Long Impatience Poems
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Regrets
Impatience coursed through my body
The mehendi art is taking a long time
Then there was you
My heart skipped a beat
Our eyes met and I looked away
Quick glances paved a path towards him
Why was I so impatient before?
I decided to take a seat in the hut
Knowing that I'll have a clear view of you
Then there was you
Hurrying towards me and sitting beside me
Now I'm a mess
And he starts shifting towards me
And I shift away from him
Making me clamp my lips hard so I wouldn't smile to myself
Your laugh
It stood out like a definition given at lectures your voice
I listened intently
Like its the instructions given at a mid exam
Making me clamp my lips even harder
She finished it quickly!
Now why was I impatient again?
Oh yah he's still there
Not having a clue that he's making my tummy a kaleidoscope of butterflies
Are we that desperate to have a quick taste of love at first sight?
Is it even love?
Maybe..
I moved myself away from him
Away from the hut
Towards the little gap between the wall
Swallowing my feelings of regret
Do I have to go home?
Whoa! love does make you blind
Were you that special to make me still think about you
To write about you
To try to remember your laugh
I guess you certainly are
I regret it now
I regret that I didn't make a move to show how much I like you
I regret holding back my smile
I regret not saying a word to you when you sat beside me
I regret every passing second knowing that I would never see you again
Glancing at my mehendi art
Realization crept out
A few minutes
A huge crush
A heavy weight of regret.
I Wait With Bated Breath...
(yes...yes...yes, this rhyme
resembles a recent one of mine
from a previous time,
yet appropriating wands zone writing
haint no crime -
at least not yet!)
Okay bull heave me you,
at this moment
alm completely unaware
what the a muse zing
genie of poetic
inspiration will bring
possibly shelving what Calliope
holds in store for me,
meanwhile now
with impatience it ching
visa vis to discover
what this Earthling,
(albeit modest) will be amazingly
graced with, meanwhile aye fling
haphazardly, indiscriminately,
and jocosely blitz
krieg feebly attempting
to contrive ingenious emits
poetic prestidigitation in fits
and starts, sans "FAKE" wits
as this humble
human imperceptibly orbitz
around mister Sun,
(which about bajillion years
from now suddenly quits)
shining foisting misery,
where Nyx knocks
(paddy whack give
my dog a bone...) divinely,
knowingly and spiritedly visits
(believe me you) this trumpeting
stupid moron loser
forever doth taint
after this moment
(no need tubby saint
lee and suppress any quaint
gut wrenching chortle)
at what aint
no farce), nor literary feint
yours truly painfully,
sorrowfully, and verily avers,
he now lacks fire and fury
(as if nettled by burrs)
nonetheless, which ambition
dust hanker mink thinks furs,
and foremost (Tom
morrow i.e. purrs
sues tha owl mighty,
where fame posthumously spurs
me amidst pantheon
of great writers
which dream dashed
into a million,
(no...no...no...not
bajillion this instance,
though good guess) pieces
abysmal silence replacing
(palimpsest like),
mine over imagination whirs.
TRAIN TRAVEL
I am on a superfast train
Listening to the soothing refrain,
Of the wheels on the railway track
Clickety clack, clickety clack.
Verdant vistas on either side,
Soothing visions during the ride.
Hamlets and villages flash by,
Little children waving "Hi"!
Fields of wheat and sugarcane,
Glistening from recent rains.
No pollution, no blaring horns,
No impatience or faces forlorn.
The catering staff wend their way,
Distributing food on trays.
We tuck into a hearty meal,
Get a satiated feel.
Chat with fellow travelers,
Some sober, some revelers.
Each with different tales to tell,
Caught up in a magical spell.
Halting at railway stations,
Quaint outposts of the nation.
The aroma of frying food,
You simply cannot elude.
Idyllic this train travel,
Just unwind and unravel.
Far away from stress and strain,
Modern life's eternal bane.
Stretching on my berth, relaxed,
Languidly just laying back,
Till I reach my destination
I'll admire Nature's creations.
She’s one lonely soul with occasional
Nosebleed, all from the sea-salt of distant
Waves, charmed to weariness by breezes powerful enough
To unfurl umbrellas rolled behind Grandfather’s clock.
She combs her lofty hair seawards, with particles, flimsy and
Delicately grey, tiny and microscopic, storming the sea in their looseness.
She hopes to borrow the strength of the waves
And attract her wayward husband’s lost attention imprisoned
By the west and south seas.
Her letters, before they reach him on the fragrant sails
Of running fleets, get partially soaked by lack of trust
And the impatience of the post.
She needs him.
Just his body and soul.
She misses his kisses, so full of the breath of sea-whisky.
And he misses, though not terribly,
Her long, brunette hair,
A single black sail of bedtime voyages
With patterns of gentle, pulsating tempests
When only two specks of light from a voyeur’s eyes
Light up the hidden corners of the two souls.
She misses his sailor’s whistling power,
Loud and musical,
Like the squawk of an inebriated, singing eagle,
Which is sexy to her young and whimsical ears
Not the rums he ships home late in November,
In readiness for lonesome, tenebrous Christmas,
To her to keep her company —
Among ten-or-six foreign candles she lights in the face of storms
To dare the raging sea-going madness of absent men.
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!
She kept him inside her heart
the place where it was safe
he did not see the worry
or feel the toll it would take
Inside the army tent
a commander of men
he had to be head strong
not let mounting fears be known
She carried food and water
knowing supplies were short
rumors of war kept growing
in the silence of her room she wept
He knew war was upon them
rebels were shot the night before
men anxious in the encampment
impatience was starting to show
She came into the tent that day
a radiant smile on her face
little did she know the future
until she heard the fateful shot
There inside her heart
broken in a thousand parts
the scene that lay before
a gun shot deep within his chest
He heard the shot
felt the bullet hit
his one thought of her
whispered, I hope this isn't it
Her hand pressed
hard upon the lifeless chest
blood came rushing out
her biggest fear became known
She lost her heart that day
nothing since has come her way
maybe somewhere in time
she will be able to feel once again.
*Reserata Carcerem XLIV*
Yore, chewed churning curse sewn sage -
ñ an urchin did he spit rasp rage;
ñ bounty bicycle had h' ridden.
Alas! Moist murk his tarred tog cl'ven.
Anon, tottered by th' urchin's sire,
'n' apt acumen rehearsed th' transpired.
Only t' know th' sewn sage for his sire -
his callous urchin smeared grandsire?
"Holla, sire.", sunny sire did quethe,
fanning wanky wind's sumptuous spree.
"Holla!", smothered sage sewn scarred runes,
but skittish urchin t' his sire flew.
Went then torn trio t' th' sage's eyry;
"Ruef'l thou'll be!", th' tune feral tongue leased.
'20:07:13:14:39
Note:
a) Of inky impatience.
b) Written apace with Middle English:
i) Yore - long ago
ii) Alas - sorrowful exclamation
iii) Anon - Immediately
iv) Sire - father
v) Quethe - say
c) The following are used with no syllabic consequences:
i) ñ - on
ii) h' - he
iii) 'n' - and
iv) t' - to
v) th' - the
vi) ruef'l - rueful
gosh, look at the time!
he's gotta go
immediately!
wherever he's headed
punctuality is a must,
he can't just go yet...
his mind
in utter disarray,
repeatedly screaming...
"where's my damn keys?!"
as he goes on a tear
for his misplaced keys,
he implores time to slow
to a c r a w l
but she gives him the kiss off.
she's laced up her running shoes
as he searches
frantically;
his inner voice...
wailing like a banshee,
ocean of tumult violently churns
in the pit of his gut.
a mouse scurrying
room to room
wreaking royal havoc;
clothes flying here and there,
the couch flipped upside down.
his impatience
giving way to panic.
meanwhile,
time's already on the run...
daring him...
" catch me, if you can!"
yet the borrowing gopher
paces around the house,
driving himself crazy, then...
he swings his front door open;
sad eureka!
there it is...
on the other side of the door
his keys dangle
in the keyhole.
time now mocking him...
he's late as can be.
Time disorder is common in a concert meant for those who rush
one organized by adrenaline and moderated by passion
a boomerang transaction, where the receiver and giver are the same
in a speedy interplay, faster than lightening and confusing to the clock,
a deal where the expense is simply the profit.
Her effect in this cold feels like warm hell in cracked ice
proving that sexuality is the best chef, which leaves her expertly baked
for this burning tease to dispossess the rain of its rainbow.
It’s time to do nature’s homework with an instinctive craft
where lust is king and fantasy, on a red bikini.
This enticing invitation with a humid feel can’t be given a missed call
I deserve the death sentence if I let go of this appealing grip.
Sliding through her flat front with a distracted composure
sinking into her back door protrusions with that sense of entitlement
feeling those submissive rib bones like the keys of an organ
all in one body capable of unfreezing the ice of antartica.
Lips melting into mine like a burning candle wax
two mountains with tips, the only gateway to the pink skies
in need of my suck, they stand round, firm and below her rubber shoulders.
She gladly wears my impatience like a fitted leather belt
complimenting it with accelerating moves in dire need of a stabilizer
folding into each other as we dance the ‘lock and key’
then every cardinal point is met by our sliding, rolling bodies
and greeted with the appetizing sounds of our clapping torsos.
Feasting in the accommodation of her wrapped gorgeous limbs
oblivious in pleasure’s park from the blanket of her flesh
erotic hospitality not in history books, served by the sheets of her skin
I’m wild, lost in reality, faded in sanity as both bodies prey on each other
displaying a vigil of powerful affection void of the pause button
for the sun to delay its rise as it hopes for a continuous replay.
Driving on the road to so called happiness
Trying to stay off the shoulder of tears
Doing our best not to give lifts
To others who's welfare we hardly care
9 to 5 we most often drive
Down a one way street
With the only signal that we use
Is the one that blinks, it's all about me
Then it's off to Church on Sunday
To smile at those we weekly pass by
Shredding Jesus into pieces
Keeping the parts out that we like
We think we know the best roads
To take to where we're going
In road rage mistrust we scream and we cuss
By passing all the signs of love
Stuck in this daily traffic jam
By impatience and bad habits
We see something better in another lane
But we're too far off to grab it
Then it's back to Church on Sunday
Trying to ease the pain of the coming Monday
Again shredding Jesus into pieces
In search of happiness along the way