33 result(s) for Anticipation Poems.
These poems are completely original - not copied from anywhere. Feel free to use them however you want.
The Sealed Hour
It waits upon the oilcloth, edge-worn and pale,
its corners softened by a week of hands.
I circle it the way a moth circles a lamp,
not yet willing to learn what it commands.
The kettle sighs and cools behind my back.
The clock keeps counting, patient and unkind.
I tell myself the words inside are small,
that nothing sealed can rearrange a life.
Yet still my fingers hover, quick to pull,
then fold away, as if the paper bites.
Each breath becomes a question I can't ask,
each shadow stretching toward a single line.
So let it sit a little longer, dear,
the last still moment before the truth is spread.
For in this hush, all futures hold their breath,
and I am who I was, and not yet what I'll be instead.
The Slow Hand
The kitchen clock forgets its pace,
Each tick a stone upon my chest.
I watch the hands with patient grace,
And count the seconds, weary, blessed.
The mailbox waits beyond the gate,
A silent box of hope and dread.
I rise, I sit, I pace, I wait,
While hours stretch like threads of thread.
The sun crawls west across the floor,
The shadows lengthen, slow and thin.
I hear the postman at the door,
But no, the footsteps pass me by again.
Yet still I hold my breath and stay,
For every tick may bring the sign.
The clock moves slow, but someday
The letter comes, and time is mine.
Held Breath
The house lights dim to velvet hush,
and every heart forgets its beat.
A cough, a rustle, then the rush
of silence pressing, sweet and sheet-
thin as the hush before a song.
I wait, my lungs unmoving, long.
The curtain trembles, pausing there,
as though it weighs what dreams might be.
What light will spill, what voice will dare
to break the spell of the unseen?
My breath stays caught, a thread drawn tight,
suspended on the edge of night.
Then, slowly, the velvet starts to rise,
and all my held breath breaks in light.
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