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A picture hanging on the wall, a desk and two black curtains
falling down to the floor;
The full moon hides behind rainbow clouds,
stories of that yesterdays' sun
written
metal sounds
and two drops of heavy dew.

... Sighs ...

I was circling your thoughts,
they were mine
to wonder about
and make them shine
all the way
through the spirals of our times.

... wishful sighs ...

A picture hanging on the wall, a flower on the desk,
two black curtains falling down
and up the full moon staring...
An almost hidden by rainbow clouds
love for that yesterdays' sun...

The two drops of heavy dew
are reflecting into the floor.

© All rights Reserved Theodora Oniceanu
https://www.behance.net/gallery/25859399/Rainbow-Clouds
Dereaux Oct 2020
O my desk,
a daily friend you are
leaning back I can trust you
stuck by my side all these years.

legs firmly pressed into carpet,
sleek gray blade, leveled,
every poem is written here
made with your support

The passing of the years,
will not escape you.
I will never forget you
even if I have to replace you.
Luna Maria Apr 2020
</3
I left dead flowers on her desk
will she water them?
(I didn't mean to let them die
it just happened)
Michael R Burch Apr 2020
The Desk
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy Michael Burch

There is a child I used to know
who sat, perhaps, at this same desk
where you sit now, and made a mess
of things sometimes.
                                     I wonder how
he learned at all . . .

He saw T-Rexes down the hall
and dreamed of trains and cars and wrecks.
He dribbled phantom basketballs,
shot spitwads at his schoolmates’ necks.

He played with pasty Elmer’s glue
(and sometimes got the glue on you!).
He earned the nickname—“teacher’s PEST.”

His mother had to come to school
because he broke the golden rule.
He dreaded each and every test.

But something happened in the fall—
he grew up big and straight and tall,
and now his desk is far too small;
so you can have it.
                                  One thing, though—
one swirling autumn, one bright snow,
one gooey tube of Elmer’s glue . . .
and you’ll outgrow this old desk, too.

Published by: TALESetc, A Bouquet of Poems (for children of all ages), Better Than Starbucks. Keywords/Tags: desk, school, spitwads, glue, teacher’s, pest, broke, golden rule, failed, test
b Nov 2019
the stitches in my thigh are
healing so now we can all shake hands
and watch the money
poor in. the bombs are not coming,
please come out from
under your desks, you are safe
now and if im being honest
the desks wouldn’t protect you
from the shrieks of a
war plane. they sound
like nothing you’ve
ever heard
a frequency you unlocked
just for this
particular pain. you can almost see
the sound pour into your ear drums
like a bartender mixing
the ***** and the cranberry.
it sounds like 6am
it sounds like the same song
over and over.
- Jul 2019
sitting at my desk,
writing
not me but
the demons
residing within me
every word,
is mine,
but not about me
maybe you or that one girl, out of many
who knows
my pen bleeding like my heart
every letter word or thought
drenched with blood
no sweat
hindrance May 2019
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
Juhlhaus Feb 2019
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 our 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 all day in the freezing rain
Hunting squirrels for soup
A whimsical corollary to my previous poem, Soup for Squirrels.
n-khrennikov Oct 2018
Death and love dancing together,
In her youthful and strong body.
Her hand is like paper,
soft velvet
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.
n-khrennikov ©

Memorialize:  Sylvia Plath (1932 - 1963).
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