I sat at a wooden desk next to an old lady who also sat at a wooden desk. I picked a dandelion, the biggest one I had ever seen, before coming to listen to the talk in the chapel of the brick built college building. It sat on my desk and splashed its yellow into my eyes and occasionally I’d twirl its stem and get the green sort of smell on my fingers. The old lady had picked a dandelion, the second biggest one I had ever seen, before coming to listen to the talk in the chapel of the brick built college building. It sat on her desk and dripped its yellow into my eyes and occasionally she’d twirl its stem with her fragile old fingers and scratch notes with her other hand. She smiled at me knowingly as we did the same thing in the same place at the same time. Did you know that we’re all the same?
sometimes i forget
Outside two squirrels foraging
Inside one hundred and one keys tapping
Three buttons clicking and one wheel spinning
Eight hours a day sitting badly
In an ergonomic desk chair
Soft fingers tap on plastic and glass
Weak muscle memory of calluses and splinters
And sunburn blisters from another life
Outside the old prairie wind howls like a phantom
Lost in urban canyons buffets the panes
Drives the torrents of freezing rain
Hard droplets tap on metal and glass
While inside high-rise terrariums we sit
Generating transient value that flits
Up into the clouds till whenever
You tap plastic to trade your invisible worth
For a hot meal in a disposable bowl
Ponder and sip in another life you could be
Spending eight hours a day in the freezing rain
Hunting squirrels for soup
A whimsical corollary to my previous poem, Soup for Squirrels.
Death and love dancing together,
In her youthful and strong body.
Her hand is like paper,
you meet in the wild flower petals,
Her lips sad and chapped
with poetry wheel she wrote
How much in the darkness?, it is heart bulb
as the stars share unforgettable joy!
Death and love
kiss her lips
let go of desire for life,
Because two people can not distinguish,
in the dance blew all three.
Memorialize: Sylvia Plath (1932 - 1963).
of the electronic appliances
for a more professional feel
with touches of beige
Is my teacher's desk
I plant the flowers
deep in the dark land.
They are bloom,
roots inverted in the stars.
Who can tolerate it
as if darkness covered,
this silence without revenge?
The wind blows in my ear
Her words gets mixed up in my thought.
But then I wake up.
The bells heard again ..
The words were turned off, but my blood was recalled.
They look like her. She look like;
Easy to finish her life alone
Who love her enough
in the song I listened ?
It hurtful her words to telling me.
Night no longer sleep, one
dream has become.
The light has reached the endless …
Dark drive: Crash
We will go through many years
When the thread passes through the needle.
The fire of the soul will shine
in the darkness of mind,
and no one around.
With a feather
In the wind I will write forever
that we are alive, you and I.
Where the wind blows
sweet immortal of your name.
a boy to a girl,
Texts sitting across a desk;
love, a potted plant!
On a wooden shelf textbook waits
Harboring facts, knowledge, dates
Each year summer brings needed rest
After each final, each test.
But summer is gone and school has begun
So away with freedom, the warmth of the sun
To a teenage girl, textbook goes
What horrors await? Textbook doesn't know.
Hurled in a locker, metal slams
Smothered by a shirt that says "Go Rams!"
Shoved in a backpack, do not suffocate?
Can't miss the school bus, hurry, don't be late!
Scribbled and doodled on, "It tickles!" It screams
But teenage girl doesn't realize silence is not what it seems
Spilled soda burns; acid sweet
Bubbling suffering unimaginable heat
Left on a desk, a window so close
Pages now stick, it is so gross
With its strength the textbook flies
It has just commited suicide.
An old one I wrote for school in 10th grade
You keep a clean office desk
So it's easy to shove everything off of it
To gently put your ******* it
And make her feel like she's the real reason you do buisness
Because that's how I see it.
i worry about my purpose a lot.
it's a pretentious thing to write down i know.
but if i didnt have purpose to contemplate
than all the screwdrivers downed
would be for nothing
all the evenings still in bed
would be for nothing
all of my short comings
would be for nothing.
if there's no corner piece
for me to slide into,
i might just bang my head into my desk
until i cant feel it anymore.