06-06-2015, 10:48 PM
another poem to submit, this is based on actual experience, this is something I loved doing and see it as a more normal poem for me to do, again its full of flaws but would love some tips on how to make it better, I struggled with the rhyming style and how long/short to make lines, I love the general idea of the piece but structure has been a problem, thanks for any contribution and again don't be shy to be blunt and truthful.
51. I knew a suburban civil servant.
By Michael P O’Shaughnessy
Paul sits in the far corner every day.
His neat desk there, all tidy'd away.
Coat stand waits, naked there.
Paul catches the 7.40 from Surbiton, he's on his way.
Waterloo bridge sees the masses come.
O'er the Thames they stride in unison.
Paul Walks, a faceless man, his day in front.
A Senior civil servant, he has a proud mum.
Four of us working together in this space,
I'm the junior one, here to do as they say.
Paul's here again, he's the senior man.
In from Surbiton, another year along.
We make small talk about train delays.
The weather today and cricket in play.
Paul, I find out later, lives all alone.
Still in Surbiton, close to his mom.
A funny shaped man, I found him a very peculiar guy.
Loves wine and cheese, does fine dine.
Always immaculate, tidy and neat.
England of yesteryear, that stiff upper lip.
Follows protocol and would never deviate.
Felt his letters are so important, he'd dictate.
A sense of aristocratic stature in this room.
Back in suburbia, all alone, he has his mom.
I tried to get to know him, to have a chat.
Talk about mundane matters, this and that.
It never worked, he just went all cold.
I was too young, he was too old.
I often think to myself, what about Paul?.
Did he stay going o'er that bridge, summer and fall.
He must be retired now and still at home.
All alone in Surbiton, mum now gone.
© poppoetry 2015.
51. I knew a suburban civil servant.
By Michael P O’Shaughnessy
Paul sits in the far corner every day.
His neat desk there, all tidy'd away.
Coat stand waits, naked there.
Paul catches the 7.40 from Surbiton, he's on his way.
Waterloo bridge sees the masses come.
O'er the Thames they stride in unison.
Paul Walks, a faceless man, his day in front.
A Senior civil servant, he has a proud mum.
Four of us working together in this space,
I'm the junior one, here to do as they say.
Paul's here again, he's the senior man.
In from Surbiton, another year along.
We make small talk about train delays.
The weather today and cricket in play.
Paul, I find out later, lives all alone.
Still in Surbiton, close to his mom.
A funny shaped man, I found him a very peculiar guy.
Loves wine and cheese, does fine dine.
Always immaculate, tidy and neat.
England of yesteryear, that stiff upper lip.
Follows protocol and would never deviate.
Felt his letters are so important, he'd dictate.
A sense of aristocratic stature in this room.
Back in suburbia, all alone, he has his mom.
I tried to get to know him, to have a chat.
Talk about mundane matters, this and that.
It never worked, he just went all cold.
I was too young, he was too old.
I often think to myself, what about Paul?.
Did he stay going o'er that bridge, summer and fall.
He must be retired now and still at home.
All alone in Surbiton, mum now gone.
© poppoetry 2015.