Poems Written While Waiting

Written While Waiting

They say we are waiting for a sign
A reprieve or a benediction--They fathom not.
And yet I see clearly that time has frozen,
Into the waiting for a gentle kiss.
Into the anticipation of a stranger's touch.

The ferries were full at sunrise.
They took with them their cane backed chairs,
Their movable prams; their fears and hopes.

This afternoon the gray streets echoed
With the dust of their leavings,
With their wondering at the news.

The Others, they do not see the hope to be found
In the terrible beauty of Unknowing.

They passed me by! Me, with my quiet resolve.
They did not care to look as deeply,
At this advent which we two call fruition.

They do not see as I can see, they do not.
That waiting for you is action, action enough.
That as you gently, gently make your way here,
My heart beats ever so fast--faster and faster
Towards your gentle embrace.
--

Beneath The Roots, Summer Has Gone

The warp and weft of This--
The sinew and bone.
The twine and crease of This--
Untested, forsooth, unknown.

We make an assumption of dependability
Despite our record of frailty
At the receipt of awkward news
And the polite refusal of service.

The filament and the base of This--
It's buttons and it's thread.
The cartilage and marrow of This--
Coming towards an Indian summer's dread.
--

Indeterminate Pleasures

Five things keep me warm,
One, my slow hand curved beneath your pillow,
A kind word or Two before the slumber.
Third, The gentle curve of your hip, beckoning;
The rise and fall of your sleep's soft breath at Four.
The Fifth, I will keep secret until we meet again.
--