Best Desk Poems
Today, meandering through the clutter of the local antique store,
I almost tripped and fell over an object partially hidden on the floor!
My hands came to rest on an old-fashioned school desk sitting there.
It reminded me of the one I occupied in my school days, I do declare!
My thoughts drifted back through the misty past to reminisce and ponder.
As I caressed its oaken surface with my fingers, I began to wonder.
Did it once grace a simple one-room prairie schoolhouse in Indiana?
Might it have come from a rustic schoolroom in the state of Montana?
The slanting top of the old desk was scratched and with ink was stained.
I saw faint initials carved by an idle lad whose attention span had waned!
The varnish was worn off the folding seat by many a squirming kid.
Wads of chewing gum still adorned the underside of the folding lid!
I recalled sitting at one of those uncomfortable desks trying to stay awake!
As Miss Ruth droned on and on, all I could think of was the recess break!
The room reeked of oranges and fried egg sandwiches we'd bring to munch.
Kids of means paid a dime to eat finer fare in the lunchroom for their lunch!
I recalled the thwack on my knuckles of Miss Ruth's ruler to get my attention,
And what awaited me at home for misbehavior with growing apprehension!
(A clerk noting my glazed eyes asked, "May I help you sir? Is anything amiss?"
"Nah", I replied. "If you please, I'd like to stand here awhile and reminisce!")
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
She sits alone..
Everyone has said their final goodbyes
To her husband of sixty some years
Her seven children have never known
Or at least never mentioned..
How she never smiled
Just day to day
Did her job
Like the old man said
Woman..
Bring me my......
Now there across the room
The forbidden..
His roll top desk
Head always hung low
Eyes never meeting his
She rises
Lifts her head
Approaches defiantly
Rolls back the heavy top
She's dusted a million times
She touches the things unfamiliar
Keys to the truck she never learned to drive
A checkbook she didn't know how to use
Legal papers she knew nothing about
His favorite cigarettes she couldn't smoke
His stash of booze she despised
Sat in the chair that was no longer HIS
Was this feeling loss?
7-29-2013
©Donna Jones
There is an antique writing desk
in my little study
handed-me-down
from generations of would-be
writers in my family
And there are ancient creatures
from days gone by
living in this old desk still
evil, larcenous little creatures
envious of literary skill
This explains much
Lately, I have caught them unawares
aghast, thought I imagined them
but they are really there
surly, sinister, repugnant creatures
in my writing desk
There's a putrid little jerk,
called Pernishicus who lurks
behind the piles on my desk
glorying in the mess
a malevolent, grimy-mauve gremlin
Who preys on newly created works
stealthily spraying them
with foul feculence
as soon as I commence
my writing-
...Sometimes missing slightly
and tagging my hand
making it hard to stand
myself (much less my writing)
for days on end
Then there's a creepy
mesmerizing fiend
they call Spelbadger
a translucent thing, quite obscene
who shifts in the shadows and purrs
With dark eyes deep- constantly changing
like stones from mood-rings
set in his skull
he psychically bullies,
intimidates and muddles
until my poor brain
is worn and dull
And perhaps worst of all
is that one, Grumblesleaze
with pale, glowering eyes diseased
a gray-green, mangy looking thing
whose famous quirk
is that he has the gall
to grouse about my work...
As he viciously shreds it
then glunshing and munching
greedily devours it all
leaving no note
or trace of remembrance
of my past brilliance
behind
Oh, out of spite
he might leave a few
of my ill-penned
unfortunate lines
I planned to cut anyway
or pull my worst attempts
from the waste-can
and lay them out
to remind me of my failures
Yes, this explains much
For there was only one before
our one lone ancestor
who was able to write
at this desk prolifically
tapping out volumes rather heroically
'Though tiresome and tedious
dry history and drivel
which, no doubt, shrank and shriveled
and lulled these creatures off
to sleep for years
Until we woke them up
broke their hibernation
with more interesting stories
and imagination, colorfully crafted
ingenious, piece after piece
Clicking and clacking away
on typewriters, keyboards
generation after generation
of irritatingly gifted writers
disturbing their peace
it had to cease...
Hiding Under My 3rd Grade Desk
David J Walker
Mrs. Pollards smile
Was enough to reassure every member
Of her third-grade class
That their world was secure
As the crass voice in the
Crackling PA speaker announced
An End of the World Drill in the
Middle of the day
Usually, a call to quietly line up
And make an orderly march to
The hallway where we would
Stay crouched in a fetal position
Until the voice returned to sound
The all-clear
But this time was different
This time it was
Duck & Cover under your desk
Was the end really that near?
Were the bombs about to fall
On Thatcher Elementary in
Pueblo, Colorado?
Did the commies hate us so much
They would rain down missiles
On our playground?
Not today!
Not when It was my turn
To pick sides for Kickball
A girl named Diane with blonde curls
Beside me talk about a sack lunch
And tetherball
And a game of Jax if the
Hopscotch courts were full
Would the bombs blast the whole
Building away
Leaving us huddled under our desks
Before recess?
Would we walk home among craters
Created by Commie planes coming
Over the artic just to find us while
Reciting the rhythm
Of the Times table
The Social Studies lesson was
About the Pilgrims and how we
Should be thankful for freedom
In science we were learning
About the moon and how soon
Someday we would get there
If they drop the bomb could we
Still watch cartoons at 4 in the afternoon
Would there be anything left of the
Playground at Mineral Palace Park
And what about the swans that
Make their home on the park lake
How long are we supposed to
Stay under these desks I whispered
To Mark
I don’t know he said
As Mrs. Pollard shushed us
As we hid and waited for
The all-clear
from his desk
master of the universe
lizzie at his feet
AP: Honorable Mention 2021
You're next to my crush
the love of my life
you shouldn't sit there
that spot isn't yours
IT'S MINE!!!!!!!
Give it back to me
you don't deserve it
I him
I deserve it
Give.
It.
Back.
It happened in an elementary school
On the monthe of October 18th
The children were in the classroom
They were all seated ready to learn
One child hurried into the classroom
He was about to be seated at the desk
The teacher said " You don't sit there now
"I moved your desk to the back"
The student sat still at the desk
Then the teacher got very angry
Grabbed the student plunked and plunked
The student into the back desk
She had duck tape in her hand
The teacher tapped his mouth shut
Put the mask over his mouth
Then continued to duck tape
The whole class was terrified
Watching in terror scared
The time had passed the teacher
Gave a language lesson
The time passed the class was over
Students left the classroom
" Don't tell "said the teacher
Somehow the principle heard
of the incident
Police were called to the school
The teacher was arrested went to jail
The student ducked taped Was traumatized
As well as the classmate3s
By the experience.
This was on the news. I was shocked.
monoku
flower on her desk secret admirer mum's the word
Feb. 9, 2016
Negative Karma
Excess of intense drama….
Crying for Momma
I saw him sitting there
so beautiful and sweet
wind swept hair from the
school air conditioning
The desk next to you is empty
and I hear it calling my name
I'm too shy to talk
but my heart longs for you
babe at the desk
nature prospers me - more than dollars earned working for an employer
Flowers are blooming on the volunteers’ desk:
Roses, carnations, a spring bouquet,
Dish gardens and gold mums (a more masculine look,
The florist said).
Blooming like a garden
Of well-wishes and sentiment,
Blooming here in the hospital lobby
(Well, after all, it is spring).
Each vase or container bears a card.
What is its destination?
The new mother in Maternity?
“Oh, how pretty,” as she nurses her baby.
Or the woman down the hall?
Whose baby died after a brief flicker of life.
That’s all she’ll take home (this time): flowers.
Maybe to the tough kid on the third floor?
It was just an appendicitis, “no big deal.”
Next week, (or the next), he’ll be back
With his friends on Saturday night.
“Hey, look at his scar,” “Cool!”
Maybe that one goes to the old man,
You know, the one who’s dying of…something,
They don’t know exactly….old age?
He’d rather be at home in his garden.
A hospital full of people,
But only enough flowers
To cover the top of the volunteers’ desk.
How many patients, (impatient, really)
Will get nothing today?
Here come the couriers with just a few more.
“Let’s go…..hospitals are depressing.”
Even with (especially with) so many pretty flowers
Waiting on the volunteers’ desk.
Seven Post-its,
a constellation not unlike the Big Dipper
guide travelers through a deskscape
of escarpments and promontories.
Out beyond the half eaten sandwich
dotting the horizon
are The Spires of Mountain Dew,
monuments of deadlines never met.
Rumor has it that beneath
a sedimentary strata of folders
and never-read reports
are Fed-X artifacts
and a 1990 desk calendar.
Four Post-its,
yellow green fuchsia and pink
like Burma Shave placards,
line the bookcase less traveled.
“Fix car”
“Pay bills”
“Workout”
“Orlando”
In a screen-saver sky
biplanes aimlessly fly
back and forth
back and forth
back and forth.
Poetry Contest on my Desk ……..Peter Onyancha
Sometimes when I bleed on paper
The ink does not talk me well
And I lose the contest words
The words come; all at once
Me here! Me! No, me!
They scream for choice
They beg the ear
Listen, the streaming screams
Daunt, open me, pen me!
Listen my sound; I even rhyme some time
No, me, another word –
I live like a metaphor; I come easy
Count me in, keen, out with it
I am the word.
Now I want to nab you, snap!
To chastise the babysitter ego
I want an academy of anger
I think it, but the ink belies
I want to stitch – even that is not the word!
I want to hide and write
But look behind me
The words are chasing
Like little toons!
This desk of mine is solid oak
And it’s forty-two inches wide
The sliding top has many slats
So that up and down, it slides
For certain is a real antique
Of a hundred years; probably more
Old Trader Joe found it for me
Sitting on the “Odd Fellows” floor
This old desk is such a beauty
Took a lot of work to restore
It has a lifetime of memories
I keep them safe inside the drawers