Long Trivialities Poems
Long Trivialities Poems. Below are the most popular long Trivialities by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Trivialities poems by poem length and keyword.
My sister and I have different personalities
Never alike, two peas from the same pod,
but not germinated for the same Winter crop.
We never argue over mundane trivialities.
I like halibut, but she always chooses cod,
and I prefer vacuuming; she loves to mop.
But there is only one topic we cannot discuss
Our political views caused too many disputes
We disagree on the qualities of a President
and had heated debates. Oh, how we did fuss!
When I said Trump was immoral and in cahoots
with crooks, and he was a stubborn old cuss.
She fired back that Biden was senile, much too old
and she didn't like Kamala, which made me sigh.
Round after round we boxed, in verbal objections.
She watched the numbers as voters were polled
and I wanted scissors to cut off Trump's red tie
and no more commercials for Presidential elections.
Finally, I said, "Our bickering is tearing us apart."
She agreed for the need to put an end to our feud.
We're both much happier, but once in a while
she'll mention his name, and I'll say, "Don't start!"
I'd never vote for a man who's crude and lewd.
I can't understand why she can't see that he's vile.
We'll never agree on which man is most deserving
or which one truly lives by America's Constitution.
We avoid politics when we come face to face.
But I know Trump is unfit, and is totally self-serving
Biden isn't perfect, but Trump started a revolution.
He made a mockery of the office. Such a disgrace.
Yes, I blame him for inciting the Capitol subversion
But didn't say a word to her so we'd keep the peace
Sometimes it's still difficult not to interject a belief
so we talk about taking a pleasant holiday excursion
perhaps to the Caribbean or to the isles of Greece.
I'm just glad that we found a way to stop the grief.
To
The Unresolved Album cover with the null and void album
Cc
Involved parties in disputed acquittal
Bcc
Ownership of microfiche
Subject
“I let the fish go”
Dear concerned parties
(To whom it may concern)
After writing free verse for quite a few years, I am feeling my free verse is hurting me too much these days. Most of these are like daily writing, as I simply register the day to day in trivialities. Why will one care about your stuff anyway, if these are always tracing back to the ridicule zone, almost always? They were cathartic reasons, but they were never torturing this much, they were whence time was true.I hold no grudges, and I stop unfolding there, as I care deeply, and vulnerably.
Let them know. Let them grow.
Thanking,
A writer.
Most often, we go through our lives
So focused with our dreams, plans, and
Purposes, that we fail to see things that are,
On the surface, rather insignificant. But on
the other hand, they arrest us, and we give
thought to their realities. That is why I am
Inviting you to walk with me along the trails
Of a two digit number of a highway and a
Two digit numeric that has followed me for
Most of my life. Case in point:
I am not enchanted by mysteries, but for
A few years now, I have been intrigued by
The NUMBER 49. I do not attach anything
religious or prophetic to the NUMBER 49.
An¨y attention to this number reaches only
to the level of a small muse.
I was born in 1949
The primary roadway to from, and through
My birth place in the Southern Region was via
U S HIGHWAY 49.
My father died when I was 13 years of age,
But I was blessed with many more years
With my dear mother who passed away when
I was 49.
As I muse over what is basically trivia, it came
To mind that my oldest son turned 49 this year.
By the way, I tend to be a very serious minded
Person, but I must add that I am an avid fan
of trivialities.
Anyway, back to the numbers. I and my family
lived in San Francisco for 8 years, and I became
A real fan of the 49ers.
While living over 40 years in California, part of my
career was in the transportation industry. On that
Job, I drove thousands of miles on HIGHWAY 49
In the gold rush areas.
Four years ago, my wife of 54 years and I retired
and moved back to the Southern Region. We live within a hundred miles of where I was born. You guessed it. We live within walking distance from the same HIGHWAY 49 which Runs through the little community where I was born.
We act.
Rationally or irrationally,
logically or at random,
often intuitively.
Wise is he who considers first
the consequences of his actions.
For we do fashion our destiny,
like it or not. Then we complain,
a futility of whining,
nitpicking trivialities
fashioned by our own hand.
We oft do wrong:
For which we pay.
Then
we blame our God,
we blame our devil,
we never blame ourselves.
Society loves immorality,
it is food for the ingenious,
served so well by a mediocre media.
The gift of wisdom,
the discerning of what is right
is trampled underfoot,
much to our later dismay.
On every “I know” there’s a certain “you don’t”
But like lovers, they can't always meet
How they looked for each other in Amarcord
On the opposite sides of a street
Autumn has come, and the withered leaves fly
Falling away from the trees
I know it would be so, but can’t tell you why
Still I’m enchanted by this
When I was young, many autumns ago
To the know-it-all camp I belonged
Which helped me to realise things I do know
Are quite often the same that I don’t
Most complex of metaphors turn out plain
Trivialities flicker with depth
And this sunny day, can it speak of the rain?
As mere life speaks about death
The ghost of Villon could be grinning at me
Through the ages I noticed that smile
But what if I’m him for a while, cause I see
All my knowledge have proven futile
Now I’m 66 – too late to fix
But still a bit early to know
How would the choir sound in the mix
With the trumpet, in time when I go.
(In late June, 1914, Austria declared war
on Serbia, thus initiating the First World War.
In Paris, this was ignored, because Henriette
Callaux had been found Not Guilty. De
minimis non curat lex = "the law does not
extend to trivialities". Proust, in his novels,
wrote about his romantic affairs, but because
he was gay, had to feminise names, like
"Albertine". Boule de suif = ball of suet, the
French version, 100 years ago, of "babe".
7. Conclusion
And still, we label you the weaker sex!
Vienna drew the sabre on the Serbs?
Yes, but - de minimis non curat lex!
The crowds which crammed along Parisian kerbs
were there to cheer Acquitted Henriette.
She'd sobbed and swooned, and mooned and spooned, and won!
Her husband never placed a safer bet:
they even let her keep her little gun!
So, gentlemen, those terms diminutive,
those "ines" and "ettes" -- just leave them all to Proust.
Beware her underwear, where waits a chiv!
The merry widow's black, and home to roost!
When passion immolates you in its flames,
whenever pulses race, and blood runs high,
and (worse still!) you resort to nookie names --
my little chickadee, my cutie pie,
ma boule de suif, my little bit of fluff -
beware what's lurking in a woman's ****!
The Way of Time
Time is the essence of life; it’s the key ingredient
that lies in every heartbeat, an urgency that flows
With every breath we take.
This earthen body experiences life lessons, texting
Its limiting nature, while circulating its last breath.
Once the clock starts ticking, like a Rolex watch,
Any lost tempo in the timeline is a missed opportunity
made unregainable, altering the rhythm of life.
So utilize it wisely by turning mere existence into
A legacy left behind in time.
Take presence as your canvas and paint your
Rembrandt in self-command.
Its value is in its passion, conveying all of life's
colors, emotions, losses, hurts, and sufferings.
Then wrap them up in joyous expectation and
Share them with the world.
Get on the grind; waste no more energy on
Trivialities with no lasting gain.
Overcome obstacles to accomplishment.
Be inclined to make time for your
Prime time as you shine.
Before the curtain closes.
In divine creation:
God took His spirit (time) with the universe,
Man, in His image, used His presence as a gift
To astound the world with your masterpieces.
In an elaborate piece that leaves them all in
disbelief.
Nothing Is Something
There are so many trivialities to throw you
Things that matter, but don’t
Irritations that pass in the night
Important in an instant, dead in daylight.
Nothing is permanent, I preach to the converted
Everything passes, but stays
All problems cease when the final arrives
One thing for certain, no one survives
Gaze at your loved ones, who you’re lucky to have
And don’t count your chickens
All things are nothing and nothing lasts
It’s an effort to strive when you can’t smash the glass
Please look in the mirror, tell him he’s great
Only you know what’s deep within
Belief in yourself is the hardest belief
Perhaps a failed moment, brings a sigh of relief
David Cox 08/06/22
I have known the ache of being picked apart
by cultures trying to prey on my wounded heart.
By predators whose cruel words were spoken,
hoping they'd left me bleeding and broken.
I've cried out in sorrow from slurs of disdain,
felt the prick of their thorns like nettles of pain.
I needed healing when my feelings were spurned
Not bodily, but emotionally, I was wickedly burned.
I rescued my heart as it bled upon the floor
and decided not to allow the suffering anymore.
I healed my heartache with a change of attitude
by ignoring those who were mean and quite rude.
To myself, I promised that I would always be kind
and break free from pangs of pain in my mind.
I focused upon healing my afflictions at great length
and swapped my weaknesses for inner strength.
The process of recovering was easier and achieved
when I had a breakthrough and was finally relieved.
I chose to ignore trivialities that once caused me pain.
Now, my heart is filled with happiness with life again.
I smile when others want to see my heart broken
and recall words that Maya Angelou had spoken,
"You may shoot me with words, cut me with your eyes,
but from a past that's rooted in pain, I rise. I rise."*
*'Still I Rise' by Maya Angelou
Christmas edition of PS News is out, and here's the scoop
Poets are climbing the rungs of ladders on Poetry Soup
It's not an easy feat; one to be applauded and praised
instead of opposed, demeaned, or by jealous ones, razed
Why bother looking at lists if you find them to be galling?
Frankly, I find one with such an attitude to be appalling.
Remember that Santa makes lists. Two of them, in fact
and you'll be on top of his naughty list if you overreact
Stop being so gosh darn negative about petty trivialities
We are not alike. We have many different personalities
So stop whining about poets who like to write for contests
You will surely find a lump of coal in your stocking, unless...