Long Impatience Poems
Long Impatience Poems. Below are the most popular long Impatience by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Impatience poems by poem length and keyword.
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!
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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!
The Boatman’s Song 3/ Many
Indra was aware that Apsaras Urveshi
Was the incarnation of heavenly beauty
And her restlessness and impatience can spoil
The very beauty of her body and dance
Which was the pride and embodiment of perfection
He also knew that without Urveshi
Even the heaven would look lifeless, without any beauty
Everyone in heaven had thrown their hearts
To get only one glance of Urveshi’s adorable loving eyes
During her dancing sessions, the junior Gods of Indra used to remain glued
Sometimes forgetting even their breathing
Such was the magic of her beauty, dance and songs
Even Indra often found himself lost in beholding
The flawless figure of her body and her lovely dance forms
And such was her dancing skills that even Apsaras
Used to get lost in the sweetness of her voice
And the thrilling and joy of her skillful dance
Lord Indra’s realization of Urveshi’s feelings
Indra was thinking, whether to allow her to visit the earth
To hear the melodies of the boatman or
Not to allow her, as it could be risky for a woman like Urveshi
Urveshi may get tempted and may fall in love
With that earthly voiced singer, whose songs
Are echoing beyond the horizons of earth
And have reached even in the sphere of heaven
Indra was aware that Urveshi was the most beautiful
Among all the Apsaras of heaven and of the entire universe
And if she keep on worrying about the boatman’s songs
At the cost of her dances, joys and pleasures
It was going to spoil her lavishly bestowed beauty
Which glitters and glow or get pale on a woman
As per the love or longings blows in her heart and reflects on her face
Ravindra
to continue…
Kanpur India 6th January 2010
* Apsara (A Nymph dancer of heaven in the court of Indra as per Hindu Mythology
* Indra (The Lord of Heaven as per Hindu mythology
* Urveshi (One of the beloved Apsaras of Indra
* Saraswati (Goddess of knowledge, music & arts)
* Jungle (Forest)
Title: Rhyme Time 3
Across the dappled common areas,
Close to the stone in-crested buildings
Of the university, most masterfully, well built, solid
His steps fell into place with mine.
I felt his breath on the nape of my neck,
And I knew he was back, ‘I feel you’, my heart said.
That’s when I felt his left hand on my lower back.
I let out a soft sigh, so content, knowing without
Knowing how I knew, that this me is the REAL
Me - the me I don’t show to the world,
Only to him.
I turned to see what he looked like, imagining him dark, curly,
Tall, handsome. ‘Foolish to ask,’ he said in a mind way,
Not verbally. I knew only one thing. He was no one else’s to cherish,
He had been created for me. He was mine.
I could sense a wariness in him, a longing, a wondering, not unlike
My own soul; it is as if we were mates, amid many lifetimes; I knew him
And he knew me.
I could feel his love for me, and it was so deep, it shocked me to my core.
I knew he could feel my love too. He laughed at my impatience, and
Wanting. “Not yet,” he told me.
I was thunderstruck by his presence, more him than ever now, he
Directed me until I was under a beautiful weeping almond tree, with
Blossoms created by the gods. ‘Soon,’ he told me. I wanted so much more.
May 10, 2018
Rhyme Time Contest Sponsored by Laura Loo
The crimson sun reminds your saffron blob
My loving thoughts twirl like incessant waves.
In my heart, your splendid memories throb
Your charming mien, for, my soul longs and craves.
Is my love an infatuation? No, it’s not out and out.
Our bonding has made me a complete man.
Why do I love you so much? You know,
When I am distraught, your cajoling words solace me.
When I am indecisive, you are my strong morale.
How good you are! You tolerate my impatience, too.
The brilliant spark never withers and subjugates me. (of course, I enjoy it)
In my accomplishments, your shadow reflects in backdrop.
Though years move on, seasons run and days fly,
My love for you constantly soars high.
I Love You Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Eve Roper
Date: 24-10-2021.
Place: Honorable Mention
Soon, sunlight will yawn on the edge of dawn
and I'll welcome the warmth of his morning rays,
but never could I liken them to the great love born
when I feel your sensuous touch that sets me ablaze.
Impatiently, I wait while my heart is yearning
for daylight's journey to cast shadows over me.
Restlessly, I watch the hands of the clock turning
until the hour when the sun surrenders into the sea.
When skies are awash with an amber glow
I become eager to touch the breast of twilight.
Watching as grains of sand in the hourglass flow,
knowing when comes the moon, dreams take flight.
A pearlescent gem, she lulls me to sleep
when gracefully ascending upon her throne.
It's then my reverie descends in slumber deep,
and ardor's silken threads are passionately sewn.
With our hearts ignited by a stellar flare,
we circled the moon on diaphanous wings.
In Luna's lair we made love with savoir-faire
while starlight dreams caressed my heartstrings.
It's no wonder impatience is mounting
before the moon rises to her zenith height.
Hours move much too slowly as I'm counting
the hours when I can touch the breast of twilight.
2022 Poetry Marathon - Mile 22 Contest
Sponsored by Mark Toney
Originally posted on 12/23/2019
thunder roars all around us
rain has pillaged the Earth in petrichor
trees bend in the wind
and retrieve their stature
only to succumb to yet another burst
two pluviophile's sitting on the balcony
our conversations are mostly absent
from these words
you have taught me the gentle conversation
no need to dig into some dictionary
when love's simplicity beckons
yet she is a sponge
in the language i command
such a lady you are to me
says, what does that mean
i love it when you are a child in hand
i am called to duty
you never bring me to impatience
patience has awarded me beyond my dreams
the jewels i give you dance in your eyes
i just wish, but i cannot go there
the world would only intrude
it is the crown of thorns
my heart silently bears
your air of innocence is something i guard
a wolf leaps from your shadow
with deadly intent
aimed at the throat of any violator
the fate of a pluviophile
lost in the petrichor and you
God must hold a special pity
for me to be so graced
and i have learned from all of this
it is in the aiding of healing
we discover each other
the river's course remains unchained and free
love should be rampant lava
consuming all in its path
a pyroclastic flow that sweeps
two hearts into one
rain praters on while the wind
tosses badinage amok
as the lightning parries above
we retire for a nap in each other's arms
where the wolf in your shadow
is at rest
paradise enow
Abilene The Fate Within
I Wait With Bated Breath...
(slack jaw froze mine countenance
when eyes blinded with figurative
daggers asper mistakes in original draft,
hence...this flood proof, fire resistant,
and fever reducing error free version.)
(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 pizazz, meanwhile aye fling
haphazardly, indiscriminately,
and jocosely blitz
krieg feebly attempting
to contrive ingeniousness 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 and docked 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 active imagination whirs.
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
I was once misfortuned with being called a tool
by a man who believed I was most often the fool.
By a soul who only ever acted on his own behalf
I was told that I'm often used, simply do the math.
I played along with his insult as it was meant to be
by showing mock indignation at this thing he said to me.
I gave him then a ponderous look, and then I dully said...
"yes, but am I a useful tool? or am I broken then instead?"
He huffed and gave me a look, "you know what I meant"
Responded I, "I bet I'm new. not broken, worn or bent!"
He ignored me for the moment, his annoyance was clear.
"maybe I'm a cracker for nuts! A bottle opener for beer!?"
"Or yes! a wrench used for nuts, bolts, pipe fittings or more..."
He glared at my next words, "hopefully not from a dollar store"
I nudged him then, smiled some, "oh don't get all mud stuck"
"Hey! what if I'm chains or a tow-rope.. pull you out with any luck."
In his impatience, he yelled, "STOP!" He was looking rather mad.
I left it alone, got tight lipped, but oh what fun I just had.
Stop myself? "Ha!" I blurted then "I'm wily in my crafts"
"If I'm a tool then so are you, I'm using you for laughs"
An existential waiting for Godot,
when aggravated, drinking much Bordeaux,
could even bring Thoreau dismay and woe,
to mutilate one’s ear like poor van Gogh.
When we despair, impatience flaring, though,
in spite of claims of piety, we show
our unbelief about the debt we owe,
a faith that’s shallow, feeble, even faux.
Oh Lord, come to me now and do not go!
—————
for the Monomixorhyme Poetry Contest
63 words, 90 syllables, checked by HowManySyllables.com
sponsored by Hilo Poet
written on 11/4/22
Waiting for Godot, (pronounced “Guh-DOH”, although some prefer “GOD-oh”) a play written by Samuel Beckett in 1948, is often view through a Christian existential lens.
Henry David Thoreau, author of Walden was a transcendentalist, philosopher, and naturalist.
Vincent van Gogh was a post-impressionist artist who suffered from mental illness and heavy drinking, famously severing his own ear with a razor during an argument with his friend, Paul Gauguin.