I sometimes look back at my old work
Read over what I wrote when I was before
And realize just how big of a jerk
I was. That I’m not such anymore
I’d like to think but better know
Because I am less than I was.
Such is the way things often go,
The reason, of course, “Just because.”
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Dare I still lift my voice to the despite
Of Stupid God when, in plain and open sight,
Its cult will rise and with no sense of fright
Assail who speak such words as they disdain?
Dare I lift up my voice in that refrain
To which I return often in the pain
Of hearing Stupid God by many praised
When they by tree-borne rope would have them raised
Who have not argued yet are not so crazed
In that ill worship as are they? Dare I
Let yet another day of this pass by,
This making of the world a filthy sty
Fit not for foulest swine, a reeking cess
That sucks at heels and hinders all progress?
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Instead of sitting staring at the screen,
I should take pen in hand and ink a page
Or more than one. If I do truly mean
To make myself a writer and assuage
The guilt I feel, give voice to the rage
That swells between my arms–too thin and weak
To do much to avail against a cage–
Then I cannot let myself be so meek
As to withhold my voice. Of fear I reek,
I know; I smell myself. Yet I am keen
To make of myself more, and I will seek
Some way in which my value can be seen.
But I cannot command that others look
At what I scribe on screen or in a book.
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When they are gone who should be here,
I keep the porchlight burning clear
So they can always find a way
Back to our home, by night or day.
When I accept that they have left,
And home of them has been bereft,
I then will let the light go out–
But only when I have no doubt.
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The stacks of books and magazines rise high,
Each thing that’s piled upon them seeks my eye,
And I lament that I must oft pass by
Some well-worn volumes. Long they’ve graced my shelves
And gathered hand-oils and dust to themselves,
Those mines in which a glad mind often delves,
Those comforts, blankets shutting out the cold
Of which the world has plenty. I had sold
Myself to their devotion young; now old,
I scarce sustain that practice I enjoyed,
The ritual rereadings that upbuoyed
My soul–but I am not by this annoyed,
For though I seldom visit anymore,
I know with them I’ll never find closed doors.
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School is back in session, or will be soon.
The labor of lesson planning begins to loom.
Avoiding AI obscenity is rightly asked–
Tempt me to take on helping you with that task!
More seriously, I have years of experience writing instructional materials, ranging from short passages and poems for literary and content analysis to multiple-choice sets to banks of short-answer and essay questions–all human-made, none AI-generated. I’ve also worked to differentiate assignments for diverse learners and instructional needs inside the classroom, so I can help you with IEP-compliant work, as well.
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Another quarter past
The clock ticking inexorably towards twelve and
Standing now well into its evening
Though the night is hot, now, hereabouts
And the years-long fight that thundered and trumpeted
Has quieted down to a great degree
Hollow promises no longer echoing in the world
The scars remain for those who have
Suffered under incendiaries
Something made worse in the summer when
So much seems already to burn
And the sound of shots firing can be heard even
When no report comes in from outside
They itch, and they scratch
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Even in showing utopian futures–
For example
Those shining Starfleet days to come
With concertos played and plays performed
A shining-headed captain tooting his flute–
It is only the older arts that are seen
Unless there is some pop-point to be made
About kids these days and their newfangled ways
It must be remembered
“U” comes long after “dys,”
Something familiar from dictionaries and thesauri
No few writers have all too clearly used,
And it’s not likely the lawyers were lonely
Being sent away
Even,
As rarely,
When new arts are made
To feature in those hopeful futures,
Think of where the poets appear
And consider if it is not the case that
Another Chixulub is ready to form
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Year after year
The rallying cry sounds out
Even when the battle is as far away as it can be
As it is now
And there should be quiet
The salvos are still firing off
The bombs are still falling
And there are screams to drown out the sounds of either
But no shouting will silence this ongoing war
However many or mightier the other fights may be
Because
Of course
This one little bit of performance actually matters
In such times as these, what connects us to our shared humanity is singularly important. Help secure your connection; have me write for you–all original work!
I see you
Sitting at the table across the patio
Air fresh with petrichor
And the curve of your thigh where
The cut of your running shorts creeps up
The thought of my hand on the bristle of your undercut
Your bassoonist’s chin
Ah!
All I can do is
Lift the amber ale to my hairy lips
Wipe the foam away
Wondering what might have been
We’re I other than I am
And you perhaps than you–
But I will never know so much
And I don’t know if I regret it
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Fill out the form below, and see what I can do!
Elliott RWI 