Long Desk Poems
Long Desk Poems. Below are the most popular long Desk by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Desk poems by poem length and keyword.
The office dust is gone…now his office is in disarray
The dust was two years thick…pandemic thick
So many papers, pairs of glasses, and miscellaneous
Carefully moved each item aside to lemon shine the desk
Not carefully enough, for his office is in disarray
The dust was stuck to shelves, blinds, and shadow boxes
The dust was two years thick…pandemic-sick
But…he can’t find his clippers, lens cloth, or me
I’m hiding…can’t you see?! I’m hiding the vacuum where I tossed
the dust and infamy. Items lost and found…when asked…replied
The dust, a two year storm…thick as new fallen snow
Don’t panic! This pandemic of cleanliness is over…
over and above a husband’s head…i need to do my job!
2/14/2023
Politics hypnotizing us
Despising between left and right
It’s dividing us
The stakes are high
News stations frightening the nation with lies
Don’t even know who to trust
This environment is wild and vile
No explanations, can’t even lie with smooth slyness or style
This nation has its own president under hot trial
Five thousand mentions on the Epstein files
Still bombing other countries
We hardly even know
It’s not about politics no more
We’ll be fighting with stones and sticks
The day the United States regains its self control
Even in the parties themselves there’s no immunity
The discontinuity literally as soon as we see
Power under the pressure
Like a pirate guards their treasure
Where’s unity amongst Cornyn and Paxton?
The constant tug of war between dozen of PAC sums
Even for me,
Even some dems, my own allies agree
That I can’t use a bathroom in peace
Without accusations of indecency
And when I go to church, my own religion
It’s like all eyes on me for my considered decisions
I don’t understand the despise on me
To all the haters and indecent sayers
I’ve heard you all before now let me be
Investing billions in elections and zero in love
Love’s no longer on the ballot
It changed to being tough
And I don’t know about you all
But I’m tired of being tough
People saying empty threats and empty bluffs
We respond by acting strong and acting buff
Every slur they call me is a cuff
When does it stop, when is it enough?
Our founding fathers tolerated so we could stand together
Now the consequence if whether
Red or blue wins,
If your opponent wins never,
Unity looks severed forever
Besides voting in November,
How can individuals do better?
I wrote my school board member a letter
Asking to her represent me better
She never wrote me back
Must’ve been return to sender
Or I betcha it never made its way on her desk
Probably was thrown out with the rest
Cause its contents would have her discontent
This poem isn’t even a call to action
It’s more like just telling you I pray to God
That we cut the abstract factions
And see each other equal under law
Our dissatisfaction has already become our own saw
Because we scratched it in half, and with our own claws
Capital letter …
Right now, please note: it is time to dust, not write.
Dust was eating away this besieged body;
Amassing with all the misery that delights in ambush.
It crept into secret crevices,
Quietly dulling senses, as it blended in;
Softly choking, mimicking flu,
Before weaving a blanket so thick
It embraced and insulated;
Gently burying body under the weight of
An elephantine duvet with speaking tongues.
Write now, right now that house pride has succumbed to ash
As caked and empty cans and bottles decorate.
The dustman hurried by the empty drum
For rubbish barricaded the front door.
The inconvenience: to eat, drink, shop, to pay bills
Without leaving one’s desk these days.
Friends and adversaries seep out of pens,
Alphabetically springing to colourful life.
Who dares miss a thought so precious, so elusive –
Might never occur again.
So grasp it, rack it; right, left lobe battle dire emotions and reason.
Let dust prevent thoughts from leaving from whence it came.
Incarcerate all grey matters.
Now one can write how it feels to have dust as qwerty companion.
Then fling open the door,
Let light and the world in.
Shout: “I write because I can.”
Full stop … Exclamation mark!
End.
(PS: begin again.)
Hope is light gathering in silence until it crystallizes. quote by poetess
Granddad’s Selectric waited in dusty silence, keeping the memory of words he did materialize.
Its keys once polished, now dulled by years, still guard the faith he refused to minimize.
As a child I listened beneath his desk, hearing letters lift like prayers my muse did recognize.
His hands moved with a pianist’s grace, shaping truth into lines no shadow could incise.
After he passed, I carried it attic-ward, a quiet procession where my childhood dream did die.
Each summer I climbed the attic ladder, dreaming of stories my imagination did fertilize.
Many years later I returned, the ladder moaning, heavy with mothballs, regret, and forgotten ties.
My flashlight found its silhouette waiting, a ghost-bright outline time could not neutralize.
I lifted the cover, hands on home keys, its faded letters whispering ‘don’t compromise.’
Something in me stirred awake, a long-kept dream beginning softly to rise.
The first keystroke jammed, the second struck true, ink warming and with hope did energize.
By the third paragraph, words unfurled through me, swift as breath my soul itself supplies.
I felt the years fall back like dust, as if the attic air had chosen me to baptiize.
that part of me that once believed in stories before fear taught my voice to downsize.
And in that hush I sensed a truth returning, an axiom no silence could disenfranchise:
In truth, hope patiently endures waiting for courage to mobilize.
Gifts we bury still remember us, calling softly for us, our dreams to reprise.
Even dust lit dreams can bloom when the heart dares to visualize.
Every story waits for its moment, every calling waits to revitalize.
Until at last, in the quiet glow, I let my long-kept hope fully crystallize.
you may read the related story at: poetrysoup.com/short_stories/a_dream_deferred_13827
The black pen with black ink is running out,
The paper on the desk is clean but creased.
It must hurt to have been crumpled up and straightened out time after time again,
Only to be used by someone else.
One year, and I am an entirely new person.
My tears have left permanent stains.
They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,
But what if I feel too weak to pick up the pen?
The thoughts swarm in my head,
They are buzzing,
Too many tangled lines,
I can’t make straight of the messy strands.
One question is determined to mute the noise,
It reigns in my head:
How can I write? How can I write?
Time has buried me alive,
Yet, somehow, I survive.
No one understands; they try but they can’t.
I crave the sound of an apology,
As if I will ever get the satisfaction of hearing one.
The hard truth is,
They don’t care to and I know that I can’t make them.
Words can’t be unsaid; wounds take time to heal.
But despite their cruelty,
The earth keeps spinning, and I keep going.
I can smooth the crumpled piece of paper but I can’t erase the pain,
I can shake the pen and plead for one more droplet of ink,
But maybe it has already given me its best.
The black ink is spotty as I guide the pen across the page,
My handwriting not neat quite enough.
Dear Seventeen.
You ask yourself how you can write,
when you feel that words aren’t enough.
Maybe you can’t.
You ask yourself how you can make them understand,
giving them chance after chance.
Maybe you can’t.
You ask yourself how you can make them feel sorry
for the way that they destroyed you.
Maybe you can’t.
But when you’re wondering if you can survive it— all of it—
Trust me, you can.
Forgive the forgotten
I received the post from someone anonymous
a video, not knowing who had sent it, I put the video in a drawer where it languished for years
Yesterday, when clearing up the drawers on my desk
full of copy pens that didn't work a broken
camera, seven pairs of shop-bought glasses, and a copy
paper, although I have no typewriter, and the video
the video showed how my life was when young
and the people I knew were young as well
play, anger, love, dance, and greed it was all there
nothing spared the blushes.
Watching the video many times till late at night
when it struck me, of all the people shown, I was
the only one alive and had moved on and left my youth behind me; I felt a deep shame, a regret that
had not thought about them, those who had played
such a big part of my youth.
Later in the night, the forgotten floated up as pieces of a puzzle that made no sense.
A fair girl, why did he behave so beastly towards her? A broken stem of a wine glass was it his blood or someone else; a crescendo of uncurbed rage.
The sudden darkness, a new dawn far away, where
dreams become alive, replacing the embryo that
died before life, entering the state of oblivion, yet what once was exists in dreams and memories of those who once loved and made life bearable
Slowing Down
Electricity runs through my veins.
It courses in waves,
from my head to my feet,
and back.
Why?
Because I am ever,
waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I heard the first one,
but there are nearly always two.
Big mistakes made in ways that seemed planned.
Fallen marks from goals, turned upside down.
Who is watching the fish,
in the bowl,
on the cabinet,
by the desk...
where the water is red, not blue?
There is no air to breathe.
Stopped up sections,
plumbers called out.
But no one remembers how to use... a wrench.
They can barely spell the word,
much less design,
and somehow make a new one,
to replace the old...
that is;...
should the first-ever become broken,
in its or our lifetime.
Buses come by this way.
They are yellow and green.
That is not the color of the country,
no, nor the city or state.
It is just the color of the metal.
They ran out of the other colors,
and were making do.
Flowers are growing now,
beside the road.
I want that job.
The spreading of seeds,
that make a difference,
to all the picture postcards.
We should go somewhere...
at least once in our lives.
Fateful... thoughts,
too many coats,
not enough socks,
and there are guests coming for dinner.
They are all sad and empty,
but they will be remembered.
Looking backward is useless.
Tomorrow will take care of itself,
but only if we pay attention to today.
Look up and sing,
the birds on wing will hear you.
Don't be afraid.
There is still, one important thing.
A treasure, a token,
nothing that is broken.
Let that whatever it is...
be part of your life,
but not all of it.
Gaze up unto heaven... smile,
laugh like a child,
even when there is...
no more blue in the sky.
Fill in the missing lines,
between the darkness and the light,
long enough to climb to the moon.
You are nearly where you need to be.
Keep trying!
A. Foster, Ann Foster, Annette Foster
Constant time poems are fun to write.
The key is getting the timing right.
It's best when you think in constant time,
Not focusing on the length of the line.
A four-count works the best for me;
Eight syllables works perfectly.
The emphasis: iambic beat
No skips for me, just nice and neat.
You tap it out, it flows like rote
Each syllable is half a note
Shorter lines? Pauses tweaked;
The longer the line, the faster you speak.
Seven is a better fit?
Half note delay; wait for it.
If nine is preferred, is what you need
Drop into quarters to get your speed.
And when you write a limerick,
Here is another little trick:
Lines 1, 2, and 5: the standard count
Lines 3 and 4: half that amount
So now that you're tapping at your desk,
The image here: picturesque.
See, Tippecanoe and Tyler too
Fit perfectly, so now we're through!
1905
Geronimo went to Washington
to meet the Great White Father
(where he hoped to bury the hatchet)
and save his Indian Nation...
checking into his hotel, the desk clerk asked,
"Do you have a reservation?"
The perfect poker face when playing cards
(his guards were nearly always broke)
said to be blood-thirsty, his winnings used he
to pay for educating children of the Apache.
He later rode with Pawnee Bill
in what was known as the 'Wild West',
(and what a circus)
a chief he never was,
1909
died of pneumonia all too soon,
'Geronimo Now a Good Indian,'
read the headline of The Chicago Daily Tribune.
My muse has been hiding out
And with no peep, squeak or shout
She must be sound asleep
No words, just counting sheep
Tired of the poetry drought
Oh where, O where has my gypsy muse flown
Seems she has left me to write on my own
I must not be too rude
She'll cop an attitude
And then taunt me like an evil old crone
Mine vanished after my last book
I've rested and changed my outlook
My brain ran out of juice
And my 'vowels' were loose
Twas quite a feat that my muse took
Honestly, I think mine is rebelling
But there is absolutely no telling
What my missing muse might do
I dare not call her a shrew
Or she'll never return to my dwelling
Upon my desk, I see she's left a note
"I'm on a vacation," is what she wrote
"Perhaps I should've phoned
To say I won't be owned."
Should I have mentioned her in a footnote?
Perhaps she's in a gypsy caravan
Seeking a lover, a Romani man
Living a nomadic life
If he takes her for his wife
I'll need a new muse and a new game plan
My muse is now knocking on my door
Searching for my words left on the floor
She is gathering my lines
Blending them like a fine wine
Hoping for a few new poems and more
Well, recently my muse returned
Her holiday was very well earned
I'll write sensible words
Not on pooping or turds
Poop poetry, my muse has spurned
My muse is back after weeks refusing
And now she can't stop yakking and schmoozing
Three muses have returned
But we're a lil' concerned...
What if we don't find their thoughts amusing?
*Collaboration of Tania, Jan and Lin