Archives for category: I Am Waiting

by Carlos E. Mijares Poyer

Red clouds hover
I sit still waiting and rising
For the possible arrival
Of the American Dream.

I am not…
Yet I too dream of heaven in pearl revelry
Where I express my most advanced
Supercilious doubts and vernacular truths.

The wind turmoils my city in the
Southern hemisphere like a maelstrom
Of dilapidated sociology
Stick men saunter in my nightmares
Awakened the angst of yesteryear
And the waiting eyes of a child.

The brawny miner of dreams
Awaited and subtle like teardrops
In the cool central western worlds
Of our own ways
Yes, I wait, believe the motion
How to remember.

IMAGE: “Red Clouds” by Gary Gay. Prints available at


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Prof. Carlos E. Mijares Poyer, born in 1966, is a Venezuelan-American author, journalist, poet, educator, translator, and marketer trained in the United States of America in schools and colleges in english and American literature and marketing. He has participated in various literary workshops at Guilford College, NC, U.S.A., where he studied, and in the Caribbean being selected among thirty participants out of ten thousand writers to participate in the Onelio Jorge Cardoso writing workshop in Havana, Cuba. Editor of the Piper literature and arts magazine at Guilford College, and literary journalist for the Ultimas Noticias Daily newspaper in its Cultural Suplement in Caracas, Venezuela, publishing philosophy, poetry, film essays, bio essays, feature articles, and short story. He is also a literary, commercial, and technical translator. A great admirer of the writings of Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, Gregory Corso, Hunter S. Thompson, William S. Burroughs, Lawrence Ferlinghetti, and British and American literature, Prof. Mijares Poyer is also an alumni of Pine Crest School in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, United States of America, where he was star football player and honorable-mention lacrosse all-American, later to play at Guilford College.

I want
       a Poem
by Jeri Thompson

To be written about me.
To inspire the sort of passion
That makes me immortal
On a paper page, in a paper book.
I want to bleed
A river of free-flowing ink.

I want a poem that stops me, tilts my head to the side
And slowly runs its fingers along my spine.
I want that poem to grab me,
Throw me on my bed and
Reach for my panties.

I want to live forever in ink on paper
Through the pen of a poet.
I want it to hold who I am in time,
Never to age another day.

Make me live forever in your words.
I will wait for that.

IMAGE: “Lovers with Flowers” by Marc Chagall (1927).


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Jeri Thompson thrives in Long Beach, California, where she spends much quality time with herself and her Trikke (Scarlett Birdie) riding along the beach bike/Trikke path. Nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2014, she is soon to appear in Pearl magazine. Also find her in Silver, Green, and Summer Anthologies from Silver Birch Press, Cadence Collective, and Carnival Literature Magazine (Vol. 4). She is a CSULB grad AND LBC resident since 1992.

by Kerianne Methe Gardner

I am waiting for someone
To talk to me; to notice I am so lonely
Despite my bright smile;
I am waiting for a Friend,
Hoping my Friend Request will be accepted;
I am waiting for response to a message
Sent; Will you spend time with me?
I am waiting for someone to
Make time; to take time
To be with me
Because they like me;
Because they think I am sexy,
Funny, and a good conversationalist;
I am waiting for romance;
To be swept off my feet;
Doors opened, my hand
Held; an appreciative glance returned;
I am waiting to be asked out to dinner; candles low; wine,
Smoldering Gaze that says I want you;
I am waiting to dance; to be held so close;
I am waiting to be treasured;
To feel treasured; I am waiting
For someone who wants to
Know my body as well as their route to work;
I am waiting for warmth;
Campfire companionship; a good story;
I am waiting for someone to notice
My hair; to run their fingers through it;
To pull me near to them; solid contact;
I am waiting for an urgent caress,
Whisper and demand in the same breath;
I am waiting for a man
With perseverance to gift
A little death, even when satiated;
I am waiting to feel;
To be; to live;
I am waiting to love; to know what it feels like
To truly be one; I am waiting
To heal; to be healed;
I am waiting for you;
For you to notice
I am here, waiting.

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR: This writing prompt came at an apropos time in my life, when I was feeling dissatisfied in my marriage and had been contemplating asking my husband for a divorce or beginning an affair to mitigate for features missing from my marriage. Turning forty has been an empowering event for me; I felt inspired to evaluate what I had and had not yet achieved in my personal life and contemplated why I was so forlorn about my marital situation. This poem documents where I hope to be, romantically, in the future.

IMAGE: “Green Lovers” by Marc Chagall (1915).

Kerianne Methe Gardner

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: With a B.S.A degree in Range Science, Kerianne Methe Gardner has written scientific and policy documents for the Environmental Protection Agency in Seattle, Washington, and invasive plant species field guides for the U.S. Forest Service Southwestern Region as a subcontracted ghostwriter. She has been an interim instructor at NMSU’s Range Science Department and family education facilitator in Washington. Composing poetry and short stories has been a creative outlet for her since she was eight years old; 2014 was her first foray into exposing her deeply personal work for publication. In August 2014, she had two poems published in La Palabra: A Word is A Woman’s Second Anthology (Mothers and Daughters, Swimming With Elephants Publications, 2014). She lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico, with her husband and three daughters.

by Kate Leigh

“Wait until you’re older,” they always said.

No one can tell me how to wait.

Some waiting takes my whole life
And I am not to be rushed.

If waiting for a stray kitten
To find me is all it is, I can wait.

But my waiting is like wallpaper,
One layer off exposes the next one under.

My waiting is based on lamination,
I wish it were Illumination
But I wait in the dark.

I awaiting to meet death again,
To see what she is wearing this time.

I am waiting for that tree limb to fall on my house, as
It is surely going to do, and

I wait for my rent to go up inversely
To my living conditions.

I wait to be reborn as a plant so I can watch and
Wait to be cut down or eaten.

Wait! Wait! I know! I am waiting
For an ace so I can fold and win and
Watch while you wait.

IMAGE: “Ace of Clubs” by Erté (1892-1990).

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Kate Leigh is a massage therapist and aromatherapist.

by Mignon Ariel King

I am waiting for something I write to testify.
When I cannot hear rain, I am waiting for rain.
After I’ve seen snow and felt it, I run my first
footprints through it with absolutely no regard
for poets who wake later and want to be first.

Nobody else is waiting for any of this, I know.
That blatant, white-tornado in a sandy dervish
does not, however, prevent my strict vow to wait.
I am waiting for people to stop telling me not
to give up on finding a handsome prince. I find

that they’ve read different tales than I. Isn’t he
— the prince, that is – supposed to be the seeker?
My job is only to be found or not. I am waiting
to be found by some higher purpose. I wait eons
for the weight of my waiting to be lifted, and I’d

greatly prefer some sign here. Higher purposes
must, logically, be dispensed from higher spirits.
They must know how to write. Write a sign, please,
O higher spirits! I am waiting and waiting, slowly
but surely. Yet I move a lot. Perhaps that’s the rub.

IMAGE: “Air Mail” by Les Cunliffe. Prints available at


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Mignon Ariel King is a lifelong Massachusetts resident and third-generation New Englander. She writes poetry, memoir, and novella. King holds a Master of Arts in English degree from Simmons College and identifies as a womanist. She is the publisher of Hidden Charm Press (and its online journal MoJo!) and Tell-Tale Chapbooks.

by Bear

At dusk, I wait for the crows.
They garland the trees along 8th Street,
cackle, hop, and caw in their hundreds
never pausing as they tell each other
of exploits in the fields,
of forays along the kills feeding the river,
of opportunities found by an old fieldstone manor
torn by the times the city has lived.

Their noisy convergence ripples down the hill
echoing the uneven cadence
of the rapids below,
lengthening with the shadows
of the branches.
But soon enough, the birds weary
of the same stories
related new each day.

The black-fringed snow lays piled along the curbs.
The sun melts into clouds before it is consumed by the horizon.
Winter is only death waiting for us to escape at dawn.

IMAGE: “Tree of Life” by Sophy White. Prints avaailable at


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Bear has been writing poetry and dialogue since he was a teenager. A poem was published in Ithaca Review in 1978. He has completed three full-length plays and a one-act play that is the start of another long play. He also writes political essays, which have been published at and One essay will be published shortly in River & South Review. Bear is completing work on a science fiction novel, The Secret History of Another Rome, which is being considered by Kellan Publishing, and writing a nonfiction book, Democracy and the Social Contract.

by Sylvia Ashby

when I closed my eyes
the other day
I saw green
for the first time
like smart grass

then yesterday
ripe as summer

back to
basic black
or hedgerow of nurses

still waiting
for yellow
to burst in my head
like dangerous flowers

is waiting
for yellow to show
something like
waiting for Godot?

IMAGE: “Tree Agains a Yellow Background” by Odilon Redon (1901).


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Sylvia Ashby’s background is in theatre, acting, and writing; she’s published 15 plays for family audiences with thousands of productions. Last year, she began sending out poetry; now she has some three dozen pieces out or forthcoming: Rhino’15, Abyss&Apex, Muddy River, Mezzo Cammin, Subterranean, and other publications, plus a few anthologies.

I Wait in Never-Ending Silence
by Jane Karina

For years I wait,
in silence,

The endless cosmos
and turning
while I await
its stop.

A sun wails for
attention in a
desperate bid
for success.

The earth grumbles
in a rocking chair
swaying back and forth
with rhythm
for an old man.

A cycle grows
of breathing
and choking.
The cycle continues.

The air follows out
into the ocean
to be swallowed
and be no more.

Still I wait
in never-ending

For life,
for death,
for rebirth.

IMAGE: “Silence” by Arthur Beecher Carles (1908).

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Jane Karina is currently a soon-to-be undergraduate student aspiring to be a criminal psychologist. While waiting for university to start, she fills time by swimming and other sports, writing fiction and writing on her blog, and various other activities. Visit her at

by Caitlin Stern

Suddenly, a new road appeared,
a break in the dense forest of my life.
Since hesitation steals any chance
of change —
I took it,
though I can’t see where it will go.
Now I’m waiting
to discover the branches and twists,
new destinations,
and things to learn
as the road carries me along.
I turn
and turn again
reaching for the future
beyond my sight.

IMAGE: “Bend in Forest Road” by Paul Cezanne (1906).


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Caitlin Stern grew up in San Antonio, Texas, where she read in trees, avoided team sports, and ‘published’ her first book in elementary school. As she grew, she wrote and read more, developing into an avid bibliophile and writer. She followed her love of books to Angelo State University, where she worked as a tutor at her school’s Writing Center, and later as a Teaching Assistant while she earned an English MA. Recently, she has edited several e-published novels, and had poems published in Silver Birch Press’ Summer Anthology, Noir Erasure Poem Anthology, and May Poetry Anthology.

by Roslyn Ross

I am waiting for that moment,
when life sets again, after melting,
like jelly, liquefied, unstable,
sloshing at the edges with every

movement of the heart, rippling
with every shudder of mind,
spilling in slow slide with each
tipping of Soul, as it moves

against the sides of Self, as it
is contained within the bowl
of being, shimmering, clear
and resonating with potential,

which requires only that slow
congealing from outside, into
the expectant centre as all
firms into something which

is sure, steady, moving only
barely with the touch of
hesitant fingers of feeling;
no longer without form, and

unreliable; no longer unable
to hold a certain shape, no
matter how often it is rudely
knocked — at last confirmed.


Days mark time for me in
bitter expectation, knocking
on the door of waiting, which
desperation has surely locked,
as lingering minutes stand,
in line, ready to be called,
but hearing only silence,
that hanging in a universe

of possibility, breathing
songs choked of potential,
lying in deceitful wait as
glittered, bitter hoping,

quiescent in remission of
what might be, and all that
I had wished; dormant is
my heart, held in latent

intermission as futures
hide abeyant, now that you
are gone and love huddles
in the recess of my being —

time is now postponed
and the angels counsel
patience and acceptance,
of the long, dark wait.

IMAGE: “Black Bowl” by George Seeley (1907).

Ros profile

ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Roslyn Ross is an Australian writer and poet who currently lives in Africa. She has been writing poetry since she was a child and has also completed five novels and one work of nonfiction.