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?
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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
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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
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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
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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
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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.
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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!
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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?
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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
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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
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A holiday looms An extra day off For some people But not as many as should be And never enough And some are content with the way things are While others are certainly not And have started their celebrations early
I, too, use a shovel, but not for that, as might well be understood. Photo by Kateryna Babaieva on Pexels.com
Who can blame them Really As would not do the same Had they not thought of it in time?
But that I do not blame them Does note mean I am not struggling Making sure my work gets done And some of theirs When they are not here
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The people coming up now are doing the best they can with what they have And if they react differently than I did Their situation is different than mine was And they did not start where I did Where they could see what I saw And bask in a light that has been dimmed or switched off
It’s a different look. Photo by Alizee Marchand on Pexels.com
The people who went before were doing the best they could with what they had And if they reacted differently than I do Their situation was different than mine was And they did not start where I did Where they could see what I saw Looking through windows that had not been built yet
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Elliott RWI 