Hesitates Poems | Examples

To start with she hesitates

To start with she hesitates, if at best, 
Then unwinds, loosens up, forward to move
And begins to show tides like interest,
Immerses then in art of making love,
Not in any hurry to reach the crest,
A dove before, she now gets into groove, 
No mean moist, in mood, looks for privacy
To give immense joy as spouse so happy.
___________________________
Translation (Ottava Rima) | 27.08.2025 | love, passion
Note: Here is a verse (in Shardul-vikridit meter) from Bhartrihari’s Shringaara Shatakam (hundred verses on love and romance). This verse is about the love-making ways of women-- how from being hesitant initially she becomes so passionate to leave aside all shyness. Here is the transliteration:
   
Pra-angaam eti mana aagana aagata rasam jaata abhilaashaam tatah,
Sa-vridam tat anu shlathi krtat anu pra-dhvasta dhairyam punah |
Prema aardram sprhaneeya nirbhara rahah kridaa pragalbham tatah,
Nihshanka anga vikarshana adhika sukham ramyam kula stree ratam || 60 ||

Instructions For Walking Away

feet tracing ruts
softened by the weight of others

the path was worn
    polished
not by insight
but by generations
unquestioning the same direction

a weed split the sidewalk
where my foot hesitated

they handed us maps
already marked, folded
creased at the routes
they wanted us to traverse

walls hung with heirlooms
no one claimed
shadows
longer than the rooms

classrooms’ chalkboards of certainty
offices pressed flat with protocol
we learned the art
of veiling the eye behind the eye

we drank from vessels
lips like waiting mouths
etched with forgotten crests
believing the shape of the cup
taught us thirst

air rehearsed its return
like a tethered animal pacing
the same invisible circle

inscribed with grace
shaped like a cage
narrowing the limit
of knowledge
of wisdom

altars made from repetition
shaped our days
to fit the mold
filed down the splinters of doubt
until only smooth compliance remained

tell me—
what is awakening
if not the moment
your hand reaches
for a handle
no one told you was there

and the quiet moment after waking

my heart
uncertain
unshod
hesitates…

Staircase

Shadows
clinging to steps,
grain worn by years~
voice drifts between each tread,
pausing where the past often
hesitates




Vignette

When comfort comes at cost

Time was money was when a mindful mate
That gave me time enough to feel its feel--
The touch of grain and texture of its state,
How one hesitates ere part with the bill--
Crisper the notes harder to part was it,
The time it takes to wean out the wallet
That gives enough time to be wise and discrete
To look into, to wait, deliberate
That slows me down enough to weigh its worth.
UPI now cuts that safety circuit
That technology calls it empty mirth,
Not watch out, weigh and well in time to quit. 
    Technology oft looks an empty boast,
    And I know well: comfort comes at a cost.
___________________
Sonnet |01.06.2025| change, money

The Ink Speaks

You ask me—
how does it feel?
This slow bleed of words…
This quiet magic
made of pain—
and ink.

Let me tell you.

It feels like this:
The pen… hesitates.
Just for a moment.
Then carves its hunger
into the silence
of a blank white page.

The ink bottle?
It trembles.
Not from fear—
But from the weight
of all it hasn’t spilled yet.

Some call it a prayer.
Others?
A wound that never heals.

Watch the letters.
See how they sprawl—
dark wanderers,
with no home
except this crossing point
of skin and syllables.

See how they blur at the edges—
like grief.
Like forgotten gods.

And the colors—
oh, the colors…

Blue—like midnight’s tantrum.
Pink—like a tongue-tip confession.
Red—like a raw hymn
sung at the edge of dawn.

Don't talk to me about purity.
Truth—
real truth—
stains deeper
than any sin ever could.

You want to know
Where do poems come from?

Place your ear—
right here.
On the space
between a breath
and its echo.

Between the wound—
and the word
that dresses it in gold.

This is where it begins.
Where the unsaid
turns liquid.

Where the pen
is just a bone
whispering to paper:

Take this.
Make it beautiful.

Serpents, Scorpions, and Owls

What do you look for in a man? 
I usually say wisdom.
An owl that is respectful,
Thinks with his head,
But still acknowledges the heart.
As much as i pretend to love those birds,
Who flock to your side once smitten—
I tend to fall,
For those sly serpents,
Who could care less if I’m eaten.
I know they tell lies,
But their sickly sweet words,
Dripping like honey,
Trick my senses,
Into thinking they’re sweeter than they are cruel.
Hiding behind that vexing charm,
Serpents weaken their prey.
Combining appetite with desire,
They confuse my instincts.
My scorpion tail hesitates,
Not knowing whether their smile is false or not,
I shouldn’t sting if I’m unsure.
His smirk hides his fangs,
He knows what he does to me.
I let his venom spread through my veins—
I wish I didn’t fall for serpents.

Ways of the Heart

whispers of light fall against the naked breath
erasing the shadow who hesitates, beneath the calm
stilling the gentle tears who linger in the heart
pouring out the blessings, a jewel in heaven’s palm
at the gate, His love reflects the music, the song
dancing as we mutter words of worship, soul’s balm
our ways, struggles, futures are in God’s thoughts.

Behind Closed Doors

Intriguing thought begins to waltz, 
With baby steps, timid and coy, 
Twirling into a master ploy -
It hesitates and then it halts…

The thought is tamed, the game is on, 
Fervid, wild word search is in play;
The frantic quill redrafts all day, 
The mind’s in frenzy, dusk to dawn. 

Masterpoem is to be born! 
Or is it vehemently verbose? 
One despised doubt… it hither goes - 
Into the waste bin, gravely torn! 

Genious has his highs and lows -
The price of greatness, I suppose!

To Frost: Regarding The Diverging Paths

“Two roads diverged in a yellow wood….”

Robert,
You let the split remain unresolved,
and while we stand in awe,
staring at your crossroads
etched in gold and shadow,
do you ever wonder
what lay beyond the path
you did not take?
Even though you say,
“I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.”

Did the road arch upward,
an unfamiliar melody on the wind?
Or did it tumble into brambles,
a half-forgotten warning?
Even now I see your boots----
Mud-caked, maple-tinged-----
pausing at the edge.

Here’s my advice, if you allow it:
Don’t linger too long
in the pondering.
Step once more
into the thicket, the gravel,
the unknown blaze of paths.

And when your pen hesitates,
push it further
to sketch the forest where both trails end-----
or perhaps where they entwine,
branches brushing like old friends.

Some questions don’t need answers,
but oh, how they crave
a different kind of wandering.

Regarding Robert Frost’s famous poem, ‘The Road Not Taken’.

A Kiss In The Dark

 

He heard her weeping from another realm,
and he was determined that he would time travel;
all he knew of his life began to unravel,
and no matter the dangers he would journey to her world.
On earth Anna's thoughts day and night overwhelm,
he finds her in the garden of a home among the blooms;
later he followed her through all the elegant rooms,
and finally in her room she prepares for bed with care.
But, she hesitates as a wispy fog fills the air,
in the dark he strokes her long raven hair and holds her close;
she feels him and although she cannot see him . . . he is her rose.
And in that moment their love unfurled,
then, with a kiss in the dark and wrapped in love they disappear
and all that Anna leaves in this earthly world is a tear.

God's Will

While my heart breaks,
here in this unsteady silence,
before the first snowflakes
the gentle autumn light fades…

while my spirit abides,
here in the turbulent stories,
before the darkness divides
where hope meets faith…

while my heart hesitates,
here in the weakness of a tear,
God’s love gently translates
so I know the love who is real…

while my spirit sings praises,
here where there was once fear,
I remember how much He amazes
those who believe He surely saves…

while my heart trembles,
here where the light stands still,
there is the courage that resembles
the sweetness of God’s perfect will.

Bodacious Rose

you reach with clinging desires
and drunken temptations
brightly flourished promises
wrapped 'round petite
virgin white pleasures
 
yet trust hesitates around
too much beauty
hidden midst other scents

emotional flytraps while
Venus blushes
knowing if she waits
her hugs will be too painful
to escape

Blood Sword

A pen who never bleeds blue nor black
As the changing shades of a clear night sky;
Bleeds blood, ever deep red
As a sword who fought million battles.
He never reveals his tale
But it is to be remembered 
And will be remembered.

He sets aright others' lives
Make corrections, make amends.
Unlike his kin, with a white skin
The correction pen, bleeding white;
He never hesitates to unveil blunders,
Others made;
Only pronounce them, guiding them 
To learn from their faulty footings.

The White King  asserts:
" I, who, hide his flaws
Flaws of juvenile origins;
Grateful, he is, to me. 
In his life's canvas,
With no scars to be blamed for,
He starts anew.
Turning the hourglass,
To let his scars go into oblivion, 
Never to be seen again-
To him nor the others
With a history anew, 
He starts afresh."

The blood sword, now spoke
He voiced his voice, as he said:
"Let your wrong footings stay,
Learn from them; grow."

Siren Of A Woman

She was always a singing siren of a woman.
She was always attaining what she can.
She was always a bright, seductive being.
She was always so willfully enchanting.

She had found the love of her life at eighteen.
She had found herself in a passion so unpristine.
She then eventually needed a means to leave.
She had managed to find a way on one eve.

She soon enough had found a second lover.
She later reunited with her first, needed a cover.
She quickly lost him however, for calling him out.
She went home to cry, and alone aloud shout.

She then may have found her third true love.
She hesitates to believe he may be from above.
She forever remains a siren filled with fervor.
She awaits any results of her newest endeavour.

the photo lies

sitting close
is not enough
for entwinement 
for if heart hesitates 
magic of love is denied
and spontaneity is scarred
crippling vibrance of innocence

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