Long Confides Poems
Long Confides Poems. Below are the most popular long Confides by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Confides poems by poem length and keyword.
Beneath the amber dawn and autumn hues,
a cabin hides where forest touches shore;
its chimney breathes a puff of whitish blue
a sign of warmth behind its worn wood door.
The lake reflects the calm of autumn’s sphere,
as early morning mist hangs in the air;
and ripples, echoing the fading year,
sedately disappear as if not there.
Within the timbered walls a peace resides,
a place to gather thoughts as seasons wane;
I reminisce the dreams my mind confides
and pen the moments of my life’s refrain.
So let me dwell where autumn’s breath is slow
and write the rhymes no summer song could know.
October 21, 2025
The One
Is there a man
with a passionate hand
who's mastered seductive control?
Seeking a wife
for the pleasures of life,
soothing the beast in his soul?
One unafraid
of the dues he has paid,
who's learned from his own mistakes?
He understands
that a true love commands
the giving of all he takes.
One who confides
all the secrets he hides,
trusting my heart with the keys?
He lets me in
to the man that's within,
hungers I'll eagerly please.
Is there a man
who does all that he can,
reflecting deepest desire?
Showing me how
to give what he needs now,
quenching the flames of his fire.
One day this man
will be holding my hand
graced with the gold of his heart.
This is the man
at who's side I will stand,
The One, from whom never I'll part.
-Jeannie Minor
If I may serve the One
Who silenced the darkness,
Sent peace to the spirit,
Overcame the fears
If I may serve Him,
The kindness who abides,
The gentle in my life,
The music who confides
If I may serve the King
Who taught me everything,
To love and hope and believe,
To never give in to grief
If I may serve my Savior,
The Master, the Maker,
The One who is light,
Who always satisfies
If I may serve Him well,
Avoiding the fires of hell,
Because He is my life,
God’s Son, whose sacrifice…
Gave me a second chance,
To love, to hope, to trust,
To know the One who came
So that my heart would change.
If I may serve Jesus Christ,
The King, the hope, the light
I’ll know the meaning of life,
To glorify the One who decides…
When I’ll begin my new life,
With Him, in paradise!
Death is not the worst end…
To die without Jesus,
would be inconceivable…
To die without Jesus – that is unthinkable!
In the depths of my heart, a love resides,
For the man of my dreams, my soul confides.
And yet, though he fulfills my every desire,
His affection remains distant, a deep wound, a dire.
Each passing day, my longing grows,
Every part of me, in yearning shows.
But amidst the care, a pain I find,
His thoughts and gestures, sometimes leave me behind.
A seemingly small act, yet it cuts so deep,
Leaving my heart to silently weep.
Was it deliberate, to stir my fears?
Or simply misunderstood, through my sincere tears?
I wish I could release this love's tight grip,
But with each attempt, deeper into memories I slip.
Dreams of a future, with children by our side,
With him, the eternal glow of my heart, wide and bright.
So here I am, torn and shattered,
In love with a man, yet feeling abandoned.
For he holds my heart, but keeps it at bay,
Leaving me yearning, day after day.
In the darkness of the night, where dreams dance,
I hear my heart whispering, in secret, in a trance.
A melancholic longing, a song without end,
For an unrequited love, a story to transcend.
Memories of moments, when our eyes meet,
In those moments, our universe is complete.
But oh, how quickly that magic fades,
Leaving my soul empty, in search of a love that pervades.
Through the labyrinth of my heart, I lose myself in thought,
A symphony of emotions, of desires and dreams sought.
Why does love have to be such a cruel game?
To offer hope, only to leave a hollow frame?
In every smile of his, I see a universe,
But in every absence, I feel a verse in reverse.
A poetry of pain, written on a parchment of tears,
A love that burns, but cannot be fulfilled through the years.
I wish I could forget him, to free my heart,
But my love for him is like the boundless sea, apart.
It fills my soul, consumes every thought,
And yet, leaves me empty, in the cold wind, caught.
So here I remain, in this melancholic dance,
In love and lost, in an esoteric trance.
For an unrequited love, a story without end,
I carry my heart, an eternal flame, in an infinite universe.
My pal, Elsie has the biggest plans, grandiose almost, fantastically fun to hear about.
She is a complete delight to be around, and the clothes, hats, and shoes she wears really shout.
She keeps me in stitches for days on end when she flies in with her long-suffering earl.
She is going to start a blog, paint a best-selling canvas, write a novel, and paint a city mural.
Her terrific thoughts, her enormous dreams, her extraordinary plans somewhat set and well-laid.
Hilarity jumps forth when she comes around, to regale us with stories of her latest escapade.
I cannot wait to see her, to find out what she has actually completed this year, all done.
Although it has been rather tough for her to implement or start a project, she is always great fun.
What about your award-winning sculptures I ask her and your paintings, how are they coming along?
I traded those things in for calligraphy, she informed me, but I am writing a terrific love song.
What about your fantasy novel, are there a few completed chapters that perhaps I could read?
Then she throws back her head, laughing prettily from Accomplishment, her well-decorated white steed.
We wave goodbye, knowing we will have this delightful almost identical conversation next year.
It never ceases to amaze me how close to getting started dear Elsie has almost been near.
Her muse and mine hug tightly, because when we were young girls, they were exceedingly close and tight.
Her enthusiasm is exciting, I admire her determination to make her creations perfectly right.
I am not ready, she tells me. Creating a masterpiece is something that takes time.
Maybe next year, she confides because my productions and creations must be awesomely sublime.
Years of incessant planning have not helped Elsie put pen to paper or get started, it is true.
Three husbands, a two hour a week job and a couple of children have prevented her from a glorious follow- through.
We are all but dreams of God,
Composed of flesh and bone,
Illuminating darkness with our senses.
Dimensionless infinity
Gets cold when you’re alone,
So the Muse of our existence
Pulls the blanket to Her chin.
And She dreams of little puppies.
And She dreams of falling down.
And She dreams about Her Mommy baking cookies.
And She’s frightened by the bogeyman
That hides beneath Her bed,
But comforted by teddy bears and dollies.
We are all but dreams of God,
Together and apart,
Confined within this bubble of perception,
For time and space are finite things
Through which The Sleeper’s art
Confides the inspiration
For the shimmer and the spin.
And it shimmers on the playground.
And it spins around the sun.
And it’s chased about by scientists and schoolboys
And it lights upon a blade of grass
And bursts upon a touch
While children chalk equations on the pavement.
We are all but dreams of God,
A range of subtle hues
That paint our waking world
With clear distinctions.
Yet we ourselves sketch Godly dreams,
Becoming then the Muse,
Imagining a purpose more profound
Than one within.
We are all but dreams of God.
Good night.
The Hermit
Part 1
Beyond Two Sullen Hill, not too far away,
Lives a solitary man, bitter, old and grey.
Known as the Hermit with heart of cold,
His life of unpleasantness is often told.
Many believe you would turn to stone,
If you caught his stare whilst on your own.
Tetchy and crabby for he knows no fun,
Stays in the dark, hidden from the sun.
In a ramshackle barn house, he resides,
Living on his own, to know one he confides.
Children believe stories of a Goblin myth,
Slaying victims at dusk, with a Neolith.
There must be more to this eremite man,
Whose body is frail and eyes are wan.
Believed to be Ninety and eight years more,
Was there a time when his heart was pure?
The Hermit
Part 2
Good morning Sir, how are you this day?
Tell me of your life, and why you live this way.
“I do not welcome strangers, or any one at all,
But, my time is getting near, I await the call.
Hitler took my home in early fourty-one
The house he destroyed, taking wife and son.
My dearest was 23 and young boy only two,
So, left a broken city, what else could I do?
I took a vow of silence and turned to God,
Became a recluse and viewed as very odd.
My life may seem morose and deeply sad,
Thought of as a grouch and slightly mad.
In truth, I must accept the world I see,
I asked nothing of life, it asked nothing of me.
Thank you for listening to my sad lament,
Grateful for your kindness and the time we spent”
Just a few days later the Hermit was gone,
Never had the chance to be someone.
Up on Two Sullen Hill, a stone of Granite cold,
To the Hermit, a posthumous, Heart of Gold.
Every thought grew quiet,
As the flakes fell across the hills.
The mountains seemed to promise –
A winter wonderland was guessed.
Every moment fell silent,
As the wind blessed with prayers
For those of us who rely on –
The gentleness of God’s grace.
Every joy spread stillness,
As the white of winter smiled,
Coloring the hills in sensations –
Amazing, so we feel like a child.
Every sound writes its story,
As the music of hope confides,
Whispering gentle details –
About a peace that will ever survive.
Every life feels the wonder,
As the hills turn to soft white.
This is winter’s sweet enjoyment –
And its song, a shadow of faith.
Every darkness turns hopeful,
As the winter blesses her peaks.
Rising beyond the silvery glory –
Soundless images of God’s artwork.
Every lesson brings a promise,
As the night calls to the moon and stars,
Leaving a promise of heavenly light –
Pouring over the skies so beautiful.
Every winter I feel His kiss,
As the echo of twilight fades.
And, forever, I’ll feel His love –
Surrounding me as I praise!
Roses are red, vodka pours clear,
I need words bled, and high proof can steer.
Shot after shot becomes tumbler til Tumblr
As I wanted, unless I fumble words and become a bumbler.
Violets are blue, but whiskey is brown
For my words to be true, I need a little to drown
Because a sober mind hides and finds it easy to smile.
Because sober me confides in me whose been drunk for awhile.
Sunflowers shine yellow, as does drink of agave roasted
And for me does mellow, until I am toasted.
But it drinks like water, and can make my pen stroke.
Smooth to me, though others it does choke.
So roses are red, and vodkteqwine too is red,
Maybe I should slow down with what I’m being fed.
Call spades spades, stardust will still be infused
With liquor until the pen and the page are amused.
We’re on Fall break this week and Peter’s favorite aunt - Lita - is visiting. Lita’s a tall, slim woman (eek! A guess), in her early sixties. She’s nicely weathered and tan. I’m sure she once had Peter’s blue-black hair but now it’s mostly white and styled in a loose braid. I think she rocks the coastal grandma aesthetic with a wardrobe of mostly pale tans, whites and flats.
Peter has all kinds of stories about her - she’s a character. When Peter was 5, on Halloween, Lita pretended to sacrifice a chicken, cackling, like a witch. He was wide-eyed until she admitted she was just making fried chicken for dinner.
Lita lives on property adjacent to Peter’s parents, but hers is larger, more of a farm, where she raises chickens and grows Meyer-lemons and persimmons. This may explain why Peter slices up lemons, dips them in sugar and eats them like oranges (I shiver). Peter told me that Lita always liked fruit, which is why she bought Apple stock in 1997.
From what I’ve learned, talking to Lita, she practically raised Peter’s dad (David). Their parents had a boy before her, an older brother she doesn’t remember meeting because he drowned at a church outing when she was a toddler. Their parents, in their grief, had turned in on themselves, becoming as self-centered as gyroscopes.
They’d left Lita by herself for weeks at a time, to raise herself on a more-or-less trial-and-error basis. So, when David came along 13 years later, he became her responsibility. She started working as an auto mechanic and eventually opened a couple of shops of her own. She describes herself as more well-read than formally educated - as if knowledge had just settled on her, like dust from an old library.
“Teressa (Peter’s mom) is very curious about you,” Lita confides to me as we huddle together over venti pumpkin lattes, “Peter’s very tight-lipped where you’re concerned.”
“He is?” I ask, confused, “maybe he’s ashamed,” I venture, “or maybe he’s planning to dump me?” Lita looks amused, ”uh huh, that’s probably IT,” she agrees.
“Look! I say excitedly, pulling an envelope from my purse, “It’s my first-ever paycheck,” I beam. I make a production of opening the thing, like an Oscar envelope. “$223,” I read, shaking my head in admiration, then adding, with sincere sounding hyperbole, ”he can’t dump me NOW, I’m RICH!”