Best Expectantly Poems
I long to—
Walk one more time
To where the land ends, and the ocean begins
To listen expectantly for the sounds of infant waves
Grasping layers of golden sand
I long to—
Hear the fat gulls with white bellies
And ebony eyes
Floating on invisible wires
Calling for the savory morsels
Hidden inside the curled fingers of an old man
I long to—
Stand beneath the tangerine sky
Lazily descending into the cradle of the sea
Vacating heaven for the snowy celestial sphere
Hung upon Vincent’s starry canvas
Ten thousand lights scattered forever
I long to—
Be embraced by the tenebrous sea
Her loneliness engulfing me like lovers of yesterday
I long to—
Gaze beyond the past wrapped in sorrow
The years of trudging through cheerless mire
Searching for reasons without answers
Answers without questions
I long to—
Remember only moments worth remembering
A twirling montage of love and hope
And dreams
Of a time when two became one
Hearts pulsing in harmony
Minds ascending to tidal floods of ecstasy
I long to—
See your face
To walk hand in hand
To where the land ends and the ocean begins
I long to—
Do it all again
In His eyes was the wisdom of the ages.
In His hands was kindness and love.
His manner was tender and quiet.
In His smile was a light from above.
He traveled the highways and byways;
Spoke to rich man and beggar alike.
He taught in the streets and the temples,
Brought comfort and healing and light.
He spoke of His reason for coming,
And a home for the faithful and true.
At first He was loved by many,
And then by only a few.
He was taken to court in the city,
And put through a mockery trial.
He was hung on the cross without pity,
And taunted and rudely reviled.
Why did they do this to Jesus,
A Man who would never abuse?
His countrymen laughed and they mocked Him.
"He said He was King of the Jews".
"CHRIST DIDN'T PLEASE HIMSELF. AS THE PSALMIST SAID, HE CAME FOR THE VERY PURPOSE OF SUFFERING UNDER THE INSULTS OF THOSE WHOWERE AGAINST THE LORD. THESE THINGS WHICH WERE WRITTEN IN THE SCRIPTURES SO LONG AGO ARE TO TEACH US PATIENCE, AND TO ENCOURAGE US SO THAT WE WILL LOOK FORWARD EXPECTANTLY TO THE TIME WHEN GOD WILL CONQUER SIN AND DEATH."
Romans 15:3-4
(Want to see a hero? A real Man's Man? Well, there He is.)
“Give them back! Give my tears back, right now—with interest!!”
—Natsuki Takaya
She wrote her marine a letter, hopeful, bright
loved with her kisses and perfume. In sight,
the postman circles ‘round. Expectantly, she
hurries to the wooden box, near the Pear tree.
Spring is in the air with robins mating, daffodils
in potent bloom and the sudden goosebump’ chills.
Sarah shuts her bedroom door, pounces on bed,
allows steam to open the envelope, read what’s said.
“Dear Sarah, soon I go into the fight, I will write more
later, after the attack. Kiss kiss, x x, hug hug score.”
Later he continues with blood, sweat and tears.
Incoherently, blots - black and blue, slide down. Fears
march up and down her spine. Vietnam’s magic trick
was to steal her joy and love. America’s turning quick -
long ere, a neighbor, fathomed regress from her guy,
which would rip the torrential tearful cloud of her eye.
The sun hung low in the sky
And the light was beginning to fade
Maggie the Schnoodle and Jack the Retriever
Stood before me
Tails wagging
Noses pointing to leashes
Looking expectantly
Tapping their toe/paw
Checking the clock
Clearly reminding me
It was now time for their daily walk.
Okay, I promised. We'll go after I do just one more thing.
I’ll just check my email, oh and just search Google on that one thing I heard about...
Oh look there, well I wonder if anyone’s done any research on that, let’s see...
Well, hmmm, are there any blogs with opinions on the matter, let’s see…
Ah ha! I must bookmark this page and come back to it,
For I must take the dogs out before it gets dar………………k?
How can it be? Where did the sun go?
Why, only a moment ago there was plenty of light.
Alright Jack, let's go Maggie …how 'bout a walk by the light of the moon?
Inspired by Laura McKenzi's "Beyond (an un-named time that follows day)fall" contest.
Hot August, 1974, I was back for my second year at college,
having just settled into a new place at Anita Apartments,
right next to the guys’ apartment complex called Tanner’s.
My first night, we answered a knock at our door.
Steve Dietrich, a friend of my roommate, entered our apartment,
but my eyes went immediately to the younger man with him.
That would be his brother Joel, there for his first year at BYU.
My first thought was this: How shy he is, so reserved. . . but so adorable.
He was tall and thin and cute as the dickens.
They stayed for just a while, and by the time they left,
I’d formulated my big plan:
to get to know this boy Joel (who everyone just called Joe).
There was to be a parking lot dance that weekend,
and so I waited expectantly, hoping all week
to catch a glimpse of this boy I’d found so attractive,
but no matter how often I strolled past his apartment,
my opportunity for a “chance encounter” never occurred.
The night of the dance arrived and I was right there,
all decked out in my colorful tight top with bellbottoms,
long luscious lashes curled and pink frost lipstick applied.
When I caught sight of Joel, he was slow dancing with some girl.
A blonde with glasses, she was rather plain and smaller than me.
I was not pleased to see her with Joe, and I thought to myself:
Hmmmm, who does she think she is? I saw him first,
and he is NOT going to stay with her tonight.
As they danced, I fixed my eyes on him,
my beautiful, long-lashed, sultry green eyes.
He looked up and saw me then. I must have taken him by surprise
because I did not lower my gaze.
I wanted him to know that he was going to be mine,
so I willed him with my gaze to break away from that blonde
and come to me.
And so he did. . the rest is history.
Beside me at this moment, lying on our bed, watching TV,
is the man who today bears little resemblance to that
very young man I met 35 years ago.
I turn to him and ask, “Do you remember the VERY first time you saw me?”
He replies, “I don’t know; a parking lot dance?”
Well, at least he came close. . .
For Frank Herrera's Contest: Love Story
far from here and never worn.
“It’s red” I mused.
She giggled or anticipated.
They were words, not words
as they can be words
said to break the ice.
“Yes, it is” with a broad smile
then hid her lower lip
behind her upper teeth
and lashed down expectantly
waiting for my mouth
would say no more
words more than icebreakers.
And it was a song,
and I saw
she hadn’t known
as I hadn’t.
Only dreamt.
Of an island.
Or a better
Amish world
on a Vangelis
tune promising
creativity.
Those are words of course
as they are words and no more.
She also knew to do the dishes;
not to wet me she pushed with her pulses.
Hey, I saw you smile in the uncommon mirror
when I kissed the curve between your neck and shoulder.
I’ll paint you in despair because I cannot as you are,
although I think I know a lot as you do and cannot
hold me in your words, only in the no-words
between the lines where none can find
me or you in my hemp abstracts.
A negligee is easier and says a lot
which is why I said it’s also red
and can be seen and caught in that word
so openly pregnant of many no-words.
She doesn’t iron, she folds. That’s a secret
not unknown under women.
Or men.
04/08/09
My prison cell is loneliness.
My cries and murmurings confess
that bars invisible now press
and paralyze with heavy stress
and desolation. May God bless
those deeply mired in misery,
too sad to pray expectantly,
the isolated ones like me.
Weeping willows mourn and sigh
for melancholy ones who cry.
not autobiographical
January 22, 2018, entered in Brian Strand's Middle-January Standard
Contest
Mrs. Robin, busy as a bee
visits my home's skylight annually
She builds a nest there carefully
her private retreat, only I can see
She commandeers my yard militarily
hopping to and fro imperiously
Ever seeking bark or twig assiduously
to feather her penthouse more comfortably
A half-dozen blue eggs she lays surreptitiously
Settling down over them protectively
Sheltered from the elements so cunningly
She awaits their hatching expectantly...
One day, her chirpings' cease, inevitably
Mrs. Robins' dreams realized successfully
She's flown the coop, perforce happily
Her nest, forlorn ~ stares at me emptily
July 10, 2020
Bird Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance LaFrance
elbow to elbow no room to breathe
in this place i once thought an escape
missing her more each day
and each passing moment
brown children with vaseline
greased scalps peer expectantly
at this strange newcomer
vampire handsome and strange intellect
my weakness must be apparent
fore they trust me
dancing with the devil isn't a tango
it's a tangle
our innocence ensnared
like a scared fragile rabbit
pulse racing
silken brown fur clamped
between iron rusty jaws
moving like the blood of the hare
between each strand of hair
i avoid their queries of life
after the dance
From the stage, the audience
Expectantly awaits,
Their faces all reflective
Of the mood the play creates.
I keep them out of focus
But make note of certain smiles
Which inject a boost of confidence
That reaches 'cross the aisles.
The me they know is not the one
Who's up there on the stage,
But rather an embodiment
Extracted from the page.
So when the spotlight's on, I'm in
That pure performance zone,
Connected to the ones who watch
But blissfully alone.
You say Yellow
And then
Expectantly await
A light repost
Of tales of Golden Sunshine
Piercing through the drudgery
But when you say Yellow
Expecting reposts of sunshine
It sadly takes me back and
reminds me that cancer turned
my father's skin and face
To a yellow not the likes or shade of
rainbow , sunflowers or gold
But rather of cancer yellow that
you won't find on any colour chart
Because decay is hard to replicate
Once the leaves of Autumn have
all but fallen and been swept up
and away
At least his ashes we're no longer
yellow
When they we're scattered
and flew away taken aboard the
backs
Of pollen Bees to process into
tiny tears of oh so sweet Honey
drops
Because he meant so much and
deserved a fitting end not the
sticky one he met
eyes, suddenly open
in the night (mine)
misty (they)
panting, sweating (me)
I bleed some words onto a page
how do they feel?
(these words)
what are they trying
to say? (to you)
what do they want?
(from me)
I sleep again
fitfully
words…pages…books…writing
flashing through my
thoughts
maybe these thoughts are
dreams
is a dream a wish?
a thought an action?
I must have slept
for it is morning now
and I am calm
the page looks at me
(expectantly)
I ignore it
it wants too much of me
always demanding
but don’t they know that
I love them?
(these words)
I sweat over them
nurture them
I want them to be quiet
(tranquil)
I want them to grow up
(be whole)
I can ignore the screams
no longer
I carry the page
to my desk
and consume its patterns
is it happy?
(this page)
does it need feeding
some more
or is it replete?
another word drips unbidden
to the page
to fall among its
siblings
is it happy with where
I put it?
has the page
accepted it?
it seems so, because
the weight and shape
seem
balanced
the page has stopped
its incessant noise
and the words have
settled
comfortably
but when I read it
does it say
what I wanted?
(to you, to me)
The Check is in the Mail
Authored by Chuck Keys
At the beginning there was no rain,
Only the thundering noise and bright bolts of lightning.
The trees and bushes trembled with the cold winds
Pouring sheets of rain soon followed.
The stones and the ground cover cringed,
Everything echoed and shook from the hard driving forces present.
There was no place to run or hide. God
Was making his statement.
There will be no peace tonight,
Everything is in play.
Someone is in pain, searing aching ever increasing pain,
Like the agony of a toothache, thumping, pulsing, thud, thud, thud
Louder and more intense with each breadth
The body and spirit is consumed, tightly wrapped up,
Absorbed in the discomfort of now.
And it's not going away on its own.
There will be no peace tonight,
Everything is in play.
He was stolen, placed in chains,
400 years ago,
Brow beaten from the beginning, in and out
Never allowed to be his own,
Not like whites, he was property, owned and operated
But different non-white, (why are we still talking of color?)
Yet beings we all are.
There will be no peace tonight,
Everything is in play.
We cry for what was taken but can never be returned
Not wanting to be raised above or over,
Wanting not a victory, but delivered equality.
Through love and nonviolence Martin and they forged ahead,
No more waiting for the check in the mail,
But expecting the expected.
There will be no peace tonight,
Everything is in play.
The storm is here and now.
A debt of honor is due,
With the passing of time, where is restitution?
We accept love, education, pride and joy,
We can't accept the hatred of crime, violence,
The lack of housing and work,
Pain never fades on its own.
It needs attention.
God’s values our values,
The one constant, never becomes vague.
Without compromise. Without compromise.
There will be no peace tonight,
Everything is in play.
The storm continues with its blinding rage,
Waiting for an answer, not patiently, but expectantly,
There will be no peace tonight in their lives as in our hearts,
Everything is in play.
God calls His own people to live
a life that bears real good fruit
fruit that comes from true living tree
both connected at it's very root
We need to be rooted in Christ
living for Him surrendered to His will
filled with His spirit display His love
hoping expectantly for His coming still
But in this world of fallenness
we have a fight deep within
there our sinful nature fights us
striving to keep us down in sin
In all of this battle within our soul
God's promised in us to show His son
showing His loving compassion to fill
us fully so we be Christ like won
Take courage keep looking to Jesus
in Him you'll be a fruit bearing tree
overcome sin, Satan and all things
in Christ alone fruitful you'll be
(' You will recognize them by their fruits. Are grapes gathered from thornbushes, or figs from thistles? So, every healthy tree bears good fruit, but the diseased tree bears bad fruit. A healthy tree cannot bear bad fruit, nor can a diseased tree bear good fruit. Every tree that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire. Thus you will recognize them by their fruits'.)
Matthew ch. 7 vs. 16-20 (ESV)
The lights are slowly dimming
The curtain's going up
The stage-hands take their places
The scenery's all set-up
The Orchestra is waiting
For the Conductor to cue them in
The audience waits expectantly
For the overture to begin
The Singers wait backstage
Sipping tea to warm their throats
Softly singing scales
And praying they'll hit their notes!
The Actors mouth their lines
Hoping they won't forget
(The producer wants a hit
So he can get out of debt!)
After all the hassles
Of auditioning for the part
Six months of rehearsals
And giving their all for art
They wait with baited breath
Whispering "This is it!"
Wondering, while the curtain's going up
"Do we finally have a hit?"
This isn't just a job to them
They love the work they do
And when they walk out on that stage
The audience loves them too!
So let's hear it for the showpeople
Who live to entertain you
After all the heartbreak and rejection
Their reward is applause from you!
Copyright 2003 Beatrice Boyle
(All rights reserved)
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