Waiting Poems - Poems about Waiting

In the quiet corners of his own mind, he walks alone, a poet whose pen drips with moonlight. He counts the hours by the hum of his thoughts, each one a lantern swinging in the wind. A thinker — he weighs the weight of names, dreams of the laughter not yet born, imagines a tiny hand curling around his own. In solitude, he builds worlds...

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i sit alone and wait to see you again, eyes weary from my vigil. neighbors' rustling reminds me of the world passing by, but nothing distracts me from the prison of thought. in my mind i am lonely, in the crowd even lonelier. but the color i see in this stale black & white is that of your eyes miles away from me, the blue sky under...

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There is no shame in lingering where possibility lives.” I tarrow at the edge of becoming, half-ghost, half-girl, unsure which silence to trust. My fingers hover over doors I built, but never dared to open. Not fully. There’s a name I no longer say in the voice I used to have. There’s a love pressed between two lifetimes— not gone, just folded. I tarrow, not out of fear, but reverence. Not everything must...

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Periods of silence Please never again I really don't like them The wait until when The silence has ended Sometimes long it's been Though I still wrote poems For you to read then ...

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WAITING FOR THE MUSIC TO PLAY* ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ she’s poised on her tiny stage waiting for the music to play she wears a pink leotard and white satin tutu bordered with lace waiting for the music to play she stands en pointe in perfect form waiting for the music to play she is perfectly still on her shapely, porcelain legs waiting for the music to...

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I sit on a straight back red vinyl chair in a Chinese Take Away waiting for my beef and black bean sauce, pork chow mein and a serving of special fried rice - hear from behind a beaded rainbow coloured curtain the sizzle and spit of hot oil, the constant sound of a ladle scraping the sides of a wok,...

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And so I wrote another poem, love Are there any regrets running through your mind, Or was it just me all along? You kept telling me it’s because of your idleness, Yet I long for something more And so I wrote another poem, love Is there any pain in your heart, Or was it just me all along? You kept speaking of promises, Yet...

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The flowers, the flowers Will bloom in three hours I really don't want to wait. The flowers will bloom, If i may assume, If they don't bloom too late....

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You're not doing a stellar job distracting me with idle chatter. Life is not something to be ignored and swept under a mat. I've been living in limbo no matter how you sugarcoat it. Life is short and every beat matters. Every day is another notch in the cog of time fleeting. Life is a race to the finish line, an obstacle course of...

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Long ago, Mithila was left at this forsaken station, As the train slipped away on the wrong track, cutting all horizons. There was no return Mithila knew it, even then. This waiting was only a silent, endless sigh. In the dust-covered mirror of nostalgia, Her past flickers, bright as gleaming, Unreal in its stillness and beauty. The present? A colourless traveller That tells no...

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Life between the highs and lows Is stable, or one would suppose, Yet that might not be true at all – When high, you’re waiting for the fall. And naturally, when you are low, There is no way for you to know How long until your saddened state Will vanish, so again you wait. So life becomes a waiting game. If being stable is...

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_______________ Separated from her spouse who’s sojourning, the heroine awaits with deep longing. ___________________ The warmth of a day nigh sunny Nor silver of moon passing by Gives me hope nor solace any more, Freeze of darkness spreads to my deep core, Separated, I feel utterly incomplete, O cut your long sojourn short, beat a retreat And come soon to end my loneliness, O...

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In The Waiting Womb Thereof (Apropos Of Poetic Onement) Thanks for being here with me in the waiting time of the birthing flow from the poetic womb thereof: We mind-pregnant poets have all experienced that spacing time reality of which poets must be in waiting for the waiting poetic womb to give birth:- At times, we’re forced to realize that we, too,...

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w. a. i. t. i. n. g. nights diss ~~ OLve days s l u m ...

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I’m waiting for the bus. Ain’t nothing to discuss, ain’t no more dumbing-down. You’re super-pissed-off-plus? Well that makes two of us. I’m heading out of town. Ain’t no more fight or fuss (who taught me how to cuss?) Don’t want to stick around. A little bar that sells cold beer, that’s where I intend to steer, or any place but here. I need a change of atmosphere and...

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