Long Thinking time Poems
Long Thinking time Poems. Below are the most popular long Thinking time by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Thinking time poems by poem length and keyword.
I sit with two I-pads on my lap
Four hours at a time
Sometimes six
Playing word games
Why two?
Because one is thinking
While I am pounding the keys on the other one.
I do not abide thinking time.
I have spent too many years wasting mine.
So now it is more precious
My husband walks through and speaks
Irritating me.
What was that word I just had?
Damn. It is gone.
My children phone.
I see it is them.
I hit END.
They never have anything more interesting to say
Than my word games.
I have won game of the week for 158 weeks on Word Chums
Not in a row, but obviously, I have been doing this for three years.
I am so addicted it is going to take more than an intervention.
Form:
He can fix anything
no matter the year
the make, the model
but has his own way
No, just throw that
on the scrapheap
with all the others
Seriously, I just
want to work
I hate people
mostly but not always
Get a bigger hammer
depression my foot
you need a one way ticket
to Ethiopia
I'm having a smoke
it's thinking time
need to get more guns
but that's another matter
now I know how it works
only took three ciggies
Most tradies rip off their
best customers cause they can
but that's bull you don't
need it
No, just throw that
on the scrapheap
with all the others.
Delight in your life. Listen to your soul dream.
Silence yourself. Still your cells.
Sit quietly. Be reverent. Clear your mind. Relax in the moment.
Let your breath take you where your body cannot follow.
Close your eyes softly. Breathe, and quiet your mind.
If thoughts enter, shoo them away. This is a non-thinking time.
Be patient. Sit quietly and still, in complete and utter silence.
Listen to your breathing. Slow it down, as slow as you can.
Your soul will speak to you when you get to the meditative praying state.
Delight in your life. Slow yourself down, and listen.
This is the way to find the bliss you have been seeking.
Foundation.
An elegy and meditative reflection on the disturbing emotions created by loss.
Some suffer with in silence.
Rather than romanticizing the line — time will heal, it reflects the raw and unflinching pain.
Emphasizing the speaker’s agony while criticizing the simplistic assurances often offered.
A piece created to embody and stand as a witness to those whose inner despair persists, though they may seem fine on the outside.
The line relating that
grief is compared starkly to organized crime, portrays how love’s departure typically feels unjust, cruel, and violent—especially when someone beloved is gone.
Have you too heard the sometimes hollow echo, of well-meaning platitudes, that ring untrue to someone still deeply grieving?
Or even told someone, without really thinking, “time will heal, you'll see?”
Title.
The Woman lost to Marius.
(A lone voice whispers)
Some say time will heal, even though it doesn't seem real
And seeing is believing
But how can they see what you're feeling?
When you start grieving, while the black hearse of loving is leaving?
Leaving all once treasured things behind
Things like sweet love letters
Wedding rings
Perfume filled white sweaters
Memories and all things once kind and divine
Which once made your soul sing
So to me, it's a cruel lie, saying time will heal what I'm feeling
While I live through each day, alone now, but inside, quietly dieing
Listening to some still say
Seeing is believing, time will bring healing
And knowing
How can you see what I'm still feeling?
When I'm obviously still grieving?
After watching the black hearse of love, leaving
And quietly going out of my mind
Like a victim of organized crime
After your marriage to the hand, you once loved
Has run out of earthly time
And is no longer in your realm
Breathing
(C) Copyright John Duffy
How long does a drop last?
An eternity or dry up fast?
Wiped away by a towel
Or drank away with a swallow
Just a little drop of wet
Not in the ocean yet
But when they meet
They splash and crash
As they greet
Deep down in the sea
In and out of gills
So many wonders to see
Swooshing about with thrills
Washed up ashore
When heat begins to attack
Evaporate and grow more
Riding on a clouds back
How long will that cloud last?
Growing big and vast
Until temperature cools
And gravity rules
So down came that water drop
Into a river with a flop
Flowing fast and splashing
Into a pool savagely thrashing
Down a pipe, in fact
Coming out of a tap
Have you ever just sat
Thinking time has passed
How long does that drop last
North and south snowy mass
Frozen in time forever trapped
Part of a larger ice cap
No one only her eyes
Glimmer beyond the sunlight
Rays of hope still present
She faintly smile
May my happy days come?
She question herself multiple times
Immersed in deep thoughts
Tear stream softly from her eyes
Her hope of becoming successful one day
Become blur under the sunlight
May I be able to achieve my dream?
She ask herself every time
Many tried to break her emotionally
She remain quite
Thinking time teaching her lesson
She smile again
May I gain happiness in future?
She raise question herself
Her quench of gaining happiness
Started becoming vague
Her dream of so called "success"
Lost underneath clouds
So, no one only her eyes
raise question with hope till today
Time is not merely measured by the ticking of clocks or the turning of calendars. It is felt in the spaces between breaths, in the quiet pauses that carry our memories, our joys, and our sorrows. The past is a living archive, a treasure chest of moments that shaped who we are. The present is a fleeting but luminous gift, demanding attention, gratitude, and care. The future waits patiently not as a threat, but as a canvas upon which we may paint our choices.
We often rush, thinking time is against us, yet the truth is that time is patient. It witnesses our struggles, celebrates our triumphs, and gently nudges us toward wisdom. To honor time is to honor ourselves: to remember, to act, and to hope. Every instant we live is a brushstroke on the grand canvas of our existence, and every heartbeat a note in the eternal melody of life.
Do you want me to play music?
This is a teacher who obviously does not write much.
I was giving them silent thinking time
for the thinking-writing activity I had assigned to them.
I am horrified, but it is her room.
I am the interloper, and she has already asked.
They have said ‘yes’.
Funeral dirge comes out of her computer.
I want to gloat; the kids look up, horrified.
I am here fifteen more minutes
in the bowels of hell with this woman.
Who is insistent on everything a particular way.
Perhaps that is why she has spent a year putting up no bulletin boards?
Only borders. I would rather be wearing an orange jumpsuit,
running from the cops.
But here I sit with my pasted smile
For twelve minutes.
Glad I am not one of these fourth graders stuck here all day.
I hear the alarm and I think what? Not already! I have been up and down all night.
My usual pattern, I am used to it in many ways, because nighttime is my quiet, creative, thinking time.
I started fully enjoying the middle of the night when my children were small,
because it was the only time I could carve out for myself.
When they were freshly stork-deposited, I woke at every creak, peep, gurgle, and cough.
A whisper had me imagining a giant bull snake slithering toward the nursery.
I would swiftly be outside their door, turning the knob with the slowness
Of wallpaper breathing, and I could hear that too.
I would tiptoe in, trying not to wake them
And watch them sleeping with their
Darling little mouths, agape, drool
Spilling onto their lamb-designed sheets.
Now they are grown, and the grandchildren
Do not visit during the week so this is not
My three a.m. reason for being awake.
Like a jumping jack ma, I jump up at three,
Almost every night, thinking perhaps the
quiet of the house has awakened me.
Listening, but hearing nothing else,
It is the only guess I have.
Nothing can be done about this.
My body has convinced my brain
that three a.m. has always been the best time for me.
So here I am, awake, pen ready, staring at a lined page.
Ready to start.
I glance at the clock.
It is not three.
It is two.
WHAT?
Born in 1874 Sir Winston Leonard Spencer-Churchill
Nicknamed Winnie, with a Bulldog spirit ~ resembled my Bulldog Bill
In thinking time sat on his ‘Throne’, Lord Privy Seal rang Winston’s phone
Yelling his retort said, ‘Tell him I can only deal ~ with one s*** at a time’
22nd January 2019
Contest: Educate Me with Humour - Leader Clerihew
Sponsor: Andrea Dietrich
4th place
Sir Winston Churchill was a British writer, military leader and statesman. Twice named prime minister of the United Kingdom, he was known for his bulldog spirit and his rousing rhetoric; he also won the Nobel Peace Prize for Literature in 1953. Churchill became the first civilian in the 20th century to be given a state funeral, which is normally reserved for kings and queens only. For three days and three nights, Churchill lay in state in 900-year-old Westminster Hall as more than 300,000 mourners filed past the casket, hewn from English oaks taken from his family estate. Such was the country’s admiration for Churchill that Queen Elizabeth II broke with monarchical tradition to attend a funeral for someone outside of the royal family. Even more unusual, the queen gave precedence to one of her subjects and arrived at the cathedral before the former prime minister’s casket.
17th November 2020
Contest Name QUAT-RO your four line Contest
Sponsor Brian Strand
N/A