I am aware of how
My world is shrinking, how
The walls between which l
I run my daily course
Grow higher
Not because more bricks have mounted them, but
Because I have been sinking deeper into ruts
Carved by my staying on my single path, and
Strong as legs may be that drag me sullenly forward,
Plow tilling a sterile furrow,
I ain’t got shit for upper body strength
I’d love to put my poetry to work for you!
They beckon to me
The harbor and the shore
Saying I should see them once again
If in another guise than I knew them before
Once not seldom visitor
Greeting them gladly under bright skies
And I know I should answer
Say my yes and go to them
Sink into their willing salt wetness
But my heart might as well be that bird
Not the pheasant but the other one
For I have worked to build the walls and shut the door
And I no longer know that I can see in strong light
It won’t just be this month that I’m happy to write to order for you!
Cracked white rapping
A brief shimmer of glissando on the black metal
Shining steel pressing until
Just before it burns
And what might have been a life
Made for a death and plucking away
Is brought into another life
Between how the children of grass’s descent
Were crushed to dust
Their bodies mixed together
And cut apart again
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The blind old uncle, singing smoky,
Lauds the sweet clarity of pine-filtered moonlight,
But seeing Selene’s castings dappled by gnarled oaks,
I think I have had the better view.
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The clock read 3:27,
And since I use the 24-hour kind of time
I knew it was the morning,
Earlier even than I usually make me wake up,
So I tried to go back to sleep,
But I remembered the dream
As I rarely,
Rarely,
Do–
So much so that I have thought
I have lost the ability to dream–
So I tried to write it down,
Myself as a landlord,
Living in the building whose pieces I rent,
Trying to keep everything together and moving,
Not entirely succeeding
Even though the residents seemed to appreciate
The work I did to keep them happy
It seemed
It would be a good thing to write,
A source for several stories in diverse styles,
Something of an anthology although following one line,
But it vanishes even as I put pixel to page,
And only these lines remain of it.
That there is
Some suitcase overstuffed or steamer trunk whose hinges and latches strain
I’m sure
But an armoire into which to unpack is less certain.
Do you know anyone who makes furniture?
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I squeeze the bottle again and again
The honey burbling as another drop struggles to fall
And I have to wonder once more if
It is worth it to struggle so for
Just one more small taste of sweetness
Get yourself a little something–or maybe get something for your sweetie!
The day, at last, has come that I have sought;
The joy its coming brings, I’d near forgot
As I by reams of paper have been caught.
But soon, I shall have leave to go and play
At being young again while the bright day
Shines out across the hills. I seldom say
Such things, of course, since I my work must do,
But seldom saying does not make untrue
What is thus said, and joy does now me woo.
It beckons from outside the window’s pane,
Makes its intentions for me clear and plain,
Suggests that soon I’ll find some ease for pain
I took these several months to figures run–
Perhaps this time I may well have some fun!
If it’s not too taxing, maybe hire me to write for you?
The string has to be taut for the bow to pull sweet sounds from it,
And a sure hand has to be had for so much to be true,
But it is all too easy, when trying to tune,
To make something snap, and there is no fixing it after
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The last few dozen yards beckon,
And though my legs are grown heavy
And my breath is raggedly in and out,
Still, I swallow and start to sprint,
Knowing that once I break the tape,
I can rest a while before the next event
The days and months pass, but poetry endures; commission your work today!
Reading for the work I do,
And there is still a lot of it I do
Even now in these later days,
I remember when I read for the joy of it,
Something I seem not to do anymore,
And I wonder where the years have gone,
Even as I have to get back to
Poring over the pages
Like what you see?
Then hire me,
And go forth with glee
At the writing you get!
Elliott RWI 