Long Waiting game Poems
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TO FULLY UNDERSTAND THIS POEM PLEASE READ BRONTE INSPIRATION 1, 2 and 3
Little Patrick in the nursery playing with his toys
Asks ''MUM'' can I have a sister like the other girls and boy ?
His friends have told him in playschool about their expanding families
Our little boy wants a sibling and we are only too happy to please
With every waking moment , we climb those Bronte stairs
Or get cosy on the sofa, the foot stools and easy chairs
We felt that we had tried so hard and we had little left to give
The doctor told us that our test had come back positive
We are so very blessed Patrick’s a lovely little boy
He looks just like his daddy; he is our pride and joy
Despite the fact he’s young and only just aged three
He is so excited at the expected addition to the family
Only yesterday he brought me his favourite teddy
Put it in the nursery for when the time is ready
He would love a sister and has chosen a lovely name
I’ve told him to be patient we must play the waiting game.
Patrick often cuddles up and touches your tummy
Says ' I can feel her growing inside you mummy '
His much loved chicken nuggets he shares with you
Come on mum , you know you've got to eat for two
We giggle as Patrick’s patience grows shorter
I'm just hoping that we have a beautiful daughter
He wants a sister with every ounce of his heart
I'm praying that we can do our part.
The time for the birth is now drawing near
With you by my side I have nothing to fear
Patrick is due to stay with his little friend
To keep him amused on them we depend
Finally the waters break and the baby is on it way
We hurry to the hospital we have waited for this day
At last the baby arrives she has such a lovely face
Patrick’s name is so apt for her, so we have named her Grace
We take care to involve our son in all we try to do
Taking every opportunity to inspire hearts and minds a new
Our children have their moments and sometimes they misbehave
With love and careful guidance, we have a million memories to save
So many children's giggles and demonstrations of love and care
We give thanks to God for the happiness we share
We've ensured the Bronte house is a happy love filled place
A sanctuary of our own for our children Patrick and Grace
13th June 2014
Written by Jan Allison & Darren Watson
The rules are simple for those who are leaving
Just forget all the sacred vows that you made
The one that is waiting must keep on believing
It's worth waiting and heartaches will someday fade
Cruel words again spoken
The door slams as he leaves once more
Tears from her eyes flowing, her heart again broken
As it has been so many times before
She waits and she wonders; does he still love me?
Does he still tell his heart he is mine?
Will he soon forget me, enjoying his chance to be free?
Or am I just the fool he left behind?
Her poor heart is not meant for hating
But she's so tired of being left behind
She's growing so old while waiting
Only sadness remains in her poor tortured mind
While sleeping, she reaches out to touch his face
calls his name, awakens and finds he's not there
Only lonely darkness provides comforting grace
and she cries out, God,why doesn't he care?
Tossing and turning, another sleepless night
Sunlight shining in tired swollen eyes
She's still waiting, trying to make things right
Still loving not forgetting, no matter how hard she tries
Days turn to weeks, to months, then to years
She's still waiting for him to return
Waiting and watching through all of her tears
Finally realizing she was the least of his concern
All alone on her bed she lay, in a winter nights cold
Friends hadn't seen her for such a long, long time
Her waiting was finally over, and she felt so very old
So many wasted years, it seems like a crime
Many more of us who love will play the waiting game
and the love in our hearts will always be pure
Those who leave us who love them shall live in shame
Yes, but the waiting game is over for her.....
For you my dear, of glistening gold and hues of blue,
A mirage created by the constructs of feeble minds.
Our ability to connect is truly frayed, a romance delayed,
Short as the breath of some insectoid, bent on lustful satisfaction.
Are you even real?
If so, very little time is spent on the marvelous experience that is joy.
Pure and free of the adultery which is an office and a cage.
The highways connected like the arteries of some foul beast,
Circulating through the body with the opioids of ignorance and indifference.
How is it that you would like to pronounce my name,
Would you make a gentle song out of it and lull to me sleep?
Or spit at my face with anger and disgust?
I have yet to know the ailments and disease of a life full of unhappiness,
For I have not lived one.
To yearn for your touch in the waking slumber of the schoolyard is to daydream,
But not of my distant hopes and visions of accomplishment.
But of truth, brought forth through the neutrality of time.
It is the waiting game, which I cannot live through,
A wasteland filled with the death of youth and innocence.
Their ghosts, specters that drain from you all the creativity and imagination
Of a child, to alter you into the grotesque twisted form of a worker ant.
Subduing the hearts desires with binds
Made of paychecks and the disillusionment of having importance.
But you are no fake, nor cheap reenactment of some unholy war.
You pulse and vibrate with the magnificence of laughter.
Your tears shred through my dissected emotions.
Freeing me, no, all of us from the confines of having just one feeling.
Broadening our mental scopes,
How can I feel hate and love at once?
We were taught that they were polar opposites, not of the same lineage.
And so I say to you
With the unflinching eyes of man decapitated on the stump of an oak.
That I hate, love, fear, admire, and envy you.
Following your cycle of death and rebirth.
we are here
why would we negate
so we do accept this reality
taking our stuporous aliveness
within decaying organic form
as the point of reference
with which we begin
Ramana’s inquiry
who am I
looking back at our life
we notice our values shift
also as in moment to moment
there is fickleness in our response
to life as it unfolds all around us
but the screen of awareness
upon which images dance
always remains constant
what is this screen
which remains flicker-free
through waking, dreaming and sleep
wherefrom we always emerge unscathed
even though we lose our awareness
which is clearly quite stuporous
even when we’re awake
though ego opines
otherwise
this motionless screen
which is the eternal witness
recording our life without judging
let us then choose to meld presence with it
becoming still in thought rested silence
simply watching the ebb and flow
of thoughts and emotions
within body-mind
time flows on
but we are resolute
playing the waiting game
seeking nothing simply looking
fulcrum of our awareness centreless
thus doing nothing we connect
with universal consciousness
imbibing direct knowing
that transcends mind
befriending silence
we begin to live internally
as a presence ensouling form
thereby also becoming nonchalant
immune from the vagaries of fickle fate
whereupon our emptiness is filled
with divine magnetism surreal
which bestows on us bliss
and light of our being
what’s there to say
we all are this living light
which is veiled by thought forms
spawned by imaginary ego identity
which it is quite clear we are not
but mankind is afraid to let go
of dreams we believe real
we hear Plato laughing
allegory of the cave
the truth is known
but we all fear
to accept
how long will we
trauma bond with ego
a mere bubble of illusion
that confines us in delusion
is the question we each must ask
the eternal presence within
seeking our embrace
within the cave
of our heart
Last night I sat in my solitude n wrote some verses,
So listen to me as I spit them like chapters from pastors in churches,
Hope when I’m finish it will meet places, masses,
U see I’ve been faced with some problems lately,
Yeah I know, God will take care of them, they all say,
But I’ve been playing this waiting game a long time u see,
And as much as I plea,
Oh Lord help me, is like he never there to help me thru,
So I began to curse God out for giving me this awful life,
Daily I live my life with strife,
Now I see why people take knives and take their lives,
Because living a life like mine people really have to strive hard to stay alive,
Just like bees in a bees hive, raised
Yes, people in this world are ready to attack you and leave you staggering to revive yourself,
You proberly saying what life KG been living?
I guess it’s safe to say, one like if I was thiefing,
You know, like if u thief a lime from your neighbor, u have to hide,
Because in this place where I go to school, like it have people out here watching my every
move,
So let me slip up and say the wrong thing,
Do the wrong thing,
Them aint waiting until the fat lady sings,
They taking me out like wind,
They look at me an underestimate me,
Cause apparently I look young,
But they aint know I kinda strong
But as I watch these people in their eyes,
Tears from my eyes fall,
But still I stand tall,
Remembering the saying “this too shall pass”
Only if I could kick them dutty minded people in their ass,
For being so hateful,
But I have to keep my thoughts within,
For am I am a minority in this place,cause all do is in it to win it…
Also remembering this life aint no race,
Wonder if they know God don’t sleep
Sometimes I do wonder if they open their mouth whispering the amazing grace.
For last night I sat in my solitude and wrote some verses
I hope those hating humans see and recite them like Sunday school memory verses
So now I rest my case…
KG!!
Two old men. That’s all; not much to look at.
Their frail, broken shadows shrunk against the sunny morning
Brightness slowly searching its way through gnarled branches
Overhead, and crisscrossing the red and black pieces
Upon their welcoming checkerboard.
I placed a solitary peanut into the waiting hands of a small, grey squirrel.
Withdrawing my offer of other gifts, I moved away,
Drawing closer to hear their wrinkled voices still
Clamoring over the last move of their deadly waiting game;
Spattering salty remarks with knowing chuckles of old combatants
Echoing former rattlings of their rusty swords.
Beneath their stubby beards sat the once strong,
Straight line of a stubborn jaw, thrust at life;
Hot for the chase that breached the perimeters of grand arenas
As Time swept aside the long-suffering hours
And slowly chiseled away massive, symmetrical bone.
They had been young, sensuous men with lapping fire at their cores,
Melting away the wet walls of passion and the searing, sticky
Sting of a promising, promiscuous tongue.
Yes, their passion was still lingering there,
Below the masks of debilitating age and cracking bone.
Their passion for life and pleasure still written across their
Wrinkled, wincing brows, clearly there for anyone to read.
I wondered how many summers those faded eyes had squinted
Against a broiling sky and felt the power of that which they are---
Two old gods, sitting in the ruins of their shadowy kingdom passed,
Oblivious to the ticking of unearthly clocks.
Two faded, gnarled and twisted husks sat in peaceful friendship
Beneath the cool and darkening, park lined sky.
Below the surface of their shabby shrouds, pinpoints of eternal, celestial light
Sought the vaporous freedom of untethered ether.
Beneath the surface, the gods still flexed their mighty,
Quiescent muscles, forever young: aged mantles flung
Against Time’s eroding shores and fog misted dangerous rocks.
TWO OLD GODS
Two old men.
That’s all; not much to look at.
Their frail, broken shadows shrunk against the sunny morning
Brightness slowly searching its way through gnarled branches
Overhead, and crisscrossing the red and black pieces
Upon their welcoming checkerboard.
I placed a solitary peanut into the waiting hands of a small, grey squirrel.
Withdrawing my offer of other gifts, I moved away;
Drawing closer to hear their wrinkled voices still
Clamoring over the last move of their deadly waiting game;
Spattering salty remarks with knowing chuckles of old combatants
Echoed former rattlings of their rusty swords.
Beneath their stubby beards sat the once strong,
Straight line of a stubborn jaw, thrust at life;
Hot for the chase that breached the perimeters of grand arenas
As Time swept aside the long-suffering hours
And slowly chiseled away massive, symmetrical bone.
They had been young, sensuous men with lapping fire at their cores,
Melting away the wet walls of passion and the searing, sticky
Sting of a promising, promiscious tongue.
Yes, their passion was still lingering there,
Below the masks of debilitating age and cracking stone.
Their passion for life and pleasure still written across their
Wrinkled, wincing brows clearly there for anyone to read.
I wondered how many summers those faded eyes had squinted
Against a broiling sky and felt the power of that which they are---
Two old gods, sitting in the ruins of their shadowy kingdom passed,
Oblivious to the ticking of unearthly clocks.
Two faded, gnarled and twisted husks sat in peaceful friendship
Beneath the cool and darkening, park lined sky.
Below the surface of their shabby shrouds, pinpoints of eternal, celestral light
Sought the vaporous freedom of untethered ether.
Beneath the surface, the gods still flexed their mighty,
Quiescent muscles, forever young: aged mantles flung
Against Time’s eroding shores and fog misted dangerous rocks.
Part 1
Summer days turned to winter
wind chilling each who dared to venture
out into the cold days and night
the ones that robbed us of our warm sun and
days of fun.
The vegetables were dying
starving for the light that was once abundantly theirs
They’re hungry
calling out for help in the dead flower beds and
gardens covered in snow
The rot had taken over
consuming every plant within reach of the winter’s
cold
dead
fingers
While the vegetables withered away out in the cold
the people gathered indoors
they sat in front of fires
bundled up with blankets
holding tightly so the cold wouldn’t touch them
One girl really didn’t mind the cold
she felt at home
with the ice and wind
she went for walks
as the others cowered in their homes
The rot’s victims envied her,
her ability to walk in the snow
to leap in the air
never having to worry of what may happen
if she stayed out a little too long
She walked past gardens and trees
asleep for the winter
some never to wake up again
some to come to the next warm day,
playing the waiting game
Some never slept
struggling with their last days of survival
before the cold reaches in and takes
what’s left of the summer days now fades
and disintegrates to nearly nothing
Kale struggled to keep up with the cold
striving to keep warm
jealous of the warmth that the people felt
every time they went inside their homes
forgetting of the plants they tended to all summer
In the summer, the kale thrived
they soaked up the sun
dancing in the warm nights when no one’s out to see
they were loved by the people, if not only temporarily
using their powers for good
But then she had to go and make things terrible
forgetting them in her garden to rot in the winter
taking their brothers and sisters and searing them with the one thing they love
heat
she baked them in a slow and agonizing process
From a derelict house, near the interstate pass,
with her cuff of chenille, she rubs a small circle
to clear away grime from the cold window glass
Better to see now, beyond wooden rails, that have worn disrepair
for thirty odd years
and have fenced in, long hours of loneliness
There's an old pepper tree, that tosses it's head in an alien wind,
in a sea of dead grass, where a garden had been
There's a face, weathered thin, from neglect and despair
she turns for a moment, to glance, here and there,
a room she has known, filled with colors long dimmed,
where the silence shouts loud, not a question to ask....
but...wishing for something..., a chore, or a task
if only the phone might ring.....
Near the rail of the fence are two Rhode Island Reds
grazing around in the tall weedy grass
There's a cock on a post, in the shade of the tree
keeping watch on his kin, keeping her company,
keeping tabs of a life that has come to an end
She will gaze in a lapse, dust motes fall to the floor,
in the still of the gloom she will turn once again
in the grim of the room...
There is still a dial tone, ....maybe the phone will ring....
For a mere month or more, a feral cat came her door
then had wandered the floors, neither friend or a foe
But he soon disappeared, on the eve of the storm
She will call just the same.......just in case he can hear
"Here, kitty kitty"....."Here, kitty kitty", but she calls him in vain
While the wind plays the same dirty game...
Tumble weeds roll and bend, her eyes search through the wind
...as she waits for a friend
a friend never there....always due to arrive
so she stands by the side, of the black telephone
In the old parlor room, in the gloom of a long afternoon
Maybe the phone will ring....
________________________________________________________
Maybe I’ll lick my savage knuckles
or shoot arrows at the sun
And if our anonymous devils dance
after slipping on their potential tap shoes
we might play the waiting game
they’ll click click
away as paparazzi cameras
flash phosphorescent lights and
strip us
down to our Botoxed skin. Maybe our ethereal moon winks
its coy smile as our clouds drip crumbs and I might
vanish in the fog, consuming time.
But if she should flush pink and bittersweet,
dices might roll
—Vegas gambling
with Fate’s silver dollars—
and chess pieces might move forward,
pawns played on black and white squares
hypnotic sea anemones breathing
‘Cause here’s my King and Queen,
they might say,
and they’re Bigger and Better than yours.
But possibly they’re not quite looking at the game,
eyes half-glued to the metal mechanics of
their phones click-clicking like ponies prancing
as they speak revolving words.
Maybe fold forth
copper eyelids salty earlobes
perhaps lick the sugar from the celestial concrete where our shoes
erase our corrupt footprints.
And will we open? maybe.
then suddenly—
Checkmate!
Maybe this overdose
is safely diagnosed
and snapping ribbons frayed
this drug we call love, possibly it’s all about
who might be most comatose,
where we sleep in earbuds, implants, spray tans
and perhaps our time’s running out, and
maybe I’ll count your breaths,
your puffs of silver cigarette smoke that could be
tarring your lungs and lips
as I kiss you I might taste your inner clock
a stopwatch counting down: tick tock:
consuming your time with me,
swallowing, stealing
Checkmate. god’s winning.