#desk
A jumbled desk, full of books, papers and tears,
A clustered focus, ample with elusive echoes.
A trembling grasp, on the tool of writing,
A state of puzzled feelings, of fear and joy.
An endless order, of pondering and erasing,
An obsession of refinement is taking over.
A feeble attempt, at linking chapters,
A tiny butterfly is playing rock, paper,
scissors inside, and clotting the scribe.
Nov 21, 2025
Nov 21, 2025 at 12:08 PM UTC
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
Nov 19, 2020
Nov 19, 2020 at 3:21 AM UTC
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.
Oct 2, 2020
Oct 2, 2020 at 3:22 AM UTC
I left dead flowers on her desk
will she water them?
Apr 27, 2020
Apr 27, 2020 at 12:35 PM UTC
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
Apr 5, 2020
Apr 5, 2020 at 5:55 AM UTC
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.
Nov 16, 2019
Nov 16, 2019 at 6:31 AM UTC
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
Jul 23, 2019
Jul 23, 2019 at 5:50 PM UTC
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?
May 6, 2019
May 6, 2019 at 5:24 PM UTC
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
Feb 24, 2019
Feb 24, 2019 at 4:57 PM UTC
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.
Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 11:40 AM UTC
Largely white
except splotches
of color
of personality
binders
papers
posters
paper weights
Black
the chair
The screens
of the electronic appliances
Gray,
for a more professional feel
with touches of beige
the carpet
the outlets
Florescent lights
shockingly white
shockingly bright
...
Personalized
Yet,
uniform
...
Comfortable
yet
professional
...
...
...
Is my teacher's desk
Sep 24, 2018
Sep 24, 2018 at 12:52 PM UTC
a boy to a girl,
Texts sitting across a desk;
love, a potted plant!
Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 2:10 PM UTC
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.
May 12, 2018
May 12, 2018 at 5:32 PM UTC
You keep a clean office desk
So it's easy to shove everything off of it
To gently put your girl on it
And make her feel like she's the real reason you do buisness
Because that's how I see it.
Apr 26, 2018
Apr 26, 2018 at 8:40 AM UTC
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.
Apr 14, 2018
Apr 14, 2018 at 2:37 AM UTC
i hate when the light
in my desk lamp goes out
because then
i no longer can see
and when i cant see
i feel as if
the world
forgets
about me
Apr 6, 2018
Apr 6, 2018 at 9:15 AM UTC
each fold i forget
my troubles.
each crease satisfies
my obsessive tendencies.
every perfect creation
pushes me to make more.
they pile on my desk
and float down.
graceful little birds
hit the ground.
little sailboats sink
to the bottom of the sea.
overflowing desk
spilling into a mess.
cannot stop beautiful perfection
as my hands move beyond comprehension.
Mar 4, 2018
Mar 4, 2018 at 8:29 PM UTC
A desk. A desk behind me and to my left.
How delicate is the flower upon that desk,
Bright, filled with color, but not for long.
She has been plucked, picked.
This means she was chosen,
She is special,
But how long before she fades?
I hope she and the flower beside her
Hold on to that color,
But they’d have to be fake to do so.
A flower, two flowers, lie delicately
On an empty desk.
One is full, whose petals radiate with
A pink glow, while the other, a little more sparse.
The former has an ant crawling on it, while
The latter twinkle, delicately shivering in the
Air conditioning.
Two flowers,
Two entirely different stories,
Stuck at the same desk.
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 1:00 AM UTC
Now on days at my desk
I think of you
and your brilliant blue.
Jul 5, 2017
Jul 5, 2017 at 9:21 AM UTC
thoughts are draining
from every inch of my mind
yet I can't find the last line
I'm slaving at my desk
racking my brain for
the perfect words
my soul is ****** dry
not one single drop of
inspiration for me to try
Feb 11, 2017
Feb 11, 2017 at 6:29 PM UTC
been there done that
sitting under a desk
closed in with no leg space
rusted chair wheels
that won't even roll
one wrong push I'll flip out
phone ringing call after call
I'm answering question
so simple to answer
almost time to punch out
clock it ticks yet haven't
moved an inch
intense waiting
thinking positive
I know it must be done
the daily results that's
what pays my bills
Oct 12, 2016
Oct 12, 2016 at 12:32 AM UTC
I thought I could walk away from writing by falling in love.
I have not touched a piece of paper in so long, I forgot how it felt between my fingers, and even what it smelled like.
Now my heart is hurting and I run to the paper. A lover that simply sat and waited on a desk, collecting dust.
I could be rejected from paper, but He opens up to me.
'I have missed you,' He says.
His perfect lines as straight as before I left.
'Ive been gone too long. May I.....?' I pull out my wooden ink pen.
The paper suddenly sticks to the desk.
'Of course. Always for you.'
I lightly touch the paper with the tip, and my mind is already flowing out the hurt and pain. All my feelings have pulsed through my bloodstream, into my fingertips and to the end point of the writing utensil.
My pen scratches, and I can already feel the two of us sighing, releasing against one another
May 29, 2016
May 29, 2016 at 12:20 AM UTC
My pencil is dull
I've been writing too long
But I can't seem to stop
I'm addicted to words
And getting lost in my head
It's all seems easier that way
The worlds I create are fading
The plots I develop are lacking
All because my pencil is dull
And I can't find my sharpener
My desk is so cluttered.
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 2:24 PM UTC