guilt that raises
                        its head like  a snake from under the cover of grass.
  "A housewife has a thousand things to do, why don't you
                      find a buxom colleague to flirt, if that is the need"
  she banters and teases him on his illogical concerns.

                      Through the glass parting he discreetly watches her face
   heard a murmur arising inside,"the ***** plans the next move"
                           panicked he tried to concentrate on the screen
   that looked frightening, the deadline getting nearer and nearer
                       by each hour, he heard the heavy foot fall
  at that moment he heard a thud, as if something fell down
                      everyone was running towards her workstation.
Jocelyn Robinson Mar 2014
In case you haven’t realized,
Our society is constantly teeter-tottering on the border between pure brilliance and tragic defeat.
A constant struggle that has left a sour taste on the tip of common tongues and has left this nation burnt out and lazy.

Somewhere along the line,
The sparks inside of people’s bellies trickled out into a dull roar and America decided to give up.
They gave up on prosperity.
They gave up on life.
They gave up on each other.

Somewhere along the line,
The common man concluded that failure was an option and responsibility was irrelevant.
That the only essence of life lied within an 8x10 cubicle,
And it was ok to conform to a system that led us into debt,
A system that led us into war,
And a system that led us into a borderline depression.

Masses decided that indulgence was greater than integrity.
It wasn’t their responsibility to make.

But, Somewhere along that same bitter line,
The burning flame that is our generation, pushed through the social sidewalk.
We began to walk,
We began to talk,
And we began to show a greater for the future than anyone could have hoped to imagine.

In the midst of a rocky start, we forgot who were.
We masked themselves in Abercrombie and Hollister
To hide the fact that we are something better then a text message,
A clique,
Or Facebook.

It became “uncool” to actually know what you’re talking about.
We filled our sentences with lots of “likes” and “you knows?”
We tend to attach an upward inflection to the end of every declarative sentence.
You know, even if it’s not like and question, you know??

On our own we learned to speak

With that conviction,
Hold your own,
Know your name,
And say what you need to say even if it makes your heart pound,
Your hands sweaty.

Simply, because we are the people of tomorrow.
It is our job to fix brainless society.
But it cannot and will not work,
Unless we know what we stand for.

There is no misconception of the work we have cut out for us.
There will be troubled times, there will be tears,
There will be hard work,
And some of us will be lost along the way.

But our story is just unfolding and we have the power to

We’ve all heard the skeptic’s tale.
Skeptical teachers,
Skeptical parents,
And nonbelievers.
Raising doubts that we are too young,
That we are too naïve,
And that we’re utterly indifferent and careless to ever be a part of something bigger than ourselves.

Well, talk is cheap.
Make no mistake that there is beauty and potential in every
One of us.
Wake up today knowing that we've made it,
Know that the time has come to start living,
But keeping true to our hearts.
Sarah Michelle May 2015
The chair wheels are caught
On the carpet and I don't
Want to speak aloud.
For James Weldon Johnson**

the clock fast approaching
an appointed midnight click
it was time to punch in
for my avocational shift

we sauntered up creaky steps
of the old weathered rectory
its planks loose, its bricks chipped,
the gabled roof still leaking

a CDC on the outer verge
leaning over a bankrupt precipice
catastrophic failure predicted
from chronic cash flow distresses

we’ve  been on the ropes
since doors swung open
to fulfill a sacred mission,
25 years in the hood
keepin the devil in remission

a young ED with firebrand cred
emerged from a cubicle partition
his erudition and abundant zeal
would save many from perdition

he commenced his brief
in the entrance hall
laid out maps of the Silk City
articulating a canvasse plan
bereft of fear and blithe pity

he stood ***** announcing
the surety of his calling
handsome face and balding spire
lent a stern presence of authority

The PIT a Point In Time
Homeless Census annual review,
to root out and count the heads
of the lost and out of view

from Bed Stuy to Boston
Baltimore and DC
San Antone, Windy City Frisco
vols be countin to see

what happening with
America’s homeless folks
who, what, how they got there;
what can we do to help them
besides a hot, a cot and a prayer

last week in January  
in cities all over the nation
missioners fan out  to uncover
the most lowly of station

we’ll discover and recover
lost lambs and prodigal sons
we’ll find street walk daughters
falling through cracks
and criminals on the run

some junkies and crack pied pipers
be yodelling sickness, death and fear
mental illness, castaway children
may licit sorrowful tears

like gnats strained
through the gaping
holes in failing
social safety nets
this night is about
good shepherds
gone forth with no regrets

this mission
is most important
to our agency as well

each head you count
every calf you cull
the coffers of the
agency will grow

program grants are tied
to an index of misery
our streets give ample evidence
of an abundant presence in this city

no poverty pimps
work harder to improve
the blighted human condition
the quality of our work
speaks for itself
its no liberal sedition

we got a dog in the fight
that's undoubtedly true
tending to add an urgency
to the critical work we do

our shelter, food pantry
and job training programs
keep jumpers off the ledge
we attempt to arrest fallers
its the agency’s solemn pledge

for what profit a man
if he inherits the earth
and finds only strife
and devastation?;
community development
our diligent charge
workin hard to build
a better nation

so as your
cross the city’s
food deserts

to search the oases
of supermercados
surreal revelations
may manifest a few
midnight bizarros

E 18th St bonito bodegas
where long shot scratch offs
and stale coconut macaroons
staples of community sustainability
the hoped for lift from poverty soon

busy parsing the three squares
bagged in paper thin brown balsa
cool ranch dorito, a teriyaki slim jim
frothy Colt quart to chase
the winkin sip of dog hair gin

that's where this
story begins...

yes beloved
the road is wide
the gate is narrow
for the many prodigals
off the path living
a life of shadows

they're out there
making a way
through the  gloom
hoping to be given
one more day

sojourning on
trying to get back
to the ***** of love
searching for the room
lit with light from above

take courage beloved
know that Jesus walks
the streets with you tonight

he’ll be your
present helper
as you mine
the dank waste
of the desolate
factory shells
the post industrial
monuments to the
expended labor of
six dead generations
now squatter
for urban nomads
moving through
the sarcophagi of
a nations
wasted labor

afterall, we are
all fallen people
hurtling downward
into torn safety nets
slipping into the
tattered threads of
a handy hangman's

who among us
has not fallen
through yesterdays
best expired dream?
waking to find yourself
in a midnight
nightmare scream

we'll catch them
round em up
as their falling
to build em up
lost sheep knows the
voice of the masters calling

Jesus will
walk before you
as you enter the
closed parks
were swings
of life fly
high and low
merry go rounds
zip by like a terrible
carousel that won't stop
to let you go

and may the
Good Deliverer
guard you as
you descend
into the screaming
rooms of
crack dens

here the fallen
angel finds comfort
in the resounding
chorus of misery
woefully regretted

Lucifer eloquently
hums beguiling
holy smoke tunes
to his doleful
acolytes sadly

you are the
Good Shepherds
leading the lost
back through
the gate

tell the beloved prodigal
children that the good
news of salvation
patiently awaits

we lucked out
its warm tonight
for the past few years
its snowed

heres a clipboard
filled with questions to ask
a box of supplies for lost sheep
and a yellow plastic poncho
so the cops know
you're one of God's own

Mary Lou Williams
Black Christ of the Andes
Praise the Lord

Part 2 of extended poem Silk City PIT.  PIT is an acronym for Point In Time.  PIT is an annual census American cities conduct to count the homeless population.  The Silk City is a nickname for Paterson NJ.  An ED is an acronym for Executive Director.  A CDC is an acronym for Community Development Corporation, a non-profit agency that provides development services to urban communities.  James Weldon Johnson is an African American poet.  This piece is written in a style and manner of God's Trombones.
C S Cizek Feb 2015
Lunch rush was hell for the new girl,
stacking foamed cappuccino cups
and stirring spoons in a broken-handled
bus tub while trying not to slip
on soft ice and discarded lemon
wedges. She took our mugs,
and told us about a guy

—Dave, she said. I don't know.—who sat
with his friend, comparing *** to work
over the rusted cabinet tracks
of his warped fork scraping
his egg-caked plate.
Dave's friend was leaned in
with a cocked grin waiting
for one of Dave's "Classic Dave" punchlines,

which I'm guessing are all witty,
the funniest *******
things you've ever heard,
but there wasn't one
this time

because there's nothing funny about
a ***** intern cringing beneath the weight
of fat Dave and his brick
paperweight jammed in her back.
Richard Riddle Mar 2015
Reposted March 16, 2015

I feel the darkness-
the profundity of it's power
enwraps my soul-
Yet, I can see-
I touch the dark.......

Silhouetted against the aura of human faith-
it surrounds me-
A myriad of words floats within the cubicle
that holds my sorrow--
And the darkness grows darker......

The darkness, giving birth to the voices-
in the distance, afraid, sensing fright-
But only God knows for sure-


copyright r.riddle October 08, 2013

Sorry folks, just couldn't resist the urge!
The Oblivion Sep 2014
I was working at the local McDonald's
In the afternoon and was
Told by my boss that since I disappointed him
On not making the fries salty enough
That he would put me on the midnight shift

So there I am
Taking orders in my little cubicle
Hearing the headphone
"Yes I'd like a whopper, crap wrong place"
I take orders and then work the dishes
Jorge calls out to me whether or not
I took off the pickle in the order by mistake

Night shift comes and the air feels cool
Through the drive-thru window
I feel the night time air caressing
And cooling me
My ******* erecting
Exalting a scent that reminds me of perfume

Afterward I have to take the trash out

As I go out the air hits me
Tackles me as I transfer myself
From inside to outside
I feel the same sensations but yet I hear music
And I feel the sudden change to fill me with warmth

I go back inside and one of my fellow employees
Comes to me
"You want to see something cool?"
We walk to the back of the store
Where all the fry boxes are kept
And there is a whole in the ground

"I dug this hole and I think I found Mother Earth's ******."
I give him a puzzled look
"Looked, I ****** it earlier man and I've got to tell you.  It's a wild ride."
I begin to walk away
"Look man, these people around here call me The Master man.  I'm your guide through all this.  I'm the closest thing to the Alpha.... Or was it the Omega?....  **** man, I don't know just stick your **** in there."  

I walked away from it
But as I looked at the hole
I felt a certain allure to it
Drawing me in like a Siren calling
Perhaps it could be my Muse
My reason for being
Am I meant to do this?
An attempt at procreating with Earth?
It'd make sense since The Master had made
With love this handcrafted ******

I couldn't resist any longer
Temptation being to strong
I knelt down and inserted myself
Into the hole

At first I felt nothing but a scraping sensation
The sharp rubble of the ground grinding against my flesh
But then it became wet and calm
Almost soothing
I closed my eyes and then I saw her
Coming toward me and pressing my head against her breast
Calming allowing me to **** the ******
Which let me take in the sensation
Running through me as rapidly as a river
I heard the streams
The dirt was wet and I could put my feet in it
The wind blew with a lush autumn air
That was when I knew it was almost over
And I soon as the white of winter came
So did I

I removed myself and no longer knew what to think
I went home and slept and mulled over what happened
Over a pancake brunch
With chicken on the side
They go better together than you think
Faeri Shankar Jul 2012
I once found my heart in Catawaba
Where the blue cornflowers flourish between
Arabesque petals floating from the snowy dogwood trees
Encasing the air with the thick fragrance of innocence
You took from me beneath the dying maple tree.

The monotone cubicle in which you thrived
Wouldn't suffice for the rose petals lingering
Between your flushed lips drenched pale in the moonlight
Breathing "You are beautiful"
Smoking cigarettes with your mind.
linda barrett Feb 2012
To Two Nonnas
@2007 Linda Barrett
We can't afford to go to Italy
So you both bring it to us
We hear in the music of your names,
each syllable coming from your mouths,
vocal chords and tongues
that dance fast Italian tarantellas
from your shared cubicle
You both should have been sisters
Born on the same month
And sailed into America
on the same ship.
You bring us Italy
through your cooking:
olive oil drenched cole slaw
made zesty with ground pepper and salt,
amaretto cookies placed on our desks
deep fried calamari rings
at the Willow Grove Bennigan's
and Italian restaurants
in a Maple Glen shopping center.
You both embrace us
with still strong Nonna arms
and crochet bright pink baby clothes
for expecting employees.
On the weekends,
you become bocce ball champs
in Montgomery County
where Italian is still spoken,
To uphold up the old country's heritage
This poem comes out
from our love to you
because just by being our friends
we want to save all our pennies
to see what Italy is really like.
For the past few weeks I noticed Concern
The Fifth Crowned Angel whom I will call Great
For Reasons which my own Mind tried to Learn
And attempt to twist my Clock and my Fate
Soon found your String was cut and justly lost
Thinking one of my Dumb Spots was the Crime
Or perhaps, Prunes, which spent your Meal at cost
Left me with no Change to pay for my Time
Why not? Strangers-by-Instinct I advise
Since this Gadget sponsored the Miracle
Which the Good Solicitor-in-Disguise
Took my Guilty Plans to a Cubicle.
Whichever it was, my Brow genuflect
In Deepest Penance I earn your Respect.
Pedro Tejada Apr 2010
The falling stars in this ironic night
make majesties
out of those cubicle-ridden New Yorkers'
routine Tuesday night daydreams,
where they make macabre escape routes
out of every perfectly-placed window
piercing the concrete sentences
that escalate from Ground Zero.

Your law offices,
corporate ******* headquarters,
are all bursting at the seams
with these drones,
the falling stars of the human race,
all composed of 14 different shades
of grayscale;

could've been
should've been
could've been shootin' stars
that year they were promised
lives of upper middle class incomes
and Lexus dealerships
bought to dent their status
on the neighborhood,
but that sparkle's been emaciated
by the truth,
the underwhelming spectacle of realization
accentuated by the clicking
and the clacking of company keyboards,
each little click
gnawing more at their patience
than the next;
the faceless brush strokes
gawk through that window,
their plans less hypothetical
over the calendar years.

"I can hear it calling me
from miles away,"
says Copy #90045280,
"see, they
to me, man,
tell me to transcend
the hurdle of the windowsill
and make my rendezvous
with an asphalt avenue,
to join the other casualties
of this rut-infested nation
in a life with the real stars,
falling and shooting
and jettisoning alike,
throbbing lights through dark sky silk
and into the hearts of even the most
robotic of this catalog culture,
and I frightfully,
must listen."
Chris T Sep 2013
You took a ride
From a stranger
Driving a flower child van
And you never came back,
Lost in dead dreams,
Long gone ideals,
Wearing a
Psychedelic trip for a shirt
And dirt rubbed jeans teared knee to knee,
The wind blowing
And the radio playing some Dylan song,
Screaming and laughing,
The days were sand castles
On a beach being blown and
Losing shape, back to single grains,
And you promised that you'd never go back
But someplace in the back of your mind
You admitted to yourself that things
Like this, of smiles and bright eyes,
Never last, never last,
But that didn't stop you
And the highway stretched
And the clock ticked ticked
And the seconds were minutes
And the minutes hours,
A paper tablet for every normal thought
Worked like magic, medicine for the spirit,
Just like those that came before you,
All those people that smiled once,
Refusing to get behind a cubicle,
Refusing to wear a suit,
Refusing to get old,
You rode that van to the edge
(Of civilization) and watched the sun
Settle down up close, face to face,
And some time in between
It all stopped
And you were
Ancient history,
The psychedelic shirt lay in a chest,
The jeans in the back of a garbage truck,
The radio stopped playing Dylan,
The wind stopped blowing,
The castles were a hill of sand again,
Nobody screamed, nobody laughed,
you can try to run
But time always gets you,
No amount of pink and green tablets
Will save you
And peace will be but a teenage dream,
And the you that never came back
Did not come back,
But not because the van kept driving,
But because the van broke down forever,
Nothing lasts forever, nothing,
Especially you.
2013. New one. i liked it. It may have a few errors, i'm not sure, haven't edited yet.
Brother Jimmy Mar 2018
This place, it seems, is closing in, like the trash compactor in Star Wars,
And ev’ry person in this place is trudging through; morale has died,
Each face is long, each jaw is clenched, and each heart dreads its daily chores,
For corporate greed has beaten down and stomped upon each person’s pride
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2013
The Editor

Late in office,
sour coffee taste
the single constituent
of his yellow bloodstream,
The Editor.

Way up high,
72nd floor.

The city's twinklers mocking.

Life is ours, outside,
where explorers dare,
not inside your

That word, cubicle,
a sugar-substitute for

Another 12+ day.
Empty apartment waiting.

But that no matter.

Old news, her scent,
almost unnoticeable
except for the lavender hand-soap.

On the desk, a manuscript.
A child's coloring book,
vibrant, original word verses.

The older man lived, loved words,
An editor now, by trade.

Once, he baby-dreamed.

Shaping moments in the lives
of thousands, with tastings of,
with his words.

The answer given, graded, long ago.
Offered a choice,
outrageous misfortune elected,
the arrow taken, his was the
"or not to be."

on the desk, a manuscript.
a child's coloring book,
vibrant, original word verses.

An unsolicited gift.
By the hundreds, they arrived.

To his desk, the mail room delivered,
trained to snicker by prior generations,
at this lowly assignment.

This one different.

Original, raw,
full of ingredient-courage that
posed the questions
we all ask, answered,
in a nouveau riche way,
not a poseur-way.

Well, so well, he knew Brutus's words:

We at the height are ready to decline.
There is a tide in the affairs of men
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
On such a full sea are we now afloat,
And we must take the current when it serves,
Or lose our ventures.

His tide, his high tide, missed,
gone out

Instead at the heights, on the 72nd floor,
in the shallows, the bad miseries of
chances missed, ventures lost,
his own words, measured down,
never up,
yet he floated on a sea of others,
drowning but never dying.

On the desk, a manuscript.
a child's coloring book,
vibrant, original word verses,
a young author, unaware,
his gifts could rule the world.

Just another submission.

No one would notice,
the missed fortune,
if it were lost at sea.

Just another tsunami body,
thousands of worn words
suffocating, still born,
still dead.

Just another Brutus omission.

Another tide, washing in,
another washout day,
except for the
coloring book, someone else's
on his desk.

Dear Sir/Madam.
Thank you for bringing your manuscript to our attention.
We receive many unsolicited submissions and at this time, we are unable to...

Yours truly,

Some are artists,
Some are house painters.
Some craft, other just tidy up
the empty studios of the real.
Did the windows in his office open?
Somewhere his best effort,
paper tarnished by metallic dust,
sweat garnished,
vanquishing tears bookmarks,
a homeless one.

No place to return to,
for to be homeless,
words had to have had a home.


^ Julius Ceasar
Saw pieces of Julius Ceasar. Came home did some editing.
This corny poem, an embarrassment, came out of the the intersection.
At the crossroads, post, publish, or ****** thyself more in little ways.
Terry Collett Oct 2013
All through science she has thought about him, scribbling his name on the palm of her hand, doodling his name on the inside cover of her exercise book. The teacher rattles on about chemicals, about combinations, of numbers, but Christina isn't listening, she's gazing out the window at the sports field over the way, there where she and Benedict go some lunch times if it's fine and she's not stuck in the girls playground watching other girls play at skip rope or other childish games or chatter. The weather looks fine, the sky blue, clouds sparse. Good. Be out there. He will be there, too. Miss him when he's not about. A piece of chalk whizzes by her head and the teacher calls her  name and to concentrate and not daydream. She turns to the front and picks up her pen and takes down the writing on the board. The teacher scowls, eyes like hawk's. She saw him at morning break in passing by the tuck shop. He gazed at her. Sent tingles through her. Watched until he was out of sight. She scribbles in the exercise book, writes down the script on the board. Last night she dreamed of him. Had his photo under her pillow. Her head inches away from him. She pretended he had come to her room at midnight(the parents were downstairs still) and stood by the door looking at her. She told him to come closer and he came and sat on her bed. Seemed so real. Mere inches away. Hand near mine, pretended to touch. The teacher talks on boringly, she writes faster. The other kids seem to focus, make effort, look up, write down. At breakfast her mother was in a mood. Dark mood day. Moaned about state of my bedroom. Clothes everywhere, she said, books, paper, I won't have it. Christina puts down her pen. Inky fingers, pen leaks. ****. She wipes on a tissue, rubs away. Still stained. The other day she held Benedict's hand palm upward and read his lines. Wanted to see how many children he'd have or his wife. Couldn't decide. Wasn't sure. She liked his hand in hers, his fingers, the smoothness, the skin on skin thing. They kissed briefly, other kids were watching, making silly sounds, comments. She thinks her twin brother says things about her to their mother, not out of spite or telltale, but innocently in chatter over the dinner table or by way of idle talk. Her mother invited Benedict to lunch one school day. Studied him, questioned him. One of her black mood days. She managed to take him to her room for a few moments while her mother was out and showed him her bed and her doll collection and such and kissed quickly until they heard her mother's return. The lesson will soon be over. She cannot wait. Bored titless. She closes her exercise book and puts the cap on her pen and stares at the teacher as she finishes her talk. Her big brother has books under his bed. She saw one the other week while looking for his record player to borrow. Magazines of naked women. Piles stacked neatly. She removed one and opened the pages. She stopped at a page where a woman was kneeling dog like. A man was there ,too. She blushed, closed the magazine, shoved it back under the bed and went out of the room and to her own room. What the hell was that all about? She tried to push it from her mind. Her big brother had touched her in her room and she said nothing. The magazines were still there, she supposes, watching the teacher answer questions of those who were interested or pretended they were to get in the teacher's good books.  Hands rose in the air by those with questions of science. Christina ponders a question:  why do some women kneel dog like? She doesn't ask. Imagines the teacher's face, giggles from other kids. Best not to. The biology teacher was best to ask. But he will probably blush. So would she. She wishes time would fly. The sky is still blue. Clouds drift lazily. Her big brother lifted her skirt under the dinning room table and touched her leg. She said nothing, but stiffened, he smiled. Mother moaned about my untidy room, the ***** clothes under the bed, put in the wash basket, she went on. A bell rings from the passage, lesson over, thank God, she thinks, shoving her books in her bag. She goes to the washroom and enters a cubicle. The fingers are still ink stained. Benedict's name is written small there on her palm. She kisses her palm. She remembers the first time she saw him. He was new to the school, came just before Christmas. He stood in the assembly hall in a year above hers. His sister was in her class. They talked about him. She introduced him to her one lunch time on the sports field. They talked shyly, sat near, didn't touch, uneasy the first time. She left the cubicle, washed her hands, scrubbed her fingers with the white soap. Cleaner, still slightly stained. Try again later. She leaves the wash room and goes along the passage  hoping to see him. Crowds of kids pass by. A boy and girl by the gym door smooch, his hand on her thigh, her hand on his neck. But no Benedict. She stares about her. No. Not about. She moves towards the next lesson, maths, double, time passes, boring, wants to see him. The bell rings, next lesson, his sister walks beside her, not him, o if it was him, if only.  The passageway is dull, her life seems dim.
Rain Jan 2019
The Smog is a thick blanket tonight,
The moon just visible through its veil
Toxic, smothering us in the dark
As we run beneath the stars

Every breath in piercing, clotting, cloying
We grit our teeth and grin as mad
We are one, we sprint
We are mad,
As we run beneath the stars

Cubicle, so tiny
A cage so confining
School, so tiring
Walls made of iron
Home, so clean
Polluted air so pristine
Hate and venom, clear oxygen
No one else can smell this fear

Outside, a breath
Noxious fumes, a little death
Fumes inhaled
Less deadly yet

And so we run.
We race and we choke
Taking life as we go
We throw off our masks,
Oxygen filtered out
Who needs to breathe?

Suffocation outside is a better kind of sting.

We run, we fly beneath the stars
Laughing, roaring
Fulfilling this ache
Inhaling the toxins,
Letting them keep us awake

We may cough and we may sputter,
But this is the pain we choose
So much better than any other

And so we run.
The non-literal suffocation of life at home, at work, and in school can be, in my mind, so much greater than the suffering one experiences when going out into the polluted streets (the "throw off our masks" line has a double meaning, one of mask as in hiding who you are elsewhere, and mask as in a mask against toxins in the air), and sometimes it’s worth it to simply let go.
sharpcastuser Apr 2013
Arriving to work
I find the meetings cancelled
So I work from home
copyright 2011 From Haiku: Collected Works
Nuha Fariha Jan 2014
"You're going to hear me mooooo"
sings the Cow.

"Oh shut up,"
interrupts the Fox,
Of the late viral video hit,
from the next cubicle over.

"I'm sorry, but
you should go work somewhere else.
Somewhere for
lesser animals,"
Lion adds.

So the Cow left,
relegated to laughing
and the abundant sale
of her breast milk.

She never sang

— The End —