Conversations Poems - Poems about Conversations

Conversations with a Dying Star

I spoke tonight to a dying star,
A flicker frail in endless skies.
It burned with all it ever was,
A lantern trembling as it dies.

I spoke to fire that once was flame,
To ancient light now burning thin.
I spoke to hours that bore no name,
To distant worlds I’ll never win.

I asked it how it kept its glow,
I asked

Conversations

Conversations with my father,
Bittersweet, and maybe sad
Conversations with my father
Talks that we never had.
Companionably silent 
As we set off walking 
Neither of us known
For doing too much talking
Down Lambwath road
To Billy Bulson’s farm,
Each with a broken 12 bore
Tucked safely underarm.
I was at his hospital bedside
On the day that he died
Once alone  in the car
I

Ideas from Strangers Conversations

Brought my daughter to physical therapy appointment
She is filling out three long pages of paper work – front and back
I am listening to other people’s conversations
Learning about strangers keeps me in writing material
My ears are as high as an alert rabbit as I listen to others
I keep my head down, pretending I am not writing

collaborations

When it came to love
I had no real plan
I know I wanted to connect in an intimate way
with experimentation and playfulness

I was short on experience
there was a pandemic
I’d had few ‘at-bats’
that’s a sports metaphor

Much of it seemed surreal and abstract
like we’d entered another realm of everyday places
there was a subtle unpredictability
that was unfiltered, instinctive and

Bus Stop

“I’m so glad you’re alive”
I told you this, maybe a little too soon
With Nyx painting shadows on our faces
it was a little too dark
But you’re eyes were transfixed completely on mine
And I was completely aware
That it was a little too beautiful for just the second day

I met you a little too late
I wish you could’ve

Changing Conversations

Conversation’s bound to change 
As aging takes its toll,
For when you meet with friends,
Exchanging stories is the goal.

So politics may be discussed
Or movies, books or shows
Or travel or the grandkids;
That’s the way it always goes.

Except that something else now comes
To take up center stage -
The ailments that we deal with
And those battles that we wage:

The

things and stuff

While we’re renaming things,
can we please rename “United States” to “AAAmerica.”
I know I’m tired of scrolling to the bottom of every pop-down country list.
And ARE we united? Really, even a little?

That awkward moment when you’re already said, “what?” three times,
and you still have no idea what the conversation is about, but you can tell,
by bouncy

Conversations at the Areopagus

(The Apostle Paul is waiting at Athens, and some of the Epicureans and Stoics engaged him in conversation.)

Agon, Aidos, Apate, Bia, Corus and Dysnomia (talking amongst themselves) say “What will this seed picker say?”

(A seed picker was a bird that picked seeds out of the waste in the gutters)

Eris, Eupraxia, Hybris, Kratos, Oizys and Penthous

conversations with the old

THE DAY MAY COME WHEN I WILL DIE
SOME WILL LAUGH AND SOME WILL CRY

YET I BELIEVE THEIR WILL BE
A LOT OF QUESTIONS LEFT TO SEE
UNANSWERED THOUGHTS STILL UNEXPLAINED
THE ANSWERS SHALL COME THE CHILDS' BRAIN
AND AS THEY LAY ME IN THE DIRT
KEEP IN MIND I AM FOOD FOR BIRTH

THE DAY MAY COME WHEN I DIE
SOME WILL

Late Night Conversations

Act 1: Venting

As above so below, so, where are you God
Because right now all I see is these bills piling up
My stress is piling up atop embers of anger 
My patience is about as thin as a piece of paper, and I just got cut
As above so below, so, where are you God
Because it feels

momz - or what r u going to do

I’m enjoying spending time with my mom - we have an intimacy braided like rope. I forgot how funny she is. At the same time, we’ve been softcore arguing for days.

She wants me to accomplish something this summer - to pad my med-school resume - do anything but relax. But I refuse. If I’m going

You have haunted the garden of my thoughts, unaware of the endless conversations

You have haunted the garden of my thoughts, unaware of the endless conversations,
About sea butterflies and flights mingled with white, forgetful snows.
I wove you into the celestial tapestries, you were my astral laboratory of dreams,
A solar vagabond returning from a dark night to caress the dawn once more.
In profound silence, I have tried to paint

Conversations with my Son

He’s got plans to meet his friend,
And he’s putting things in his pockets, his wallet, his keys, a set of dice.
‘I can’t forget these dice’ he says to me.
‘I did not know you had a set of dice, that’s news to me. 
But why on god’s green earth do you need that to go with

I love conversations midway

Reasons you might be a serial killer

-all your lampshades are made from human skin

-all 3 of your chainsaws are always fully fuelled

-your wallpapers is hundreds of pictures of a rocking horse ridden by a gorilla

-you live in the basement of the asylum with all your ex therapists

Not to do with the poem but could zombies

Popping off

This was last Christmas - 39 days ago - doesn’t that seem like ancient history? 

We were in Lisa’s (parent’s) 50th floor flat, in Manhattan. It was mid-morning, we’d done the present thing, and it was coffee time. At 42°, the city was surprisingly warm, drizzly, and the weather service had issued a dense fog

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