Our internet went out at 4:41 p.m. today
No problem I thought
No problem at all
The company was called
We received an auto-message
Severe outage in your area
Expect full power restored by 8 p.m.
It is now 7:37 p.m.
Twenty-three minutes to go
I thought it would be back on by now
Our TV sets do not work
Our I-pads are useless
Our computers are down
I cannot even type
Our A.I.’s cannot set a timer or tell us Bette Midler’s age
Every minute seems like an hour
We are impatiently waiting for the internet
A system we have relied upon for years
I cannot tell my A.I. to play a Johnny Cash song
I cannot ask it who Elizabeth Taylor’s first husband was
I stare at the big screen
In the corner it says “not connected”
Is the country under attack?
What if all the internets are down?
What if they never come back up?
It is 7:41 p.m.
Our internet has been down for three hours
Nineteen more minutes
I am gritting my teeth
Three hours seems like thirty years
I watch the clock go from 8:00, 8:17, 8: 42, it is now 9:25 p.m.
We do not have the Internet yet
I am inconsolable
I miss the quiet
Before I was in the employ of other men
Before I came of age to apply for a job
Before the title of sir or Mr applied to me
When the only Mr Mthethwa known by the world was my father.
I do not miss my childhood
Or desire to relive it,
I miss 17, old enough to drive but not to vote
Before Helaena from school asked if we'd go steady
When she'd confide in me
And we'd enjoy the pensive silence
I miss the anxious feeling I'd get when we'd lock eyes,
Impatiently awaiting our first kiss.
Writing this I've come to a realization:
I am unsatisfied with my current life not because of the chaos, the pressure and my fading youth
But rather Helaena's absence in it
The world's become unbearably loud since you left
Helaena, I hate that you left my world far too soon.
How am I to walk this path without you.
I miss the quiet
Before I was in the employ of other men
Before I came of age to apply for a job
Before the title of sir or Mr applied to me
When the only Mr Mthethwa known by the world was my father.
I do not miss my childhood
Or desire to relive it,
I miss 17, old enough to drive but not to vote
Before Cynthia from school asked us to go steady
When she'd confide in me and we'd enjoy the pensive silence
I miss the anxious feeling I'd get when we'd lock eyes,
Impatiently awaiting our first kiss.
Writing all of this down I've come to a realization,
I am unsatisfied with my current life not because of the chaos, the pressure and my fading youth
I am unsatisfied with my life because Cynthia is not in it
The world's become unbearably loud since you left
Cynthia, I hate that you left my world far too soon.
How am I to walk this path without you.
I don’t have time for this
These words
These endless words
Idle commuters
Waiting….impatiently
On the subway platform
Jostling for position
Hoping to get a seat
A gazing flash of light
These words
This compilation of compulsion’s creativity
Clamoring crazily
Challenging the implication
Of meter’s maniacal manipulations
Dancing on the head of a pen
Yet, I must choose
While listening to the chorus of
Pick me…pick me
And still … I listen to them
Weighing the worthiness of their weight
Knowing that they know their place
If I will but loosen my grasp
On the instrument
of our freedom
I watched as the dandelions blew away in the breeze
Like small tornadoes beneath me
You chuckle, then rush to collect them
Scared to see some unique begin to bloom?
Hunger rumbled through my body
Like a shouting gladiator
Piercing my stomach with his blade
Gyros spread across the set table
I watch as you sink your teeth into them
Starving like a ravenous tiger
Yet a heart softer than lavender
So, darling, let the games begin
Please offer me your hand to hold
Whisper to me, skin warm like tea
Olive complexion luring me in
Like I'm stuck inside a trance
Take this break while the tides are high
Guide me into this deep ocean
I'll backstroke through love's reservoir
This aura, it calls out my name impatiently
Sandalwood dances to my brain
The scent attracts me like a magnet
Farther away than Andromeda
My worry for the future, it drifts away
Now that ecstasy has incarcerated me
Nothing can ensure my soon release
Mercury rises and life tingles
Across the land there's excitement
Yellows burst on the scene
Feathered friends hear the call
Longing impatiently for fragrant blossoms
Only the patient are rewarded
Windblown perfumes begin to tantalize
Evidence of summer's imminent approach
Regenerated gardens come to life
Sacred havens exuding nature's harmony
AP: 3rd place 2026
We waited for the coat check
Since our winter garb is bulky
And schlepping it around could make
Us feel a little sulky.
The Met was far from crowded
Yet the line was barely crawling.
We inched along impatiently;
As members, it was galling.
At last we made it to the front;
No claim checks were presented.
Instead, you tapped your number
On a keypad; none dissented.
When we were set to leave,
After a lovely afternoon,
We lined up once again,
Our crawl repeating much too soon.
But as we zipped our jackets up,
I noticed that adjacent
To the line we left was one where
Not one person was impatient.
For it was meant for members,
Which describes our situation.
Had we known about it sooner,
We’d have saved some aggravation.
Dear Poetry,
What would I do without you?
You have been my avenue of self-expression,
My platform to release confessions,
And an outlet to aid me in my own emotional healing.
How can I ever repay you
For the countless times you have saved me,
The creative writer you have made me,
And the ways in which you have given me hope
When I felt my world crumbling down around me?
It is in this art form that I claim my purpose,
The reason I can bring my words to the surface,
That enables me to push past the pain with a pin—
My deepest thoughts within,
Impatiently waiting to be placed on paper.
Dear Poetry,
You are my voice when I can’t speak,
My strength whenever I am weak,
And my courage that allows me to be just who I am, despite what others may think of me
I am now and forever grateful for letting go—
Letting go of what no longer serves me: a state of mind once deemed unworthy, now discarded, where value of self has taken its place.
And though at times, thoughts of doubt still echoes in my mind, like the footsteps in an empty hallway, it is with this pin, that I have learned how to quiet the negative thoughts within
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.
After Raymond Carver’s “Bankruptcy”
Thirty-seven, trick shoulder &
a sultry appetite still (exempt)
I wait for you
impatiently (exempt still)
listening to the towels tumble
as my hairy belly moans:
we are rebounds
to true pleasure.
Forgive us, (I pray in enormity)
our reckless improvidence.
Today, my heart, like the front door,
awaits unlocked
for the first time in years.
A twill and threadbare poorhouse,
a school.
Broods drilled by unsullied nuns
into sullen lines.
The muted squeak of timid mice
as new brown leather boots
attempt to skip,
though skipping is an offense
behind the fence.
We are tagged, and fed tapioca,
led to cold toilet blocks
to scrub ink-stained fingers
with bricks of green carbolic,
while outside
rosery beads click impatiently.
Rain or shine; strays,
tykes and orphans
are made to march through,
a gray flannelled time
for God knows what reason,
or for God knows what
dark twisted rhyme.
The river is deep.
The river is wide.
I burned every bridge.
I’m stuck on this side.
I stand on the shore.
I’m looking across
At all that I’ve left
And all those I lost.
The river’s too fast
To wade or to swim.
And night’s coming on,
The light’s getting dim.
Cannot find a boat
To row or to sail.
I’m stuck where I am,
A self-imposed jail.
I’ve lost track of time…
How long I’ve been here.
Has it been but days
Or how many years?
Each moment’s the same,
On endless repeat.
I cannot move on.
I cannot retreat.
The river cares not,
Just endlessly flows.
Its start and its end?
Well, nobody knows.
So, here I just sit,
Impatiently wait,
And wish I had known
But, now it’s too late.
"The most eloquent silence;
that of two mouths meeting in a kiss.
~ anonymous
I'm tenderly held in your arms each night
as we meld with silent kisses in the moon's glow.
Secrets are shared beneath stars, gleaming bright.
reflecting love I see in your eyes. They tell me so.
There are no sighs nor moans of ecstasy
for only in dreams do I feel you touch my lips.
In shadowed night, your face is a mystery,
hidden from me, but not from my fingertips.
Muted kisses bring passion ~ given and taken
binding us tighter than cords of golden twine.
Each breath is a promise, not to be forsaken
and returns you to me in every dream as mine.
When I feel the warmth of morning's first light
I wake lonely, and on my pillow are spilled tears.
I impatiently wait for the lavender of twilight,
knowing you'll be there, as you have been for years.
Love, impatiently awaiting
awaiting the heart to regroup.
Regroup from all of the torment,
torment from the mirage of love.
Love can rip down your defenses
defenses that stonewall the heart.
Heart of the most giving person
person so deserving of love.
Café tables on terrasse drenched in rain ~
everyone’s indoor as if on hold
waiting impatiently for the sun to come out.
April showers bring may flowers
but we aren't happy to pay the price ~
meanwhile the rain stubbornly won't let up.
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
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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.