THE OFFICES OF DEATH



I work in the offices of death and often wish I could leave.
If I slipped away then I could be insouciant;
that’s cool and is my favourite recent word.


In dreams, after I leave
I creep around outside the offices of death,


sifting through the wreckage
where platitude peddling hacks are the gurus of surveillance


With bunches of fuschias, my mother’s favourite flower, in my hand,
I impertinently plant seeds of olive trees


moistening them with tears I have collected
from fifty unusual places on whirlwind visits made before the age of sixty.


I ratify a peace treaty about feeling beauty and truth
There are plenty of desolate places where these are needed.


I tell everyone inside the offices of death
to come outside and stand still under the abandoned blue sky


to press the flesh of shaking monsters,
and then say “let’s see a show of clean hands”;


oh, and in your half-hour lunch break
don’t forget to eat your chargrilled vegetables


and other commodities pillaged from distant lands.
Towards dusk there will be chill out songs


and scarlet breasted birds will rest their bodies against the green
where everyone can recycle New Year promises,


There will be gecko-butter sandwiches,
goodnight kisses under a magic moon.


In the morning after no-one will return
to the grey offices of death.


Instead, red balloons and yellow kites will be caught in the swell of the fresh wind
as people race and swerve with laughter to chase after them.





These will be their new targets for the working day
from those like me, who have to-day resigned from the offices of death.


Copyright remains with me the author Philomena Ewing





2 comments:

Colin Matthews said...

In Fact two great Poems, how long have theses been festering ?

Philomena Ewing said...

They have been around a while ...on my hard disc waiting for the "Great Editor " to manicure and shape them for public view.
Very glad you like them.