C:\two poems>
The Ballad of the Bureau
Find oneself stranded in The Queue,
Jargon, clammer, pop, and stammer,
And surrounded by a blithering blathering milieu,
Wonder now - sardonic - where is all the glamour?
Time passes slowly or never or not at all,
Bring a book, bring a pen, bring your taxes that need an amend.
For those that do not shall die by boredom’s call.
Be wary of - wart - and anyone who may try to bend.
Back to the back with you!
You shall never see the end of This Queue!
Returning with what you think you need,
(so that I need not tape your hopeful escape!)
For the Procurement of documents is Their feed,
Despite that - for you - it is a ginormous mind-rape.
Before you is one blond mother, behind you: a teacher.
Forward to the mobile phone; retreat to the whine and moan!
The mother, captive in her cell, is quite the screecher,
And the teacher - impatient - is quit altogether with a same groan.
What you bring to us is not fine!
Get thyself to the back of The Line!
Patience here (more than anywhere) is a virtue,
And a requirement of sorts, do not be bent.
Keep steady and keep your wits, and you may gain a clue,
Exasperate - as is nature - and direly you shall vent.
You made it, you are there, you have someone’s attention!
Whether it be by number or name, be it slumber or game,
There you are: present your accords, and by a slight mention,
She - the troll keeper of record - will size you up great or lame.
The Paperwork is in order! Can you smell the flowers?
The fee, the charge is only seventy one dollars!
The lonely poet -- soon deceased.
Lonely poet, no one will read you now,
Your work lost: your aspiration dashed,
You’ve become deceased, your art never released.
Poems - odes - ballads - lost to the ages! O!
Perhaps a treatise or two…all this immaterial.
You’re dead and your ego never feed.
No one will deconstruct, reconstruct, and instruct,
What your work meant to them and what you had to say.
No one will argue over whether or not you were gay,
And you can never drink until you destruct.
Your tale is sorrowful and sad. I know not what you wrote.
God does.
He read everything you put to pen.
He saw you struggle and laugh and cry.
He saw.
He knew.
He loved every word of it.
He loved you.
Between an audience of millions…
-
…and this Solitary Audience;
I choose He.
He made me free.
and
He shall comfort you.
O M N I S C I E N T
Find oneself stranded in The Queue,
Jargon, clammer, pop, and stammer,
And surrounded by a blithering blathering milieu,
Wonder now - sardonic - where is all the glamour?
Time passes slowly or never or not at all,
Bring a book, bring a pen, bring your taxes that need an amend.
For those that do not shall die by boredom’s call.
Be wary of - wart - and anyone who may try to bend.
Back to the back with you!
You shall never see the end of This Queue!
Returning with what you think you need,
(so that I need not tape your hopeful escape!)
For the Procurement of documents is Their feed,
Despite that - for you - it is a ginormous mind-rape.
Before you is one blond mother, behind you: a teacher.
Forward to the mobile phone; retreat to the whine and moan!
The mother, captive in her cell, is quite the screecher,
And the teacher - impatient - is quit altogether with a same groan.
What you bring to us is not fine!
Get thyself to the back of The Line!
Patience here (more than anywhere) is a virtue,
And a requirement of sorts, do not be bent.
Keep steady and keep your wits, and you may gain a clue,
Exasperate - as is nature - and direly you shall vent.
You made it, you are there, you have someone’s attention!
Whether it be by number or name, be it slumber or game,
There you are: present your accords, and by a slight mention,
She - the troll keeper of record - will size you up great or lame.
The Paperwork is in order! Can you smell the flowers?
The fee, the charge is only seventy one dollars!
The lonely poet -- soon deceased.
Lonely poet, no one will read you now,
Your work lost: your aspiration dashed,
You’ve become deceased, your art never released.
Poems - odes - ballads - lost to the ages! O!
Perhaps a treatise or two…all this immaterial.
You’re dead and your ego never feed.
No one will deconstruct, reconstruct, and instruct,
What your work meant to them and what you had to say.
No one will argue over whether or not you were gay,
And you can never drink until you destruct.
Your tale is sorrowful and sad. I know not what you wrote.
God does.
He read everything you put to pen.
He saw you struggle and laugh and cry.
He saw.
He knew.
He loved every word of it.
He loved you.
Between an audience of millions…
-
…and this Solitary Audience;
I choose He.
He made me free.
and
He shall comfort you.
O M N I S C I E N T