Wait For Noon

So, I’ve put on some wait. 

Wait until it’s perfect.  Wait until noon.  Wait for the results your freedom your peaceful moment.  Your moment will come.  It will come.  Just Wait.  To move the fingers if the feet are visible.  To cross my toes when the mood sours.  To wait -and shiver my show of patience.   I sink through a moment into the other side of the room, into the closet of another’s conversation.  Shift.  Smile.  Blink before the eye hardens.

A mob of thought erupts.    Aspirin and a glass of water.   Sun. Soil. Seed. 


A man’s arm stitching in the waves-


A dog’s raised head on the roadside-     the shiver

of wait.

 The call for a calorie of thought.  Return.  Circle back.  Wait see look remember.  I let it pool on my lips.  Wait.  Pull at my hips.   

I try on the fat of it. 

Let it puddle in my expression, in my fingers.  Settle the brow.


its gravity dulls the annoyance, the pull of shift.  The twist of keys.  Sharpens the appetite.  A pull into a kiss.  A sink into a hug.  A restlessness forgotten.  A slower lowered lumber of thought.  Return.  Circle back.  

 Wait for noon.  Wait for the results.  Your freedom.  Your peaceful moment.  Just- wait.


About D Loeven

A lot of pressure on a writer - to be concise about who they are.

Posted on April 27, 2010, in D Loeven. Bookmark the permalink. 7 Comments.

  1. The Lady and the Wind Dragon

    High above the World
    atop the pentacle of Perception
    the wind pounds you
    tries to topple you
    you as one with the rock

    High above the World
    i, a wisp of vapor 
    i, a flicker at the edge of your eye
    a voice you can just barely make out

    You say
    i always love skies the color of poetry
    roiling shades of grey sky
    but today . . .
    not today

    what is it that troubles you
    what is the color of the Sea

    You say
    i live in a box
    i live in a mask that i don’t want to wear
    but every time i take it off
    i feel like it belongs to someone else
    i feel like i belong to someone else
    like i’m in a play and no one gave me the script
    but everyone wants me to know my lines
    i say
    the color of knowing can taste of copper and steel
    the way that hunger stalks us is not unlike 
    the way a river runs to the Sea
    i say
    the girl you were is not dead
    you carry her inside you
    and she is a wonder to behold

    You say
    can i go back? 
    Back to a world of loneliness
    what if i don’t want this?

    i say
    be afraid
    because it is the only time you are totally alive
    be secure in your heart that as surly as it is dark
    the sun will come
    and it will be gentle

    i say
    the only thing that can truly hurt you
    is yourself

    you have no protection 
    except your lack of it
    you have more to loose than your life . . .

    You say
    i hate it when you say stuff like that

    i say
    i know . . .

    • This is odd (not the poem) – this was visible via dashboard for a couple of days before it displayed on the blog thread.
      On the poem:

      the color of knowing can taste of copper and steel

      That is a really good line. I like the overall effect of the poem but this line and the next three or four stand out.

  2. Very very.
    Cool to the touch to the brain to the challenge of doing this in a story that is a story accessible. The risk is to leave the reader fatly baffled by brilliance. This conveys relays parleys realit-tays.

    There is a use for this sort of literary fireworks display beyond poetry. I think it can fit in a more traditional novel or short story setting as a passage of internal monologue. If the reader is given a clear framework, then moving through a portion written in this style won’t be too challenging for the huddled masses of paperback market readers. Lemme know if you have an iPod or similar – I have some stuff for you to wash your ears with out of which I think you’ll get a substantial kick.

    Just weight. Clever. Very.

  3. A little bit, a fit, a start.
    Put them together and call it art.

    I’m enjoying this thread of blog; I’m making a jig saw puzzle one piece (unassembled) at a time. the problem is that I haven’t seen the final picture, and I don’t know that all the pieces belong in the same puzzle. Ahh, but some of the pieces were rather fun to make:

    The Tower, like some great fortification against Napoleon built in the heart of English darkness, a symbol amongst so many cigars that are only cigars, and squat besides, haunched amongst the haws and whores, is Sarehole mill. An anagram of Areshole – and it took me what, fifteen, no seventeen years before I noticed. From bucolic stone wheels crushed out the chaff from the flour, and when the wheels fell silent, the first burning hammers of Matthew Boulton fell in there stead. Did they use burning hammers in a rolling mill? Ah well, makes for a good bit of villagism: my Sarehole as spark point for the industrial revolution, areshole of the world from which belched the first factory pollution. Brave claim, solid evidence, eyes wet with tears.
    That sulphur and soot were quite something, don’t you think?
    Or don’t you think?

    Tolkien was wrong to bless Sarehole with Hobbitonism. It wasn’t the brave little village fighting the onrush of dark satanic alternatives; It was the first satanic mill in an earth of majesty. Less an other Eden, more a seat of Mars. This blessed plot was the site of the first infection in the fortress nature built for herself, here in this earth, this realm, this England: one demi paradise and the other demi hell. It’s all a sack of bricks.

  4. Des….You inspired me… I’m not the writer Ian is … but I couldn’t live with him if I were! Hope you have a good grown at my weight:


    I can’t wait till my kids are … GROAN…
    Till they can be all on their … OWN…
    I love them now but would much … MORE…
    If they’d move an’ stop making me … SORE…
    I know I’ll miss them when they’re … GONE…
    But time has come for moving … ON…
    Tears I shed feeling joy and … PAIN…
    I know my life will not be the … SAME…
    As they head to the fiery … RING… (breathe)
    I wish I could hear the angels … SING… (breathe)
    Then I’d know they’d made their …WAY… (breathe)
    But that won’t be, least not to … DAY… (breathe)
    All through the night I toss and …TURN… (breathe … breathe)
    Knowing soon my heart will … BURN… (breathe … breathe)
    Pain so fierce a man would … CRY… (breathe … breathe)
    What I wonder if I should … DIE… (breathe … breathe)
    Get the doctor, quickly go … FETCH… (breathe, breathe, breach)
    For this screaming tortured … WRETCH… (breathe, breathe, afoot)
    The wish once made can’t be taken a … BACK… (breathe, breathe, aback)
    Prayers can’t change this widely known … FACT… (breathe, breathe, ahead)
    Handmaids hold her legs and arms … STILL… (breathe, breathe, push)
    Bloodied sheets, not a sight for the … ILL… (breathe, breathe, push)
    Now inside-out at the break of … MORN… (breathe, breathe, push)
    Two beautiful babes at last are born… (breathe, breathe, sigh)

    • Trillian,

      After hearing you read this last Wednesday, I had to come back and read this again for myself. I love this picture you have painted with words. My favorite begins with “For this screaming tortured…WRETCH” and carries on to the end. I think it may have been the “handmaids” term, but I have visions of women in bonnets, a roaring fireplace for light as much as heat, and buckets of steaming hot water.

  5. Trillian, for not accepting the title of experienced writer, you sure do pick up a pen like one.

    And Ian -you could startle any author into a blush with your ability to be more them than they.

    You guys are phenomenal. This blog is turning out to be a great spread of inspiration for me as well-more so than a prompt has ever been.

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