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Patience



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Tue Feb 01, 2011 2:24 am
TriO says...



It seemed so simple;
to take one's place in an orderly fashion,
and await attention of a clerk, at their discretion,
and never question the wait, or its duration
and for all it's worth, you'll leave with nothing.

You try to waste time, you fiddle with thumbs;
sweet music of the air plays to no ears but your own,
but someone else can't settle for that, a whistler two places ahead,
distracting you, destroying your resilience. Such a revolutionary...
A flick of your wrist, at first to tell time
digresses into your pockets, and at the feel of a coin,
you imagine it stuck down his throat.
He's called to be served, the whistling stops.
You step forward, no achievement unlocked for your triumph.

A fine sweat runs across your brow,
mocking your frustration with similar effect.
You begin to wonder, is this how nature selects
the best of the species?
By placing them at less than arm's length;
not to fight, or to debate,
but to wait, or take flight?

A moment's hope is frozen as you hear the shrill voice;
never to say 'next please', it just screams, and throws toys.
The mother doesn't care - she just stands and stares
at the nearest male clerk, and removes what he wears
in her mind whilst she gossips about the local sluts
and how the grass is never greener and there
she finally hears the yelp, the whining for help
of the infant she's left; so ignorant
of life beyond good social standing.

You reach the finale, some say inevitably,
though you say miraculously, as patience is tapering,
resources are waning and although your progress has been slow,
you see the light ahead, reading 'Cashier 04' - hope is alive
and that's all you need, and as you step forward, you're left to read
'Terminal Closed', and hear 'Closing time'.
Your neck weak, and senses dulled; you make your way towards the exit.
The whistling man looks smug and unchallenged,
as he slips a cheque receipt into his wallet.
And as the door slams, you feel the pounding headache;
symptoms of queuing through and through, so
you make your way home, in agony, alone,
and can't help but shout, 'Bugger!'

Spoiler! :
Lack of figurative language in last stanza is deliberate. This is supposed to be the anticlimactic ending to our little tale. (before you pick the poem apart for that as if it were a mistake.)
There will come a time you'll see, with no more tears
and love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears.
Get over your hill and see what you find there
with grace in your heart and flowers in your hair.
~Mumford and Sons


My name is ElderMimmi.
  





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Tue Feb 01, 2011 5:15 am
StoryWeaver13 says...



Dude, this was really cool (and I'm sorry if you're a girl, 'dude' is just my generic term). Well, anyway, your poem. This is pretty awesome, in my opinion. I like how you've got kind of a quiet simple everyday setting and turned it into a deep and complex, even intense, setting. The imagery and overall idea was good, but what really brought it together was how well you made the words flow together so seemlessly. All in all, really nice piece.
Keep writing,
StoryWeaver
Reading is one form of escape. Running for your life is another. ~Lemony Snicket
  





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Wed Feb 02, 2011 2:52 am
Sassykat says...



I really liked this one. I think it is easy to relate to...or at least for my mom or someone. I think everyone who has waited in line at a checkstand has felt this way. I loved it.
It was confusing at times, when I lost the flow, but It was really good.
Shakespearian tongue-twister:

To sit in solemn silence
In a dark, dank dock
In a pestilential prison
With a lifelong lock;
Awaiting the sensation
Of a short, sharp shock
Of a cheap, chippy chopper
On a big black block.
  





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Thu Feb 03, 2011 5:16 pm
LadySpark says...



Hi Sean! Finally here. *snug huggles*

distracting you, destroying your resilience. Such a revolutionary...

this breaks the flow of the poem. What does it add to the line? Because from the looks it doesn't help the other lines either.


This is really a nice poem. Well written, exact and easy to relate to. I loved it. I usually enjoy shorter poetry better, but this is probably a favorite. Keep it up!

Loffs,
Pointe
hush, my sweet
these tornadoes are for you


-Richard Siken


Formerly SparkToFlame
  








This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper.
— T.S. Eliot