Long Conversation Poems
Long Conversation Poems. Below are the most popular long Conversation by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Conversation poems by poem length and keyword.
She keep the conversation superficial
never lending any experience or advice
not icily she be overly expressive in others
frequent disappearing acts
started with a potential romantic interest
everything is centered around meeting
new people
finding that special something
that would bring the current Statius of
your relationship to an end
new connections always centered around
a new connection that feeling of newness
without the lack of interest
a promise of something new
all while deceiving you
all without you as the main interest
your freinds and family never speaking
you and her as one
she allows people to sponge off your success
and allows people to undermined your
best effords
those then are seemed as more influentail
oppossed to your present state of mind
You know you are better off by yourself
and those you like and speak to get off
by your lack of ability to make the big score
There is a moment when the clock strikes midnight
The world around me is filled with echoes of the day
And I have a quiet moment to reflect on my experiences
Thinking about how far I've come in under two years
But also thinking about how far I still have to go
Perhaps I'm not as lonely as I used to be
I have many people I can associate with now
But still in that quiet hour I sit alone in my bedroom
Peering out a dusty window at the black sky
Strewn with stray but twinkling stars
I have people but at the same time I have nobody
I have friends but at the same time I have no love
I have dreams but at the same time I have no destiny
I have strength but at the same time I have no courage
It's silly but I spend so much time absolutely obsessed
Over what others think of me right here in this chair
But really I worry about my old weakness, my right eye
People tell me I shouldn't worry about it
But none of them know what it's like to deal with it
To constantly reassure people I'm looking at them
When they look over their shoulder like I'm not talking to them
Nobody knows what it's like to walk into walls
Or fail to grab something because you have no depth perception
Everyone talks about disability but fail to mention Amblyopia
I can't catch balls, I can't throw footballs, I can't do a lot
Having no depth perception means I can't watch 3D movies
Just for one day I wish I knew what it was like to be normal
I just want to make eye contact with both eyes
I just want to be able to catch a football without struggling
I want to see a move and watch it pop in 3D
I want casual conversation without people being uneasy
But what I don't want is a pity party over my affliction
I don't want people telling me to get over it
Or that it doesn't affect how they see me
Because these lies don't make me feel any better about myself
I guess the truth is I'm cursed like a leper
It’s a dark and cold night. Looking back and up, the moon
was a thin and useless crescent, barely visible.
‘What a wasted moon,’ I thought.
“A stupid moon,” I mumbled to myself as if to finish a conversation.
It looked deflated, artificial, soulless, and cold. Not poetic at all.
I’m coping with tough decisions
a victory and perhaps one martini too many.
Peter (my bf) called, when I was at Toads (a local bar).
We usually talk on Tuesdays at about 11.
It was noisy in there
I was a little tipsy
while he was a little irritated.
It didn’t go well.
Martinis and authority don’t mix.
I handed my thesis in today, 80 days early.
I've been working on it obsessively.
finger to lips, like a secret I can be obsessive.
It’s a 60 page ‘first draft,’ theoretically.
“Can I turn in a first draft for your review?”
He looked surprised, “Sure.” I handed it over, and that’s that.
Every ‘first draft’ I’ve ever handed in has gotten an A.
“You’re CrAzY,” Sunny chuckled, “We gotta celebrate!”
“Please don’t hold the door open,” the librarian said.
I jumped, I hadn’t seen her sneaking up on me.
How long had I been standing there?
I’d been lost in thought.
I focused on her now.
She was 50 maybe, or a hundred—who knew?
Her face needed moisturizing badly,
her wrinkles were like cracks in marble.
She looked frowny.
Why is everyone frowny tonight?
“Sure,” I said, facetiously, throwing my arm up like the door was hot.
The door was now free to close.
And the world was a better place.
Once I’d turned and stepped into the library,
I decided It was too bright and too hot there.
So I left.
The second I was outside, in the refreshing cold, Sunny appeared.
“There you are,” she said, like she had lost something.
“You walk too fast,” and the girl with her laughed.
Sunny can always pick up a girl—it’s like she’s magnetic.
"Let's go home,” she added, “we’re going to pay for this tomorrow.”
She hooked my arm in hers and we followed the path,
the three of us, like the yellow brick road.
.
.
A song for this:
Drunk On Love by Basia
Data & Picard by Pogo
An Offline Hello
Whatever happened to hello?
Meeting and shaking hands
That moment of sharing yourself
That was a big part of life
There were no strangers
Just friends you haven’t met
Conversation used as an ice breaker
Learning more about the person as you spoke
That was an eternity ago
Before the invent of smart phones
Constant contact with the internet
Naked pictures and Facebook pages
Embarrassing videos from when you were a teen
Slander and gossip posted in a moment of anger
A million pages of someone with the same name
Not all of it true
But it must be since it is on the web
One time go back to the old days
Meet face to face not screen to screen
Forget that you have the ability to text
Sit down and just talk
Get to know each other
Take time to learn their history and mysteries
For once don’t look them up on-line
The real person is so much better
They just want a simple hello
Conversation with the Living Silence
We steal from the mouths of the living dead, we tear out the raw consonants,
and we call theft this harvest of fruits unfelt in the forests,
we call love-on-the-verge-of-forgetting this adoration-in-sweat,
when the dead speak more silently than our noisy silence.
Their sentences shine harshly, carved by thousands of blind tongues,
polished in deep trenches that we fill with new breaths,
I lift a phrase like a light stone heavy as the mountain from muddy water,
still wet with the meanings of a dead writer who still breathes.
"For the well-disorganized mind, life is the great death,"
but whose broken mind? whose life buried in foreign words?
words belong to no one living, to all the dead who speak to us,
a key passed from hand to cold hand until the metal freezes.
Maybe all poetry is stolen from the future that never was,
each word a body that we invoke to be silent more loudly,
each verse a séance where the dead teach us,
the future dead, to speak in the voices of those who will write the world.
We live in the mouths of others, we speak with tongues borrowed in sleep,
and all we say is the echo of an echo that hasn't resounded yet,
the fruits grow back into the trees, the trees descend back into sap,
we climb into the mouths of the dead and they descend into our living mouths.
We ate bacon for breakfast
and knew it would be a good day
For with a tummy full of bacon
somehow life just feels okay.
Smell of meat candy makes your mouth water
as frying bacon's scent permeates the house
Sleepy heads awaken hungry to chow
eager children for bacon ready to joust.
The mood of family as happy as can be
for bacon a favorite devour with glee
No need for conversation eat it while you can
never in this house is there leftover bacon.
Breakfast finished and off to do what needs done
starting the day with bacon flavors life with fun
But what about dinner will it seem bland
Mom making BLTs nothing good as more bacon.
A genuine concern that is poorly expressed
I heard her speak of him as she made light
of his emotions and feelings for the woman he
wished to marry.
Her need for attention, showed when we noticed
the way she would change her voice often during
mid conversation
pronouncing words quite faddish, instead of speak
crisp and clear like normal people
I could see her singing and doing this
but it was neither attractive or influential
yet on the other hand I fully respected the opinions
but the lack of boundaries allowed
my disrespect for her to form the relationship
dynamic ought to consist of two
centered by there willingness to be together
Maybe it's our culture which makes it more
difficult
to be valued in a well centered relationship
or might it be my lack of understanding that causes
me as an outsider to seem foolish and not
be able to understand
is due to the misguided reasonings of ones need to
understand
Stearing off into the distance
concousis might they see beyond
there own rhealm of understanding
then might I to be able to understand
Conversations with Dizi:Erhu: and Suonaa
The Origins of there relationship were
based on a distorded beleif
on her first date she refused him
but Hirsay overhearing them
desided to bed the
Mister and became pregant.
The other married him only
to refuse him were he
could be lonsome and needing
there he would seek other women
to make love to. The wife once put a
bounty on a woman who refused to
play that game with them.
Ten thousand gold coins to person
who would bring the hair
of the harlot
she spoke.
It's beleived she used the hair
to make a pillow
the pillow she used
when she became pregant by her husbands brother
they tricked him into
thinking
the child was his
STAGE BENEATH HER FEET*
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
before the lights ignite,
she stands, a silhouette of dreams,
silk slippers whispering against the wood.
the stage, her steadfast confidant,
is the only applause she ever needs.
how the world adores the spectacle,
the pirouettes that seem to float,
the leaps that defy gravity!
beyond spotlight is the quiet joy of motion,
the grace of being, the art of losing oneself.
each twirl, a conversation with the air,
each leap, a promise to the crowd.
dancing is a wrapped gift opened
in the silence between the notes.
she dances not for their gaze,
but for the stage that cradles her spirit.
she dances for the magic of movement
as if she were born to sway
in the arms of the music,
the notes swirling like autumn leaves.
*This poem written in remembrance of my aunt, Ann Etgen-Atkinson, a prima ballerina, who recently passed. She dedicated her life to ballet, first as a performer then later as a ballet teacher, choreographer, and original owner of the Dallas Metropolitcan Ballet.
All they want to do is like threat, threat, threat
and take your money,
They call and text like debt, debt, debt,
where’s my money?
They say, I’d say
you ought to pay,
today today,
sort it today!
I’ll get my guy to come to yours
and smash up windows cars and doors!
All they want to do is like war, war, war,
and it ain’t funny.
They’re all the same like fool, fool, fool,
think I’m a dummy.
They lent to a friend
they thought they’d frighten,
They ain’t sending men
making me have to defend.
So all I ever think is like shush, shush, shush
you do my head in.
I’m not a person you like push, push, push
without regretting!
I say, don’t say
empty threats my way,
either shut up or play!
I say, I say.
*inspired by a recent conversation with a friend about his situation. Rather he than I, I say I say (2/2/2018)
there's one car missing from the two car garage
one dinner plate from the table
is this the point where i give up
count the losses if i am able
there's one toothbrush missing from the bathroom
one pillow from the unmade bed
the only conversation that carries on
are the things we left unsaid
only one book on the nightstand
where the light remains off
i've cried as much as i can
but can you ever cry enough
there's one heart that's broken in this man made tomb
one glass that's always empty
with nothing here and nothing i can do
a promise kept all too well lately
there are two smiles missing from this one house
one fragrance that no longer lingers
i'm sure you've figured out by now
there's one person that misses you being here