Skip to main content

Waiting for Life

I wonder how many of us are waiting…


Waiting on the platform for a departed train

Waiting for a train that will never arrive,

Waiting for solace, whilst trembling in pain

Waiting for the day we shall feel truly alive.


Waiting for the return of estranged hearts

Waiting, in the hope that paths will reunite

Waiting for Life to patch up our broken parts

Waiting, in pitch darkness, for a speck of light.


Waiting for birthdays and anniversaries, for the gifts, the warmth and the bliss

Waiting for weekends and vacations, waiting for 9 pm for a favourite TV show

Waiting to fall in love, to revel in the magic of the first kiss

Waiting for the blessing of parenthood, to watch a piece of ourselves grow.


Waiting for the end of the workday, to snuggle in our warm, comforting beds

Waiting to cross the thresholds of comfort, and explore unfamiliar roads

Waiting for a loaf of bread, a sip of water, a roof over our heads

Waiting for safety, for peace, for a stone bench to sometimes put down our loads.


Waiting with broken friendships, waiting with unrequited love

Waiting for first jobs and paychecks, bigger houses and new cars

Waiting with unshaken faith, for a shower of blessings from above

Waiting to experience happiness, to heal from our most painful scars.


Waiting for the ‘right time’, which was perhaps twenty years ago

Waiting for old chapters to end, to turn over a new page

Waiting for the showers to subside, to witness the unfurling rainbow

Waiting for the courage to break free from every imprisoning cage.


Waiting for a future built on blood, sweat and many a tear

Waiting amidst drooping leaves, for the arrival of Spring.

Waiting for our longings, with hope and lingering fear

Waiting for the unknown, for the mysteries Tomorrow will bring.


Waiting for a warm embrace, for a few words of comfort

Waiting to be liberated, from the shackles of the past

Waiting for the day someone's absence will cease to hurt

Waiting for just one chance, to go back to the childhood we lost.


I wonder how many of us are waiting, with how many yearnings concealed

I wonder if we’re actually waiting for Life, in waiting for these tiny-huge things

I wonder what lies in store; what our Destinies shall yield

I wonder at the strength of our patience, as we wait for the goodness that waiting brings.


The Tranquill Poet 🤍

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

A Love Letter to un-Home

Dear un-Home, I love you.  I dreamt of writing to you in eloquent, alliteration-heavy verse. Writing of smiles, of teardrops, of growth -  of sweet plot twists and of not-so-sweet firsts. But words seemed to know better, much to my initial dismay - they refused to lend themselves to what I yearned to say. Sometimes, I wondered where to begin sometimes, the lines just wouldn’t rhyme. So I gave up. Because I guess, just like us, our story was meant to grow at its own time. I wanted this to be a confession of love - the kind they call “enthralling”, “poetic finesse”. But… ours was never an aesthetic story, was it? Rather, a quiet, beautiful mess… So I shall resist the temptation to drape my words in fancy embellishments I shall write, in the language of our love which to the world, may make little sense. I shall disregard conventions of ‘beginning - middle - end’ and embrace shabby, fragmented lines. I shall leave some thoughts to the language of silence and hope our love still ...

Poetry is inserting line breaks wherever you want

Poetry is writing “she’s a glacier of gorgeousness” without cringing Poetry is allowing yourself to not rhyme all the time Poetry is backspace, backspace, backspace Poetry is telling yourself it’s okay Poetry is “did I write that?” [awestruck] and Poetry is “did I write that ?” [derogatory] Poetry is pausing at this point; and contemplating abandonment  Poetry is mundanity draped in fancy words concealing languor; Poetry is sentences a dorned by a lliterations Poetry is love, anger, pain, joy Poetry is cliche Poetry is carelessly tied strands of hair Poetry is bite marks on the tip of the pen Poetry is using the word ‘strands’ simply because of its visual imagery value (and hence exceeding word limit) Poetry is romanticising everything  Poetry is pausing again at this point; and contemplating deletion Poetry is learning to embrace the mess Poetry is falling in love with the process Poetry is, on many levels, “beautifulness” Poetry is forgetting a perfect rhyme in half a minu...

Love is why I can write poems that don't always rhyme

Love is why I am prettier in the pictures with her Love is why I love the rain more when we get drenched together Love is why I delete texts; Love is why I send 16-minute voice notes. Love is why I developed courage to experiment with ice cream; and Love is why I love listening at 2AM to her Midnight Library-esque movie dream. Love is why I have reasons to be thankful at the end of every day Love is why I know the bliss of having someone for whom to pray Love is why I am able to plod through the quiet, and amidst the chaos Love is why I know the line “my soul is on tiptoes looking for yours”. Love is why I have no qualms about being my own first draft Love is why I now allow myself second drafts - at life and at my craft. Love is why the past and future hurt less in her presence; Love is why she knows I wish God took CBD’s writing lessons. Love is why I’ve ever cried for someone that is not me Love is why I’m reminded of her when I read Sally Rooney. Love is why I always exceed the wor...