Pens Down !

Exam Hall

 

Pens Down !

For all our tappy-typey lives,
For all the keyboards we must pound,
Still ev’ry Summer there survives
A world of scritchy-scratchy sound:
Ev’ry Summer, ev’ry school,
The wriggly-ragged spiders rule !

It seems we do not think exams
Are punishment enough –
Who cares if they know volts from grams,
Or pantaloons from ruffs ?
Their future jobs lie in the grip
Of under-pressure penmanship !

You know, I reckon if we’re honest,
Few of us could truly claim
Our efforts wouldn’t look the same.
For all they pressed upon us
Their italic script or copperplate,
Calligraphy was not our fate.

To all the pupils suffering
From writer’s cramp and knuckles rapped,
Your talents ever under-tapped –
At least you’re not alone.
To all ex-pupils struggleing
With inky hands that biros give,
Our meanings lost in hieroglyphs –
It’s time that we atone:

It’s keymanship that should be taught,
So crisp upon the pristine page,
With fingers fast as any thought –
It’s time to write the modern age !
For all that pens have served us well,
Let’s end their scribbly-scrawly hell –

 

 

Equality

worm s eye of white and black inside basket
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

Equality

There’s a glassy ceiling above me,
Way up the greasy pole
But I’m still down in the basement
Just pence above the dole.
A fraction of us may hammer the ceiling,
Always demand more,
But most of us working stiffs are afraid
Of the rise of the quicksand floor.

 

 

Administralia

photo of sticky notes and colored pens scrambled on table
Photo by Frans Van Heerden on Pexels.com

 

Administralia

Sometimes, no matter how hard I try
To pay attention to the little things
That happen anyway,
Sometimes, it seems, I simply can’t apply
My wayward focus to the nuts and springs
Of yet another day:
I stare into my screen as numbers fly –
The day-long daydreams dream, the maybes sing,
The permutations run…
I couldn’t tell you how or when or why,
But even as the tangents loop and swing,
So still the work gets done.
I’m barely here, but still my seeing eyes
And typing fingers track and dart and ping
Throughout each random trance.
My mouth is talking – am I telling lies ?
I couldn’t say, I wasn’t listening…
But oh, how the dust motes dance !