Sitting in the corner Thinking up a song The bard awaits a summons Hopes it won’t be long Before the tune is called for And played to the delight Of souls in joy assembled Long into the night
Usually this kind of thing, right? Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
The scribe is at his desk He waits with pen in hand Eager now to answer The written word’s demand To leave behind a record That will for long remain And echo in the eye Longer than the bard’s refrain
If you’d like writing for your own–with no AI synthetics!–fill out the form below, and we’ll get you started!
Even after all the years of doing it After all of them I’ve seen before Again and again and again I still quail to see an empty page before me Waiting for me to fill it with the work of my pen Leave traces of myself behind in ropy trails I hope to see outlast me
I know the hesitation well. Photo by Lum3n on Pexels.com
I lift the pen Put my fingers to the keys Trying to open the inner taps And they sometimes flow freely But just as often I have to work the pump for a while Before anything will flow And even then It’s often silty Not the best tasting drink
I’m happy to write to order for you; fill out the form below to get your piece started!
Oh, I would like to write a book At which someone would take a look And read the words I put inside; Though they’d be covered, I’d not hide The way I feel about this place, The things that I must daily face To find my way and make my name. Oh, I’d not mind if I found fame; I’d be okay to be liked well The more so did it help to sell Another book that I might write And release for the delight Of those who liked the first I wrote. But if I will on that tide float, I first must flood with words the page; The script must come before the stage.
The fortunate day has come again When many take thought for such luck as they have And worry more than most days at how much of it they lack
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow… Photo by Drew Rae on Pexels.com
What must it be like to have such luxury To be able to wonder only on certain days Whether fortune will find in favor And not to expect each day That the turning wheel will roll over Knowing that for it to move forward it must Throw some down Seeing that there is always a set that Sticks to the wheel-well Building up a curtain that will In time Make all advancement cease?
I’m happy to write to order for you; fill out the form below to get your piece started!
Go ahead I read you five-by-five What’s your twenty, good buddy? Roger that Heard there’s action down that way Some kind of ten-fifteen, the badges are saying See if you can steer clear Say again Say again Copy
Break, break, break They’re calling out the numbers, now Ten-ten Ten-thirty-two Ten-thirty-three Ten-thirty-four Come back Come back Come back Wilco Wilco Over and out
I’m happy to write to order for you; fill out the form below to get your piece started!
For those published and left unread For those revised and never published For those drafted unrevised For those not drafted, only thought For those but dreamed and never thought I mourn
Sure. Why not? Photo by Kindel Media on Pexels.com
The paeans hinted at but never sung The words spoken out aloud and unrecalled The lines jotted out on paper thrown away The letters sent and soon discarded The books gathering dust until they decay Sadnesses all
Like the work I do? Maybe see what I can do for you; contact me at the form below, and we’ll talk!
They say they dream of days to come with Skies clouded as if with ash Falling on the frozen dead and nearly so Splashed with the color of blood at odd intervals And smoothly glabrous pubescent branches Hoping to kiss under parasites hanging detumescent When their breaths will freeze
Looming larger every day… Photo by Ksenia Chernaya on Pexels.com
But who will not take up their pagan chants Borrowed in season from offerings made to The sickle-wielding one whose sickle found him They will be the ones called overly libidinous And they who do not rejoice at the forests growing Even now Earlier and earlier with each year Though they stand not in Dunsinane Hands stained with Duncan’s murder But wish for broader joys They will be the ones called hateful Though the voices saying such are strained Flowing through flushed faces and Out of tightened throats
Remember: bespoke poetry, written by a real person (no AI!) for a real person, makes a splendid gift! Get yours started today!
It was when I felt most alive, Before the fallen world contrived To overturn all that had been. I had not yet to start again Because I had but barely started In the world. Still open-hearted, I set out to make my name In cloistered world, to earn acclaim Within the ivory tower’s halls. I’d not yet hidden in the walls, A skulking mouse. I knew the world, Saw each new banner that unfurled And marked devices each displayed; I knew well, then, what was well made, Knew how to act, knew how to be, Knew how to parse what I did see, Knew what the current flow would bring. It’s easy, now, of that to sing In minor key while looking back And wondering what I now lack Of what I had then, who I was.
This was the first thing that came up searching for “2005.” I’m not sure why. Photo by RDNE Stock project on Pexels.com
I cannot go back now because Nobody ever can go back, And I have gained more than I lack, Which is, withal, a normal thing. My castle’s small; I am no king, Yet still some gladly take the knee, Do as I ask, though they are free, While on me, no small charge is laid. I face it, and the world, afraid And wish sometimes that I could curl Myself in bed, tight as a burl, But such hope as I have me calls. I leave my dreams where each may fall And work that I might keep the same From happening to whom I claim, Who themselves are newer started In the world, still open-hearted, Whose hopes and dreams I can defend, Though all mine, else, have reached their end. In this, at least, I’m not belied. Rest now, old dreams; for now, abide.
I’m happy to write to order for you; fill out the form below to get your piece started!
A poem, bespoke, can be a splendid prize, Or else can be a holiday surprise, For one beloved in whose watching eyes A person wants to look both good and true. It can, instead, be made to foster rue In someone whose rebuke is overdue, A slap delivered faceward without hands, The stinging pain of which across years stands. Short strings of verse can meet many demands; They can achieve goals spurred by love or pride, They can address what is often denied, And they can speak truths all too oft belied. O, you are worth a verse or two, I say; Avail yourself of such without delay!
To be put to good use… Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
In sonnet form or still an older style I push my pen as purpose will demand To meet the mandate, what must be done, Which the eater of verses, eager with eyes To look upon lines of love or of honor, Says what speaking should sit on the page, Field well furrowed and soon to bring fruit. The ink-home will empty; efforts avail To lay out the lines that will linger on, A person’s Polaris, a point for true steering To guide those who go out in the great world, Marvelous making that measure defies, Rightly through writing to reckon how life Is bettered, is boasted, while borrowed a time– Such I can say; who will sit and read it?
I’m happy to write to order for you; fill out the form below to get your piece started!
I dare not follow Farragut closely My hull not so sound as to shrug off mines blithely And the sonar and spotters I sport are Fogged and faulty, failing to find a Clear course I might cruise that Does not run me aground, and I am not built for beaching
Iconic. Photo by Sachith Ravishka Kodikara on Pexels.com
Each bark that braves such waters and blasts Has its hull hit a time or two I know But with fresher crew and more in reserve Than I have on deck or in hold
I’m happy to write to order for you; fill out the form below to get your piece started!
Elliott RWI 