Waiting for You

On a boulder, as rugged and ancient

As life itself, she sits motionless.

Impassive like a statue, she waits for

A new day and the weak warmth

Of the February sun that looks at the

World through narrow, weary eyes.

Her back’s bent under the ballast of years

That clings to her like creeping vines

Cling to the remnants of a ruined temple,

Pulling her closer, ever closer to the ground.

"For out of it you were taken, and

To dust you shall return” the rustling

Rusty leaves whisper as they fall.

Her slow-blinking eyes survey the roadmap

Of deep wrinkles on her hands that seem

Alien, disconnected, like dry, broken

Branches in the undergrowth.

Second childishness wears the colors of

Innocence: bright reds and pinks

Decorate her like the freshly cut flowers

That adorn many a solemn gray stone

Staring back at her with heavy looks of finality.

My soul flees, flies and sits close beside her,

Shoulder touching fragile shoulder.

We’re now in good company, for we both know

The numb pain of illusions being shattered

In front of our disbelieving eyes by the

Flinty, callous hands of carousing fate.

We know, too, of patience that drips slowly

Into the heart like thick, bittersweet honey.

And we know, that the boulder we sit on

Is but a mirror image of the stone that sits

Heavy on our souls as we wait for our

Respective self-made saviors to arrive.

Reviews

[emmajoy]

Life has a way of putting us by that almost mystical side of another, perhaps lost, perhaps yet to be found. For me, your poem is sad as sad, as if searching or having searched in a dark shadow.. where you return to with enduring pain, ' .. colors of ~ Innocence: bright reds and pinks ~ Decorate her like the freshly cut flowers ~ That adorn many a solemn gray stone..' Emotions like that take time to slip gently into a calmer acceptance.. and, when that comes, one becomes more forgiving of self perhaps. That heaviness on the soul can be a a labour of love.. of lessons learned.. of fears faced. Perhaps? Your writing here is more a lesson in what you feel, than who you are,

Her back’s bent under the ballast of years
That clings to her like creeping vines
Cling to the remnants of a ruined temple,
Pulling her closer, ever closer to the ground.
"For out of it you were taken, and
To dust you shall return” the rustling
Rusty leaves whisper as they fall.

That, sir, is poetry.

[Laz K.]

This has been one of the most perceptive and tactful reviews I've ever received here. You've managed to go beyond the words, and see the place they came from. I want to jump on top of an imaginary table, and shout, "Ladies and gentlemen of the Cafe, this is how you read and review poetry!" (Yes, I'd be that obnoxious, because it is a moment that calls for something crazy like that. :))

[Amber Stone]

Only few Authors like you, L.K., make us read and travel with such magical rhymes and images, and majestic rhymes-closure. you get me/us reading and travelling with you at same time through ancient gothic places and maybe parallel dimensions. Is an exhausting work, i know, carrying emotions with, to take them later through ink and pen into paper, or to type online, as best and faithful as possible ... and you are successful at it ! these 3 recent poems yours are sample of a new era in your writings, like renovating line by line your literary work,....amazing sense of rhythm and rhymes, images and language that only you master ...believe me, L.K., your poetry could never, will never go unnoticed. The more i read your work, the more i learn, only for better. I deeply admire you.
highly sincere and thankful, Amber.

[Laz K.]

Thank you.

[poetgurl]

such an emotional read here, so nicely written and expressed

[Laz K.]

Thank you.