Sitting, Waiting


Poem Commentary

This is the second poem in my second self-published book. This book will be released July 6th at my solo art show of phonetography and poetry.

Sitting, Waiting

Sitting, Waiting July 2010

Sitting, waiting

The bustle of leafs in the trees wrestle the breeze.
I hear the sound of the air whooshing at my ears.
There go sounds of whistles from the neighborhood birds.
How those birds tweet so well,
I always enjoy hearing them fly off too.
The zing’s of insect’s flying by.
Buzz off bugs don’t bother me today.
I hear the tramping and frolicking of rascally vermin,
hunting around in the backyard.
The sounds of motors being ignited,
speed passed the intersection
down on the street.
I’m outback of my apartment on my balcony
to the side of my building.
Facing the side street from the busy main,
that's in front of my building.

Who blew that bull horn?
Fwooo! (Made me jump)
Slaps from the tires hitting flatten old scrap.
I hear people, heading on down the street,
through the city as they tramp passed me.
I also hear the rumbling sound of the train blowing through town.
The nice cool breeze of late spring, does invite playful screams.
Also sounds of people coughing on into the doctors office.
I just sit and wait to hear all the things I can hear.
Trying to concentrate, and even meditate too.
Until the sound blast from the cars come full throttle down the street.
The sounds of some cars thumping they're bass from out of speaker's, and
the wattage stops all other sounds from being heard.
I hear them now and again,
they leave a ring and a roaring a block down the road.
I hear the sounds of electric humming making it easy to do inside work.
For whom did that bell toll,
It’s 6:00pm, and I’m sitting here listening to the church bells dong.
Oops, it looks like it might rain.
Now if the light had a sound it would sizzle the day into a haze.
The down pour of the rain comes in an instance.
Knowing the night needs room to breathe, for all the sounds the good night brings.
As the rain fades away it leaves drips off of fixtures,
and splashes from all the movable things around.
From automobiles, to the rushing feet splashing through puddles.
The rain and night leave an impression, as if it were a watercolored city scape.
I hear the humming of the street lights turn on.
As the sky turns dark, and the sounds I hear change.
The chirping of critters that creep.
The crickets making the twinkle of the night sound so right.
As I lay down and hit the hay for the night.
To my bed I snore the night away, and I wonder who can hear that.
I really can’t say.

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Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you or else it is nothing, an empty formalized bore around which pedants can endlessly drone their notes and explanations.

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koppe’s Poems (12)

Title Comments
Title Comments
Lockdown 1
Hott Mess 0
Word of Mouth 0
She say's so too, so it must be true. 0
No Rash Thoughts 0
Ill Pill 0
Sick Heart 5/2/12 0
Flip the Script 0
Coping Did It!!! 0
What it be like to sit there? 0
Sitting, Waiting 0
"The Monster Behind Me" 4-24-12 1