She sat on the sidelines. Benched. Odd one out. Wondering why she wasn’t chosen for the team. She could run, she could kick a ball. Wasn’t that enough to join in? Did the coach notice that she was sitting alone..again? Did anyone?
I was sitting on the park bench in the dappled sunlight on that crisp fall day, contemplating my place in the universe–and the gray pigeon plopped on my hair! Story of my life!
i like to sit on benches. they are like couches but they’re outside. I suppose benches could be inside, but they aren’t the same. Seriously, outside benches are the way to go. Definately not courtroom benches…yikes! Benches and Hoes man…benches and hoes
one time i sat on this bench alone and that’s all i could do was sit alone and alone and no on e came to talk to me and even though no one was there i was accompainied by this bench and it made me happy that i at least had a place to sit and talk to someone evne when there was no some one and just a bench to sit on
That old woman reading a gossip magazine tossing breadcrumbs to pattering pigeons. She sits on the park bench…idly giving bread to the needy reading about the exploits of supermodels and b-list actors. Pigeons scramble to scoop up the pieces of her loaf.
bench press? park bench? what kind? i really do not like the word bench, seriously who came up with it? i think of birds and trees, or athletes pushing their bodys to lift more than i physically could.
I sat with you. On a bench in the Iveagh Gardens. I was drinking coffee and I stuttered nervously caffeinated. Trying to let you know how I felt, when I didn’t know. I couldn’t tell you. I can’t tell myself. The bench was cold. You were warm.
i sat on the bench with the one i love and i fed the birds as we listened to them chirping ever so in love. as they sat there and they looked at me, i knew they wanted me to fly with them but I was already high on the love in the air. It was pure and clean. Ever so childish.
I don’t know what a bench is. If I do, maybe I could do a better job here. But I think is just fine tell anything about anything to you. For example, my dog. Her name is Xanda. It’s the name of my first kissing girl.
we’re alone. there are trees, there’s water. the skies are black. the sun has descended into a transparent ooze on the horizon. this is the end of the world, or the end of us. whichever it is, i’ll hold your hand to the end of it. on this, this bench, this park bench.
One of my favorite pastimes in college was to lie on a bench in the sun during the winter and take naps between classes. Ipod in ears, relaxation at it’s highest. Long days were the best so long as I had bench nap time.
There was a wood bench by the side of the lake. The bench was old and had no back or arms, just the seat, a bare minimum. Nobody knew who owned the lake, or the bench who sat besides it, so they all assumed it was the town’s, or mabey it belonged to the people arcoss the street. Ethier way, the bench had not been sat on in years. If the people in the town had bothered to go arcoss the street, mabey on a warm day when ducks where in the lake, and sat on the bench, they perhaps might have looked down, and upon looking down, mabey they would have seen that the ground had been disturbed.
The brain birds circle around the bench I sit. They want what is in the breifcase. This little black briefcase will solve all there problems. The trees came out of the earth and silenced the skies. I ate my lunch in peace. I have to stop doing acid at work.
once upon a time in a magical land, a woman was wasling down the road. she stopped, noticing something odd. it was some odd form of seatery that she had never seen before. a man walking by also stopped. he asked her”what’s that?” i dont know” relied she. they looked at the name plate. BENCH was written in bold font.
The rickety old thing had been sitting in that garden for decades. The pluthera of plants and vines that had covered the seat made it look almost rustic.
I never really understood why the pigeons flocked over my way. The park was covered with clutter that in one way or another had killed a bird. But for now I will sit here on this bench and watch them with awe.
The place of waiting. always there is some Forst Gump or othersuch person in wait of transit or change. Mulling away the precious moments that could be recreated but in new and vibrant ways. having made their mental museum, they might stroll down it in their inert posture.
She sat on the bench every day by herself for years, and then one day this man came and sat with her and asked if she would be there again tomorrow, and she knew, she would never be alone again.
To the heartache, a bench is solemn warrior. Seen frequented without much delight by the elderly – their spouses gone, probably forever. They busy themselves feeding pigeons and staring off into the distance. Maybe they read the newspaper, to feel some sort of connection.
This bench understands that solemn life.
bench is where you sit and can meet new people but often if you see someone sittling on bench you won’t bother to sit next to them but why is it fear we don’t know how to connect anymore something as easy as a bench has become complicated due to a mental barrior
The bench was green, though the paint was chipped, and underneath it was a dull, aged brown, rimed white from the frost. The two men sitting on the bench wore similar black dusters, fedoras tugged low to shield their faces. One was feeding the ducks; the other was reading a newspaper, and to all eyes they seemed to be ignoring each other completely.
But they were planning, quietly and calmly, the end of the world.
Bench of the life. People come, hang around for a while and then leave. Its natural flow… I like to change people on my bench and i like to visit as many people’s benches possible. That is the way I live…
Sitting alone on the park bench, the wind blowing across your face. Loneliness encompasses you and all you want is to have somebody sit next to you and hold you, just to feel the warmth of another. But no. In the still of the cold night, newspaper rustles across the sidewalk as the wind blows, leaves refusing to remain still. Eyes turn towards the sky, stars blotted out by the city lights; you don’t know why you look up at the sky– it’s always the same picture.
there once was a bench that sat in a park and little thomas went and sat on this bench but it was not very comfy so he stood up and walked to another bench and this bench was shaped like a toothbrush so when he sat down on i it began to move back and forth and side to side until it had cleaned the whole worlds]
I haven’t sat on one in a while. You don’t really see a whole lot of benches in parks anymore, or maybe you do. I just haven’t been to a park lately. I really need to get outside and live instead of sitting here shackled to my keyboard. There’s a world outside my bedroom window that I, for some reason, refuse to explore. I guess I could blame it on the news and the paranoia that follows it. But really I’m just lazy, and so are you.
Sitting on this bench today. The sun’s shining just barely behind the thick blanket of clouds, looming closer and closer to the ground as they threaten to snow. Ugh. I’m tired of the snow. Winter’s welcome has come and gone in the past month, what with it’s bone-chilling wind and furious snows dredging down upon us constantly.
sometimes I feel like life puts me on the bench. to sit down, shut up, observe and root for my team. i can play next round, I can bang and bruise up my knees on another go. but right now I need to watch and learn. so here I am. sitting on the bench. waiting. watching.
a bench. just there in the middle of the park. long forgotten by those who put it there. but put there in rememberance of one who feel a long time ago. one who will never be forgotten. one who will always be in the hearts of his family.
i once wrote a poem about a park bench. it had seen a proposal, a breakup, a child get hurt, a girl’s first kiss. it’s pretty cool when you think about it- how much inanimate objects would see if they could… see. although, i suppose then they might complain about how smelly we all are, especially the central park benches. or get cliquey.
I love a good bench with a view of the hills, surrounded by green on the side of a mountain or small hill. Or a bench by the sea, where you can hear the sound of the crashing waves and feel the sea-salted wind whip your hair around. A bench that allows you to contemplate the beauty of nature, the infinitesimal nature of being human, one tiny body in the grand cosmos, is a wonderful thing.
Is this my workbench? I’ve been assigned a workbench with only wrenches, no hammers, nails or screwdrivers, and no nuts or bolts. Maybe the work is all about un-wrenching, from the bench.
I was sitting on a bench filled by eerie surrondings. Then he passed by , as if he were dancing across the blades of ice. It was love at first sight.. I knew that he had to be mine. Each day I waited on the bench searching for him, but he was nowhere to be found. Just a distant memory.
I sit on this bench. I am waiting to see you. I may look like I am doing a crossword or outlining my notes, but really I am waiting to see you. I am waiting for your blue eyes to peer into my soul, your smile to give me butterflies and your nod to give me hope.
She sat on the sidelines. Benched. Odd one out. Wondering why she wasn’t chosen for the team. She could run, she could kick a ball. Wasn’t that enough to join in? Did the coach notice that she was sitting alone..again? Did anyone?
I was sitting on the park bench in the dappled sunlight on that crisp fall day, contemplating my place in the universe–and the gray pigeon plopped on my hair! Story of my life!
Flat space
Solidity of legs
Holding the weight of the world
Place of rest
i like to sit on benches. they are like couches but they’re outside. I suppose benches could be inside, but they aren’t the same. Seriously, outside benches are the way to go. Definately not courtroom benches…yikes! Benches and Hoes man…benches and hoes
one time i sat on this bench alone and that’s all i could do was sit alone and alone and no on e came to talk to me and even though no one was there i was accompainied by this bench and it made me happy that i at least had a place to sit and talk to someone evne when there was no some one and just a bench to sit on
sleep on a bench like a hobo is good to catch a cold but don’t let go you could be hypnotise by the big brother or simply frost
That old woman reading a gossip magazine tossing breadcrumbs to pattering pigeons. She sits on the park bench…idly giving bread to the needy reading about the exploits of supermodels and b-list actors. Pigeons scramble to scoop up the pieces of her loaf.
bench press? park bench? what kind? i really do not like the word bench, seriously who came up with it? i think of birds and trees, or athletes pushing their bodys to lift more than i physically could.
I sat with you. On a bench in the Iveagh Gardens. I was drinking coffee and I stuttered nervously caffeinated. Trying to let you know how I felt, when I didn’t know. I couldn’t tell you. I can’t tell myself. The bench was cold. You were warm.
i sat on the bench with the one i love and i fed the birds as we listened to them chirping ever so in love. as they sat there and they looked at me, i knew they wanted me to fly with them but I was already high on the love in the air. It was pure and clean. Ever so childish.
I don’t know what a bench is. If I do, maybe I could do a better job here. But I think is just fine tell anything about anything to you. For example, my dog. Her name is Xanda. It’s the name of my first kissing girl.
a bench is a place to sit and to talk to people. birds chirping and dogs in a park. kissing.
we’re alone. there are trees, there’s water. the skies are black. the sun has descended into a transparent ooze on the horizon. this is the end of the world, or the end of us. whichever it is, i’ll hold your hand to the end of it. on this, this bench, this park bench.
One of my favorite pastimes in college was to lie on a bench in the sun during the winter and take naps between classes. Ipod in ears, relaxation at it’s highest. Long days were the best so long as I had bench nap time.
There was a wood bench by the side of the lake. The bench was old and had no back or arms, just the seat, a bare minimum. Nobody knew who owned the lake, or the bench who sat besides it, so they all assumed it was the town’s, or mabey it belonged to the people arcoss the street. Ethier way, the bench had not been sat on in years. If the people in the town had bothered to go arcoss the street, mabey on a warm day when ducks where in the lake, and sat on the bench, they perhaps might have looked down, and upon looking down, mabey they would have seen that the ground had been disturbed.
The brain birds circle around the bench I sit. They want what is in the breifcase. This little black briefcase will solve all there problems. The trees came out of the earth and silenced the skies. I ate my lunch in peace. I have to stop doing acid at work.
once upon a time in a magical land, a woman was wasling down the road. she stopped, noticing something odd. it was some odd form of seatery that she had never seen before. a man walking by also stopped. he asked her”what’s that?” i dont know” relied she. they looked at the name plate. BENCH was written in bold font.
The rickety old thing had been sitting in that garden for decades. The pluthera of plants and vines that had covered the seat made it look almost rustic.
I never really understood why the pigeons flocked over my way. The park was covered with clutter that in one way or another had killed a bird. But for now I will sit here on this bench and watch them with awe.
The place of waiting. always there is some Forst Gump or othersuch person in wait of transit or change. Mulling away the precious moments that could be recreated but in new and vibrant ways. having made their mental museum, they might stroll down it in their inert posture.
She sat on the bench every day by herself for years, and then one day this man came and sat with her and asked if she would be there again tomorrow, and she knew, she would never be alone again.
To the heartache, a bench is solemn warrior. Seen frequented without much delight by the elderly – their spouses gone, probably forever. They busy themselves feeding pigeons and staring off into the distance. Maybe they read the newspaper, to feel some sort of connection.
This bench understands that solemn life.
bench is where you sit and can meet new people but often if you see someone sittling on bench you won’t bother to sit next to them but why is it fear we don’t know how to connect anymore something as easy as a bench has become complicated due to a mental barrior
The bench was green, though the paint was chipped, and underneath it was a dull, aged brown, rimed white from the frost. The two men sitting on the bench wore similar black dusters, fedoras tugged low to shield their faces. One was feeding the ducks; the other was reading a newspaper, and to all eyes they seemed to be ignoring each other completely.
But they were planning, quietly and calmly, the end of the world.
Bench of the life. People come, hang around for a while and then leave. Its natural flow… I like to change people on my bench and i like to visit as many people’s benches possible. That is the way I live…
Sitting alone on the park bench, the wind blowing across your face. Loneliness encompasses you and all you want is to have somebody sit next to you and hold you, just to feel the warmth of another. But no. In the still of the cold night, newspaper rustles across the sidewalk as the wind blows, leaves refusing to remain still. Eyes turn towards the sky, stars blotted out by the city lights; you don’t know why you look up at the sky– it’s always the same picture.
there once was a bench that sat in a park and little thomas went and sat on this bench but it was not very comfy so he stood up and walked to another bench and this bench was shaped like a toothbrush so when he sat down on i it began to move back and forth and side to side until it had cleaned the whole worlds]
I haven’t sat on one in a while. You don’t really see a whole lot of benches in parks anymore, or maybe you do. I just haven’t been to a park lately. I really need to get outside and live instead of sitting here shackled to my keyboard. There’s a world outside my bedroom window that I, for some reason, refuse to explore. I guess I could blame it on the news and the paranoia that follows it. But really I’m just lazy, and so are you.
‘Let’s take a walk’ I said.
The path winded away from the Princeton math department, we strolled along it. Start, stop. We sat down at a bench.
‘I have something important to tell you’ I said.
Sitting on this bench today. The sun’s shining just barely behind the thick blanket of clouds, looming closer and closer to the ground as they threaten to snow. Ugh. I’m tired of the snow. Winter’s welcome has come and gone in the past month, what with it’s bone-chilling wind and furious snows dredging down upon us constantly.
A bench, on a grassy slope
hidden in a park somewhere,
overlooks downtown
It’s muddy around, so we refuse to sit, and find another
We ended up in a chaparral forest, of sorts, near a path
talking, and doing nothing but, then the rain came pouring down,
and we had to run.
sometimes I feel like life puts me on the bench. to sit down, shut up, observe and root for my team. i can play next round, I can bang and bruise up my knees on another go. but right now I need to watch and learn. so here I am. sitting on the bench. waiting. watching.
a bench. just there in the middle of the park. long forgotten by those who put it there. but put there in rememberance of one who feel a long time ago. one who will never be forgotten. one who will always be in the hearts of his family.
never be forgotten by the one who loved him.
i once wrote a poem about a park bench. it had seen a proposal, a breakup, a child get hurt, a girl’s first kiss. it’s pretty cool when you think about it- how much inanimate objects would see if they could… see. although, i suppose then they might complain about how smelly we all are, especially the central park benches. or get cliquey.
I love a good bench with a view of the hills, surrounded by green on the side of a mountain or small hill. Or a bench by the sea, where you can hear the sound of the crashing waves and feel the sea-salted wind whip your hair around. A bench that allows you to contemplate the beauty of nature, the infinitesimal nature of being human, one tiny body in the grand cosmos, is a wonderful thing.
I feel like I’m sitting on the sideline of life, bench warmer, not participant…I gotta do something!!
He sits and listens to the heartbreak of two teenagers and his gaze rests upon the evil step-mother. He questions the law that will deny them.
Is this my workbench? I’ve been assigned a workbench with only wrenches, no hammers, nails or screwdrivers, and no nuts or bolts. Maybe the work is all about un-wrenching, from the bench.
I was sitting on a bench filled by eerie surrondings. Then he passed by , as if he were dancing across the blades of ice. It was love at first sight.. I knew that he had to be mine. Each day I waited on the bench searching for him, but he was nowhere to be found. Just a distant memory.
I sit on this bench. I am waiting to see you. I may look like I am doing a crossword or outlining my notes, but really I am waiting to see you. I am waiting for your blue eyes to peer into my soul, your smile to give me butterflies and your nod to give me hope.