Squatter Camp Station 1 - 3.9.2009 Poem by Margaret Alice

June saw through my subterfuge,
no exotic bazaar, but a squatter
camp is my work station, a purple
blanket from home, storybooks
scattered everywhere, papers
and files, a purple lotus picture
of a spiritual human being, dried
leaves affixed to my computer,
socks, running shoes and my
water bottle adorning the floor,
my toga covering air-con vents,
my inborn genius for creating
chaos in my wake fully operative…


Windmill Of Officialdom 2.

Found enchanting pictures on the Internet,
staring in delight while my colleagues see
red, all figures to be redone, old documents
to be reassessed and to what end - simply
to make some bigwig look good, who had
never been involved in the process, who cut
our budget, making us look atrocious, who
needs window-dressing

Staring at hurricanes and resembling galaxies,
mental hurricanes blowing through the office, our
local novice quietly forging on, not sure yet where
the sun rises and where it should set, the rest of us
charge ahead with the zeal of a pack of hyenas, ready
to attack and destroy the rhinos of problems blocking
our path to private nirvana, carefully ignoring the
production sheet on my screen

Doing only one little thing before dragging my feet, digging
on the Internet for pictures of Walt Disney’s Fantasia, the
fairies skating to the music of Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker
Suite, an additional dimension to embellish documents
lacking pictures, my soul revolts against them, besides,
Sancho Panza within me is dreaming with Don Quixote
about how to attack the windmill of officialdom….