Long Idle talk Poems
Long Idle talk Poems. Below are the most popular long Idle talk by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Idle talk poems by poem length and keyword.
I have always felt myself extremely blessed to have found myself a wife
who believes very little is needed to make a happy life.
Before you think she doesn’t mean it, that it’s just idle talk
she has it perched upon our kitchen counter…painted on a rock.
After 25 (now 35) years of marriage…a marriage not at all routine
let me take a minute to show you what she means.
It’s listening when the other person talks and hearing what they say.
It’s a card to say I love you at the end of a bad day.
It’s a little gift that’s given when there’s no reason for a gift.
just to say the words I love you or to give her day a lift.
It’s a drive through the countryside with a picnic in the back.
It’s making pancakes for dinner and sharing one large stack.
It’s reaching something on the top shelf when Deborah is unable
It’s the family gathered for a short time around the kitchen table.
It’s sharing laughter, stories and joy with our children and grandchildren too
and smiling in contentment when the evening’s joy is through.
It’s enjoying our family together and creating new memories…new heirlooms
It’s holding hands, stealing a kiss or a smile across a room.
It’s the sharing of our deepest fears, our long range hopes and wishes
It’s one person doing the cooking while the other does the dishes
It’s a surprise call in the middle of the day just to hear her voice
It’s being together when you’re both sorrowful or when you both rejoice
It’s watching a romantic movie with a little popcorn on the side
It’s remembering all the reasons you chose her as your bride.
It’s that feeling of falling in love for the first time…then
falling in love with that same person…over and over again
Yes very little is needed to make a happy life is not just idle talk
It’s the little things that make life…and love….as solid as a rock.
The end of a friendship
I sat in the kitchen of the flat mother had left me,
trying to write a poem, when heard my former friend
coming up the stairs, I had locked the kitchen door
didn´t want them in or talk to them anymore.
They knocked on the door, let us in Joe, we know
you are in there, I didn´t answer.
When the knock stopped, they stood in the communal
hallway, cursing me, calling me and much more.
Once I had been one of them drifting through life
that has no purpose other than sitting in cafes drinking beer
wasting time with idle talk.
The kitchen was my den, my interest was writing.
I had lost my train of thoughts and switched on the TV,
It was in black and white, turned the sound off watched
people on a stage being funny and people laughing
with the sound off, it looked ridiculous.
I fell asleep but woke up early, in the Nord the night
is short in spring.
I made a cheese sandwich, drank coffee, grateful that
I was not like my former friends.
I hasten to place much faith in idle talk
Reality tells me i am never getting out of here
Rather I am destined to die here
Beside these other condemned band of brother's
This sorry War friends has forced upon me to rely
Word has filtered through the end is nigh
But though false dawns may lift the spirits
Of the uninitiated
A seasoned second tour trench institutionalized vetran
I remember this more than my walls and streets of home
And what if the rumors are to be proved true
I Fear the Man I shall Return
Is no longer the carefree Boy who Left
Another lifetime ago
How am I to live out my Day's
Knowing now what I have seen and done
For King and Country
My Sunny Valentine has been replaced by my Riffle
And the reflection in my polished bayonet
Bounces off my tin helmet
I inherited from some poor soldier never going home
Make what sense of the following sentence
You must
I will be sad to leave this place of untold misery
Come that Day
Saying Goodbye will be paved with raw despair
For so many other reasons than those we lost
Along the way
You asked a boy to buy into this War
And now I stand before you a Soldier Sir
It isn't fair Sir
Please don't send me back Sir
This is all I know now
I love the way the shell's fall darkening the Sky
Exploding into shrapnel furness plumes of Death
The Mud
The smell of human faces
The bloodied broken bones
Blown into a thousand piece's
I am so accustomed now
I think Id miss shell shock
Once more over the top please Sir
The War isn't won or over yet
And Sir
I am not ready to go home just yet
Oh Feathered,
Feather
In my dream's
You spoke to me of change
And a guardian angel
Yet nothing since has changed
I am still the same
No lion's I have tamed,
Nor horses spirit's I have broke
I am I fear what i appear
A wheel without a spoke
One solitary feather set adrift in stormy weather
And all for this idle talk of guardian angels
please excuse me if I do not cackle like a giraffe
As I fear you have lead me up the garden path
to a house overgrown with weeds
So dank and bleak the floorboards creak
beneath the weight of passing ghosts and shadows
Of the remnant of the leftovers
No longer Serves me
Dear Self am I resisting changes?
consistently exploring in this web
of deja vu of what no longer serves
me. Stages in my life have been
heartaches and heartbreaks similar to
a bow and arrow have more drawbacks
then ups now releasing and being carefree.
Hopes and wishful thinking seem like
cousins to disappointments broken
trust and disrespect that I will no longer
entertain no longer serves me, letting go
gibberish chatter, will I ever see changes?
hopeful thinking, will it cons to pass,
difficult to grasp am I avoiding the reality of
questions at hand usually cause of idle talk
bringing up one's past yet now I'm so
unbothered by things that no longer serves
or brings substance and growth I am
stronger than yesterday's things that no
longer serves me.
Life is full of spar, struggles, and worry
Times when feel we frustrated and derisory -
No way from affray to solace dear ordinary
Comes to rescue our dear cherished library.
A place where authors, poets, philosophers’ ivory;
A locus where the mind meets tranquillity primary;
Here Rowling converses with Sir Philip Sidney in refinery,
A premise where wisdom abounds—not derisory.
Bindu madam, an avid reader, peaceful pituitary,
With smile welcomes experts and students ordinary
To delve and transverse in the world microevolutionary
Reconnoitre novels, poems, essays and news necessary.
Pristine Pradeep sir distributes books multi-disciplinary
So that the children read and lose soul temporary
In the world of pleasant, poised authors legendary;
Focuses on increasing knowledge, idee and vocabulary
Calm, patient, pensive and executing duties binary.
Such a grand library—with lakh-plus books, all necessary;
Urge I to use our SNK library, truly revolutionary;
Read Shakespeare or Kant or Milton – none contrary;
Sit here in silence — no idle talk; no reading secondary.
Magazines, Manga, Aru, Harry, Sachin legendary –
All are available at free-lance here, macroevolutionary;
Utilize your time wisely, flick through the boat airy
To drift into the world of books, in realms so ivory.
If you walk around our house…and I say this candidly…you probably wouldn’t give a second thought to some of the things you see.
You’d probably miss that piece of wood in the corner…if you walk by a little to quick…
and even if you noticed it you might think…”it’s just a stick.”
In the corner of our kitchen…that piece of furniture…over there…chances are you’d pass by thinking…”it is just a chair.”
Your eyes might find the pen and ink drawing…if they find it at all…
and even if they do you might think…it’s just another picture on the wall.”
If you happen into our laundry room…you might give that weathered old collar a look…
chances are you’d say, “It’s just an old collar”…hanging on that hook.
And you’d be correct in your assumptions for how often we see things as we find them…but the meaning is not in what we see… but in what we see behind them.
That old collar was our dog Whitman’s who would match me stride for stride…
as we walked together every morning…until the day he died.
My father drew that self-portrait when he was a young man…I think around 22
It’s a nice remembrance of the man…now that his life is through.
Deborah’s father made that little chair and it rests in our corner because…
It serves as a constant reminder of the kind of man he was.
And that was Deborah’s mom’s walking stick in the corner for all to see…carved by Deborah’s dad from the branch of an old orange tree.
But it is more than a decoration…it’s not just there for idle talk.
It reminds Deborah of her mom every morning…when we take our walk.
It’s funny isn’t it…the things we might not even notice when we walk through someone’s door…
We might see just a stick, a chair, a drawing, a strap…
when they are really so much more.
Wheels spin, dreams unfold
Stories untold, waiting to be told
A world built for some, not for all
But change is coming, hear the call
Ramps rise, like bridges to the sky
Saying "You belong" without a lie
Concrete and metal, simple design
But they're lifelines, almost divine
For those who roll instead of walk
These slopes are more than idle talk
They're freedom, dignity, and right
Opening doors once kept tight
Special people, you say? No, just people
Facing a world that can be feeble
In understanding that access is key
To unlock potential, set spirits free
Each incline fights against the stairs
That shout "You can't go there!"
Ramps whisper "Come on in,
Your journey here can now begin"
They're not special needs, just human needs
Ramps are the flowers, inclusion of the seeds
A gentle slope where steps once stood
Speaks volumes about the neighbourhood
So next time you see a ramp in place
Know it's not charity, but an embrace
Of all the voices, all the lives
That makes our world truly thrive
Let's build more bridges, tear down walls
Until everyone can access all halls
For in this world of diverse ability
Ramps are paths to true civility
Remember this: access is love
Not a burden, not above
But a right for every soul
To make our society whole
I hear them there in mist of my depths
In silence like a whisper next to you
Speaking familiar tone, occasional stranger
Truth, say listen to gut feel
But are they illusion of times passing
Sounding real, wait; depths are not silent
What is edge to which one is push
The bond and spirit broken away to insanity
When is it we listen not to our own
That we follow idle talk our portrait be
Voices say kill while love spare hatred
Revenger of iniquity one's reduced to flesh
I sleep, sometimes waking to the cries echo
Who's there, who is it I am corresponding
Who's there that I am not alone in myself
Perhaps conscience or imagination run wild
Or just another voice of life leading us on the journey
They were sitting in an old-fashioned coffee house unraveling the beans
Little nuggets of wisdom not coated in sugar not creamed by distortion
Is the concept of minimal maxims truly axiomatic when we promise each
other to be of altruistic and selfless composure just discussing an argument
I shall buy you another round of caffeine infusion it helps to concentrate
on general truths like only finding solutions from rightful beginnings and logic
Existence comes before essence let us live to the fundamental potential of
talking the talk and walking the walk on that long road of questions and mind
Should we not metaphorically speaking assassinate that honest asseveration
persevere deliberate bite the bullet that fact lies in the eye of a sharp needle
I forgot to bring my nook split hooks today I feel naked can you not see it
The fabric of meaning is a bit stitched up today but the coffee hits home
Valid reasoning from a sound premise (the coffee house) to a grand finale
Whose paradigm what dictum which virtue or just idle talk brewing to where