Category: Stories

Soliloquy

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

Once upon a meeting dreary,

There sat Rob, with eyes all sleepy,

“Let’s circle back,” said he, and leverage our synergy,

To touch base on the issues and action points, presently.

 

With a paradigm shift, we must align,

And reach for success, oh colleagues of mine.

“But don’t get siloed,” he urged with a stare,

Embrace cross-pollination, show that you care.

 

With granular details, let’s unpack,

Roll up our sleeves, there’s no turning back.

“Strike a balance,” he croaked, keep an open-door policy,

Cultivate a roadmap, foster transparency.

 

At long last, his soliloquy came to a close,

His words, though banal, in perfect prose.

His colleagues blinked, their minds a hazy sweep,

As Rob, with a satisfied smile, fell fast asleep.

 

The room was silent, save for Rob’s snore,

In this theatre of buzzwords, could anyone want more?

Sides

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

In the realm of reality’s playful plot,

Dwelled a master of disguise, a man named Scot.

With a spirit wild, impossible to be caught,

He’d dance between personas, a kaleidoscope of thought:

 

One moment as a poet, turning sour rhymes sweet,

Next, a cranky farmer, complaining of his wheat;

A peaceful Zen monk in the calm of the day,

Then a daring detective in a noire mystery play.

 

But amid the confusion, here’s what’s funny, friend,

Each personality knew they were just pretend!

In the end, we learned, though Scot was quite unique,

He showed us different sides we all, too, subtly speak.

Pigeon

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

There in a town, not too far, not too close,

Lived a pigeon of fame, with a purpose grandiose.

He’d flap to the office, and to everyone’s delight,

He’d drop off memos, from a spectacular height.

 

He’d discuss the stocks, or the economy’s state,

While pecking at crumbs—yes, life was great.

He’d attend all the meetings, in the boardroom aloof,

Perched on the chandelier, away from the roof.

 

When the day was over, to the rooftop he’d retire,

Exchanging coos with the town’s night choir.

Sometimes on weekends, for a change of scene,

He’d fly to the park, feathers preened and pristine.

 

With a bagel in beak, he’d stroll around,

The sight of him was joy unbound.

Yet beneath the fame, the work, the glow,

Was a pigeon who loved to take it slow.

 

A lover of sunsets, a connoisseur of seeds,

A friend to all, doing good feathery deeds.

In a tiny nest, made with love and straw,

He’d ponder the world with respectful awe.

Fear’s Old Embrace

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

Ben jumped at a whisper, and ran from a shout,

A squirrel’s scamper would make him freak out.

He’d wince at the bubbles that popped in his soup,

And take a mile’s detour to avoid the hen’s coop.

Sunrise brought panic, sunset brought dread,

He even had nightmares when safely in bed.

But amidst all this panic, one thing held true,

Ben’s spirit was kind, his heart was true.

Even though hidden, in fear’s old embrace,

He offered to all, a kind, smiling face.

Blue Kangaroo

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

Once there was a kangaroo,

Whose colour was a peculiar blue.

He hopped around, from town to town,

Wearing a bright red velvet gown.

 

With a pocket watch and his bow tie neat,

He’d greet folks on the street.

“Hoppity day, isn’t it?” he’d say,

Then he’d simply hop away.

 

In a bustling city or some quiet bay,

His uniqueness brightened every day.

Popping in with a joyful bound,

He’d scatter laughter all around.

 

He’d share stories in rhyme and verse,

Of places far, and some diverse,

About a koala who could sing,

Or a pelican with a broken wing.

 

Through winter’s chill and summer’s glow,

He’d amuse both friend and foe,

With antics that would make you swoon,

Like juggling pies under the moon.

 

A wonder seen in morning’s hue,

So full of life, yet steady too;

He bids the heart to start anew,

Our bounding guide, the blue kangaroo.

Right, Left

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

INT. QUIRKY ART STUDIO – DAY

Two painters, Liz and Ralph, are at their easels.

LIZ: I need to write something down, right?

RALPH: Er, okay, why you asking me? I’ve only got a paint brush.

LIZ: I’m making a statement, right?

He looks at her painting of an apple.

RALPH: Er, yes?

LIZ: Pardon?

RALPH: You asked me a question.

LIZ: It’s how I talk, right? Every statement is a question, right? Everybody does it on podcasts for some reason, right?

RALPH: (joking) Great question! Ah, that’s such a great question. Um, uh, er… like, you know, I just wanted to, right, well, um… say, so, okay, actually, basically, right? I mean, anyway, well, right, you see, ahem… um, yeah, so, hmm… in other words, to be honest, I guess, yeah, I suppose… I mean, um, ah, well, actually, you know, basically, I think… right? Er, um, ahem… right? So, like, I mean, well, you know, it’s, right? Right? So… so, in other words, so, er, like, erm, I guess you said something, right? Let me think, er, what did you say again? It was, right, such a great question. Right, left, right, left, such a great question etc. Can you at least say “left” for no reason to make it less repetitive? Maybe throw in an “up” or a “down”?

LIZ: That’s not right, right?

RALPH: This is going to get very confusing if I ask for directions.

LIZ: It’s easy, right? The pen is over there on the left, right?

RALPH: (marches towards the pencil) Right, left, right, (hops) right?

LIZ: No, left, right?

RALPH: (salutes with the wrong hand) Right. (he hands over the pen) So it’s right to write and ask questions, right? But it’s also right to make statements as questions, right? Left, right, right, left, doesn’t really matter as long as it’s right, right? Or left.

LIZ: Left. Left?

RALPH: Right, right?

LIZ: (starts scribbling notes) Okay, I’ll write it down.

RALPH: (hops to the door) Write? Right? (as he is walking out) I’ve left. Right!

Profound

by Robert Walker, posted in Stories

Ted went to dine at his local café,

But his rear-end spoke up and had its say.

With a rumble and a roar,

People ran for the door,

Leaving Ted the entire buffet.

 

Back to the library, quiet and still,

Ted’s bottom piped up and sang at will.

His bum did resound,

With words so profound,

As if written by Shakespeare’s quill.