They said many a time that
There never was a turd
So hot
That it didn’t cool down
They neglected to mention
How many people
Would stand around
With ice and fans ready
Bespoke poetry is not a crappy gift by any stretch. Get yours started today!
Staring at the reams of work others have done
Knowing that I must master it all
That I must do so swiftly
Daunts the eyes and grips the heart
There is no other option
No other way to do the work
Than to do the work
And I remember I was once well trained
If you like how I write, you can hire me to write for you!
Fill out the form below to get started.
She performs so exuberantly
Every time she is in residence here
Shining brightly on the pale stage with its
Crooked wooden pillars and its
Fading verdant hangings
And the audience sweats in the lights held aloft
Those in attendance at her show
Must like what they get from her
Year after year
Seeming to invite her again and again
Although she rarely varies her set-list
And there are complaints when she does
Perhaps you want to purchase a poem of your own? I can provide it! Fill out the form below to begin…
How great the ill that Stupid God has wrought
All through its avatars, as might be thought,
And great the sorrow from those in it caught
Who sought to make their world a better place!
Yet though they strive, the ill still grows apace,
And still of hope there seems but little trace,
A scanty path that leads through looming wood
And by stark cliffs. Who would follow it should
Be wary as they work to do some good
Yet in a world, not fallen, diving down
Into the Stupid God; it tries to drown
Out light and thought and wisdom. Who can sound
The depths to which the Stupid God will sink?
O, none will find the bottom, so I think.
Get your writing done at reasonable rates!
I sometimes daydream of the cleansing flame
Calling in at the house I have made my home and
Poor guest, bringing no gift
Feasting past fulfillment not only on
What I would lay out for any at my door
Whom I would welcome in
But also on what I keep from my visitors
Things of which I am but a custodian
Keeping them for worthier hands than mine
Heirlooms laid up for those few I see
Who will come after or have arrived
Little enough of a legacy without
Flapping red tongues being put to it
It is not that I am eager
To lose so much
The results of the work of years
Decades
And not only mine
But the notion of starting again
Doing it right
This time
Has appeal
And a clean break is better than a ragged as
Leaves bone protruding through skin
Shards moving through flesh
Tearing and hemorrhaging
Killing in pain and quiet from within
I am not looking for matches
Brimstone striking to cauterize the wound
Or even for the knife to
Make the cut
But
I know where the cutlery is
And my whetstone is well used
And the matchbook is not so far from my hand as all that
I write to leave a record of my days
I write in hopes of earning people’s praise
I write that I might delight and amaze
All those who read the lines I leave each time
I put a pen to paper, whether rhymes,
Alliteration, free verse, prose, and I’m
Yet pleased to have the time to write I need.
That voice that says I’m privileged, I heed,
For having time to sit and write and read
Is luxury that many, sadly, lack.
It may well be that I remain a hack
Despite the written pages that I stack
On shelves of wood and bits and bytes, but still
I write, and as I do, I yet do thrill.
I’m happy to write for you, whether a sonnet or something else!
Fill out the form below to begin to get yours!
The due date was stamped in
Red ink, only the
Fourth such stamp to mark the
Slip stuck into the
Back of the book
And more than a decade
After the last one
Seeing the spread, I
Have to wonder who
Bought this book for the
Library in the first place
Who read it before I did
Who will read it next
And if they and I got
Something like the same thing
From doing much the same thing
Years apart
Bespoke poetry makes a fine gift; get yours started today by filling out the form below!
It is a fair question
Of course
Because any poem is
Just words on a page
Few will read or
Breathed into the air
And wafted away on the winds
And yet
The poems are still written
Still spoken
Still sung
Still read
Still heard
Still matter
Now as in all the elder days of which we know
Knowing that so little reward
So few resources or acclaim
Accrue to verse and those who make it
Though more to those who worship several Muses at once
They still work the work who work it
And there must be some reason
Even if it is not clear
If you like the writing I do, hire me to do some for you!
Clad in gold and white and blue and
Defying a single eye to look and not
To weep
Send a salt trail falling across the cheek
Before splatting to the ground
But one of many falling thus as she
Parades about under many banners
Letting each of them flap in the wind or
Hang limply where it had been erected
As those who had hoisted them
Pant at her touch
It is not gentle
Wringing much from those who feel it
That hot grip upon them
Pulling them forward whether they
Will or not
But they cannot keep her from coming
Themselves spent and not satisfied
They made wet by her less than
She by them
As is so commonly the case
I’m happy to write to your order; get started below!
It’s easy for some
To order from the menu
Pick that one hamburger
With its juicy patties and
Warmly seeded buns
The thing is
Even if it might be on the menu
The dish cannot be served
If the ingredients are lacking
And I’ve no ground beef
If you like my writing, you can hire me to write for you!
Elliott RWI 