Darker mornings now, the moon hovering above the hills like a scoop of snow waiting to tip and spill down on us.
Write about anticipation–what it’s like to wait, not knowing how the waited-for moment will turn out. Write about what you do in the meantime. What objects occupy your attention during the wait? How do you move through the time?
Post your poem as a comment and I’ll post it here.
—————
Here’s one from biker poet Tim (AKA Mr Murphrey):
Stealing Pynchon
I picked him up from where he lay
because he needed me;
small and unassuming,
curled and packed so tightly
with paranoia.
I picked him up because he needed help
talking over people’s heads
from the desk where I found him
laying prone and alone.
Do I believe there are mysteries hidden
in symbols and allusions,
or patterns behind the rainbow of medications
that I imagine he takes, or is given,
in small dose cups?
I picked him up because I wanted to believe
that words weave just so,
and that there is more to everything
than nothing.
I put him back where I found him, bound,
and continued to rifle through
the desk, with leather gloves and flashlight,
because I didn’t understand a damned word
he was saying.
———
And one from Glow:
my nerves shiver
waiting for the nanosecond
when the coating of pure rosin
ridging the horsehair of the bow
twinges the golden E string
of the fiddle
a note pure as cantaloup dawn
sweet like spruce sap
piercing like twenty below
shimmers and hums
in the spaces among us
can there be a more perfect note
than an F on a golden E?
We must wait to see if there is more.
———————————————-
And this from Mikey, visiting New York, found in some graffiti on a wall. He’s looking for the source. Does anyone know?
Found poem on anticipation:
On the beaches of hesitation
Bleach the bones of millions
Who
Upon the dawn of victory
Sat and waited
And while waiting
Perished.
Tags: anticipating, fall, winter, writing, writing prompt
Mattie's Pillow 
November 8, 2009 at 2:09 pm
fun one for you, Cindy.
Stealing Pynchon
I picked him up from where he lay
because he needed me;
small and unassuming,
curled and packed so tightly
with paranoia.
I picked him up because he needed help
talking over people’s heads
from the desk where I found him
laying prone and alone.
Do I believe there are mysteries hidden
in symbols and allusions,
or patterns behind the rainbow of medications
that I imagine he takes, or is given,
in small dose cups?
I picked him up because I wanted to believe
that words weave just so,
and that there is more to everything
than nothing.
I put him back where I found him, bound,
and continued to rifle through
the desk, with leather gloves and flashlight,
because I didn’t understand a damned word
he was saying.
November 14, 2009 at 10:09 am
Found poem on anticipation:
On the beaches of hesitation
Bleach the bones of millions
Who
Upon the dawn of victory
Sat and waited
And while waiting
Perished.
November 14, 2009 at 10:13 am
Waiting for the sun
Waiting for the fun
Waiting for the moon
Waiting for the gloom
To end.
November 28, 2009 at 1:41 am
my nerves shiver
waiting for the nanosecond
when the coating of pure rosin
ridging the horsehair of the bow
twinges the golden E string
of the fiddle
a note pure as cantaloup dawn
sweet like spruce sap
piercing like twenty below
shimmers and hums
in the spaces among us
can there be a more perfect note
than an F on a golden E?
We must wait to see if there is more.
November 28, 2009 at 1:57 am
Thanks, Glow. I’ve posted this and the Toklas poem. Hope you’re still feasting on cranberries!