Waiting

"Time is the school in which we learn."  -Joan Didion

The waiting room attendant

is bright, chipper, relentless

as an alarm clock.

The room itself is filled with

soft muzak and soap opera dialog

competing to be white noise, but

at least they cover over

the florescent hum.

I sip elderly, burnt coffee

without really tasting it

as I recite silent prayers and promises

to learn the lessons of patience.

In the Imaginary Garden we were asked to write something based on a quote from Joan Didion.

Waiting

Waiting

on the threshold,

promises unbroken,

you and the fresh morning beckon.

I wonder if I can jump the chasm

dark and gaping? A huge first step -

I doubt my legs, my will,

so here I stand,

waiting.

Low Tide

    Image from maleksadeghi.com

Monochrome sunset staining the sky

is bad news for sailors and lovers and others

who turn a blind eye to the east.

Driftwood and feathers and tumbled stones

that nobody else will see

wait for the sun, and for you my love

as you wait, as you wait

for me.

So go to the shore

and gather my petticoats

frothy and studded with salt.

Walk into the waves and

feel their embrace

as you wait, as you wait

for me.

This is for NaPoWritMo, and is driving me crazy.  I think the cadence drifted a bit, but I'm running out of day #3!  And I guess I'm linking it to nowhere - so please look for it on Facebook and Google+

Opponents

Your move;

I wait  

You take your time to

take your turn.

I wait.

This is the game we play:

Your move,

while passive, patient,

plotting, planning,

in my head

I grow bitter

for this is the game we play.

You take your time to

take your turn

I wait.

Your move;

I wait.

Image from toptenz.net


Go to the dVerse pub for a belly full of amazing poetry from some very diverse poets!

Shadorma

My muse deserted me for awhile. I'm trying to lure her back with short, little treats. Today I learned a new poetic form called the Shadorma, thanks to Anne Welch at One Stop Poetry. This form is, "...a 6 lined poem (sestet) of Spanish descent with no set rhyme scheme. The shadorma is a syllabic poem with the following structure: 3/5/3/3/7/5." So here is my first attempt:

Counting time
on the calendar
each day an
agony
moving towards what?
I have become the waiting

Mag #41

The patina of age
Cannot hide the fact that
The eleventh hour
Has come
Waiting
Has not served us well
Poised
Here on the edge
Of too late
We melt
We burn

While
Bleak old men scurry through dark
Musty corridors
Trailing papers in their
Wake
As the clock
Strikes

Emma

This all started through procrastination. This morning when I couldn't sleep I was looking at Sunday Scribblings, thinking I'll get in there early and do their weekly writing prompt. Well, this week's word is 'Treatment' and nothing much stirred in the 'little grey cells.' Soooo I decided to look at last week's word, since I didn't then, when last week's word was this week's (got that? good, glad one of us does). So, last week the writing prompt was 'Wait' and I looked at a few other people's peices on waiting, and started thinking about it. And then I started thinking about things worth waiting for.
And then Emma, my 12-year-old, Chocolate Lab-bat cross, who can tell time, comes to me, wagging and expectant at 6:42 AM. Meal times for Emma are 7:00 AM and 5:00 PM, but she lives in hope. She lives in hope that I will ignore the curse of the digital time read out at the lower right corner of my computer screen and just FEED HER! So I caress her head, scratch her ear, look into those lovely brown eyes - and melt. For Emma the wait is over. And my procrastination, which has led to musings on waiting has led finally to a little poem about hope!

Emma sits
Beside the dish
Hoping
I will forget
That meal time is
At 7:00
Hoping
At 6:42.
But I do not forget -
I relent