Quotes about desk, page 3
Stream Of Consciousness
Stream of consciousness
Thoughts that come at random
With no foresight and no plan
My fingers type at their own volition
With no structured idea at hand
I live in an environment of inquietude
In an ambiance of unease and perhaps fear
There’s a weight upon my forehead
A sense of loss of things I hold dear
Today’s a day much like any other
I read, I eat, yet feel so incomplete,
and blandly smiling at me in calm so replete
On my desk, photos of sisters and brother
Just to sit and compose idle randomness
At my desk, takes my mind away for a bit
Yet at the back of my mind sits emptyness
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poem by David Whalen
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Our Tropical Paradise
I wonder how many times
we sit at our desk
and look out the window on a sunny day,
wishing we were on a tropical beach
lazing in the sun under a coconut tree
watching the sparkling waters
as they race up the sandy beach.
Having a lazy day with the sand and sea,
enjoying Mother Nature’s beautiful bounty.
A dream maybe,
but a dream to help us through
any storms that may weather our lives,
giving us hope for tomorrow
and the sunny day that might bring.
We look at the blue sky
and the odd white fluffy clouds
that shape into many things,
helped along with warm comforting winds.
Our mind is full of images
that build our favourite dreams
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poem by David Harris
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Against The Evidence
As I reach to close each book
lying open on my desk, it leaps up
to snap at my fingers. My legs
won’t hold me, I must sit down.
My fingers pain me
where the thick leaves snapped together
at my touch.
All my life
I’ve held books in my hands
like children, carefully turning
their pages and straightening out
their creases. I use books
almost apologetically. I believe
I often think their thoughts for them.
Reading, I never know where theirs leave off
and mine begin. I am so much alone
in the world, I can observe the stars
or study the breeze, I can count the steps
on a stair on the way up or down,
and I can look at another human being
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poem by David Ignatow
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The poetess, the moon...and the woods Pt1
A tear traced a path on her cheek in the moonlight
As her lips brushed the brow of her sleeping child
She stood still for a moment, with eyes closed tightly
Corners of lips pulled up… in a winsome smile
Strode heavily to the open window
stared out into the woods, soft lit by the moon
Then with a sigh pulled down the window
And quietly tiptoed out of the room
Glanced in at her husband, long asleep in their bed
And in her mind gave him a kiss on the top of his head
Then sat at her desk and finished her poem
Sat back and reviewed it… one last time
It was about her life… and about her home
And about the glow of the woods in the moonshine
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poem by David Whalen
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WriDiNg Desk
She is at her writing desk
saddled-up work for scribing
spectacular image stories
poetry
....mmmm...
wet ink for toil's oiling
plumes of fumes
creative lubricant
all pervasive seeping pen entrant
...looms
anchor heel poise movement steal steel
thoroughbred riding for enlivening
I the imp glint mischievous
under her desk
state of anticipatory unrest
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poem by Randy Resh
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Truman Teaches Romney Where The Buck Stops
On the desk of President Truman did sit a sign
famous defining standard of the man throughout
the land of the great United States of America!
Truman sitting at his desk in his White House
office had responsibility sign 'The Buck Stops Here'
because in Truman's administration the president
took responsibility for the welfare of all Americans!
No poker player hustler could be elected president
swindle 47% of the American people and say it is not
his responsibility as president to care for all citizens!
Mitt Romney passed the buck declaring all voters
who would not vote for him were not his responsibility...
in his vision for a Romney rummy federal government!
President Truman had a motto even for Monday morning
because as star quarterback for a nation when a decision
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poem by Terence George Craddock
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The Telegraph Clerk
Sitting here by my desk all day,
Hearing the constant click
As the messages speed on their way,
And the call comes sharp and quick--
Oh, what a varied tale they tell
Of joy and hope and fear!
The funeral knell and the marriage bell
In their steady tick I hear.
'Mother is dying; come at once.'
And the tears will almost start,
For tender daughters and loving sons--
God pity each aching heart!
Ah! how the haunting memories press
Of the mother's unfailing tenderness,
That is now forever o'er.
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poem by Anonymous Americas
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Hik-Tee-Dik!
THE WAR-CRY OF BILLY AND BUDDY
When two little boys--renowned but for noise--
Hik-tee-dik! Billy and Buddy!--
May hurt a whole school, and the head it employs,
Hik-tee-dik! Billy and Buddy!
Such loud and hilarious pupils indeed
Need learning--and yet something further they need,
Though fond hearts that love them may sorrow and bleed.
Hik-tee-dik! Billy and Buddy!
O the schoolmarm was cool, and in no wise a fool;
Hik-tee-dik! Billy and Buddy!
And in ruling her ranks it was _her_ rule to _rule_;
Hik-tee-dik! Billy and Buddy!
So when these two pupils conspired, every day,
Some mad piece of mischief, with whoop and hoo-ray,
That hurt yet defied her,--how happy were they!--
Hik-tee-dik! Billy and Buddy!
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poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Paper Cuts
Endless duplication of lives and objects....
-Theodore Roethke
I have known the imperial power of secretaries,
the awesome indifference of receptionists,
I have been intimidated by desk & typewriter,
by the silver jaws of the stapler
& the lecherous kiss of the mucilage,
& the unctuousness of rubber cement
before it dries.
I have been afraid of telephones,
have put my mouth to their stale tobacco breath,
have been jarred to terror
by their jangling midnight music,
& their sudden blackness
even when they are white.
I have been afraid in elevators
amid the satin hiss of cables
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poem by Erica Jong
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the German hotel
the German hotel was very strange and expensive and had
double doors to the rooms, very thick doors, and it over-
looked the park and the vasser tern and in the mornings
it was usually too late for breakfast and the maids
would be everywhere changing sheets and bringing in
towels, but you never saw any hotel guests, only the
maids and the desk man and the day desk man was all
right because we were sober during the day but we had
trouble with the night man who was some sort of snob
and not very good with getting the corkscrews and ice
and wine glasses up to us and he was always phoning to
say the other guests objected to our noise.
what other guests?
I always told him that everything was very quiet,
nothing was going on, that somebody must be crazy, so
will you please stop ringing?
but he kept ringing, he became almost like a
companion to us through the night.
but the day man was very nice, he always had little
messages of importance that either meant money, or a
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poem by Charles Bukowski
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