I mourn your death, though you still breathe and speak,
No carved stone waits where your memory should lie;
I hear a silence where your laughter used to peak,
And rehearse your absence like a practiced goodbye.
There is no grave to mark the shape of your end,
No earth has closed where your shadow might remain,
Yet I still kneel where I imagine you’ll descend,
Tracing future hollowed out by unnamed pain.
I build you a coffin out of all I cannot say,
And line it with the seconds you have not yet lost,
Each one a small betrayal of a coming day,
Each one a quiet accounting of an unseen cost.
Your voice still stands, but I already hear it fade,
Like a room remembering the furniture gone cold,
Like iron slowly learning to degrade,
While no hand has yet dared to make the story old.
So I learn your leave before it learns your name,
And I grieve a shape that time has not agreed to form;
A future stitched from silence, woe, and borrowed flame,
Where I know no stone—only pain keeping me warm.
.
i just know that girl
will
be before
back
"monday"
')>
My heart is always willingly, patiently waiting
For the life I think you and I will be creating.
But my mind is going stir-crazy wondering
When it is the next time you will be coming.
My soul is knowingly, faithfully waiting
For your further, deepening awakening.
But my ego is desperately reaching
For your affectionate acknowledging.
My body is longingly, achingly waiting
For an embrace that is so tenderly soothing.
But my being feels your own soul lingering
In my room, beyond an illusion that is fading.
My heart patiently paints a future so loving,
For you're the one for which I was searching.
But my mind's always impatiently crying
For our life I see: a life finally worth living.
In a crowded Doctor's office one may find the patient getting impatient.
we sit and wait and wait and sit
it never hurts, not one bit
impatience chases my husband away
he cannot wait; he will not stay
I did not think their music could become one iota more annoying
I was wrong
Maybe it’s the loudness; my ears are cringing
My sensitivity is crying
Why oh why do people use pounding music in a public place?
It does not help that I am waiting for a haircut
And two people are ahead of me
Neither of them looks like they even need a haircut
While I look like the wild child of Borneo
Who put her fingers in a light socket
in between two events
whence in the waiting zone
do we remain vibrant and aglow
or despondent, happenstance bemoan
PATIENCE AND IMPATIENCE.
Patience is morality they say,
That: does not function with a noblewoman whose man is far away.
Won't she alleviate her fever with another man?
Perhaps the one who is not apt of being with her.
Impatience they say wrecks commodity
Not when they slap your father in your presence
And you say, patience is life.
You shall be tagged a bastard.
This life has its own vices.
Patience works when needed
Yet, impatience complements your patience when you are off guard.
For, the world is filled with evildoers.
Patience cools things down
While uncertainty makes things aggravate.
Yet, Impatience solves a case in the court
For when an attorney is too cool, he is tagged as a lout.
©Fawass Olalekan Adelabu
A Soul’s Breathing Way
Alleluia —my soul reaches — while
Presently
My body keeps still — only in the motion
Of breathing —
Unable to walk — I lie here
Riding time — through visions
over land and seas
Wild —
Without maps or measures — as
Before humanity determined
Moons or integers —
Alleluia — my soul discerns
Serenely
The musical turning of light
Lulling me along
To unset shores —
This ride to physical recovery —
Waiting —- wafting —
Will bear neither boredom nor
impatience —
While wending
Ever gently
On breathing’s rythm —
Alleluia — my soul gladdens
In songs of surrounding angels —
And is ever conscious —
To stay always praising —
Yahweh —
Three in One
Blessing — promises of
Breath and healing
I hold —
Alleluia —- my soul longs to sing
With a faith known
Prior to its birth or Eden
————————————————————————————-
(c) sally young eslinger 6/11/22
Glory to God….
Who would relaxed smiles flash,
In a longish queue,
And not later think it a bit rash?
I tell you “a Discouraging Few”,
And am willing to stake good cash!
It had been an intolerance far from new,
Not just by The Brash,
By whom, at home, had left a waiting stew,
By the nobility, for example, Prince Nash,
But also by the scared that some guy in the queue,
Had meddled with some filthy trash,
And just caught flu!
Still, it’s a gross dislike for the exact moments,
Things are due,
Ahead of them vomiting the comments
Of persons whose forefathers had raised a hue,
Over claimed injustices that lacked a clue,
But into a wild rage still flew.
she stares into her crystal ball
anticipating the gods are here tonight
she does not wait long
message is clear
she has no opinions about her mission
a mere implementer of a greater good
selfless and self-assured, she resolves to fulfil her mission
understanding she will not be left alone until she does
the candle flickers as she asks questions of her angels
They answer in a variety of ways, but she has studied them
She understands their language
Her power animals begin prancing their paws with impatience
They never like it when she taps into the angels first.
She senses Little Wolf now. A spirit guide.
The snake hisses, now they have to wait for them?
HASHTAGS AND SELFIES
This era of the ego,hashtags
and selfies..and me me me...
to the fore,impatience always
knocking on my door.
Instant this,instant that,self
congratulation,superficial self
expression..quickly,quickly..I've
social media to explore.
Insecurity underlines my every
post, stamped for all to see.
Where Respect..Respect is craven
most..in this world of me..
My thoughts are running wild..Pity
pity me..I've never grown up..
I'm immature... still just a child.
Copyright © Brian Strand | Year Posted 2015
300 nights I’ve been here a-pacin’,
I’ve got clothes, all shiny and new!
This whole year, my time’s been a-wastin',
someday this endless virus will be through.
On the news, they say there’s a serum,
soon I’ll have to take one or two.
Crowded clubs, where music’s a-playin’,
I bet I can get into one or two.
There are boys, out there just for kissin',
and someday, I’ll kiss one or two.
I’ll find out, just what I’ve been missin',
I’ll bet I won’t get home `til one or two.
There are guys, of nineteen or twenty,
and they know, just what to do.
Shiny toys, just waitin’ for choosin’,
maybe I’ll pick one... or two!
.
.
.
.
ok, funny note. I post my poems on several websites and on Quora, several of my readers lobbied me to change the last line of this poem - to follow the "one or two" theme. So, in a way, the last line is "crowd sourced" - and I must say also much improved =]
Thanks guys!
Yesterday, I saw a NASA announcement.
it said they found “Unambiguous”
water on the moon.
I had just finished my morning walk
and frankly, that sounded delicious
and refreshing.
So, I went to Amazon and searched.
I couldn’t find ANY reference to
“Unambiguous moon water” at ALL.
How ridiculous, I mean, why go
and ADVERTISE something that
We can’t get on AMAZON??
WTF people. This is AMERICA.
I had to learn to be still - it was a hard discipline, for me.
Impatience is my curse, it’s the underbrush fuel of my anger.
Unanswered wishes invited trouble and hours of internal fuss.
Impatience was the sound of panic in an empty room - it was
emotionally stick-fighting with the ocean in an interior arena.
I’ve tamed the wild urgency, I pretend it’s heat that I sink with stillness
but I still have the neural itch to explode - as if I harbor an armed vigilante
who watches the world with a child’s wide eyed envy.
My step father was my angel in this - with his endless patience and
calm - spending tiring days like Roman coin to help me understand
that impatience doesn’t make anything happen. With his generous
help I tamed this unattractive flaw. I was born too human but he’s
helped me strive for the heavenly. Thank you Step (my name for him)
I love you - Happy Fathers day.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.