The flowers emerge from the soil again
Green-built blooms rising from between the stones
The gravel and pebbles and chunks of rock
Leavings of tree-roots walking through
Still waving proudly at the roadsides
And I smile to see them
Even if I dare not stop to smell them
Knowing that the traffic will not slow for me
And that I will not last long as a speedbump
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There are times
I think
I ought to be
The kind of guy who
Goes out camping,
But then the rain falls
And such thoughts wash away,
Ripples on my windows
Whatever the weather, I will write for you!
Doom keeps getting
Closer and closer,
Nearing arrival,
And I have never been so glad
Someone can’t find the clit
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Although I would like to rehearse
With every day a little verse,
I’ve work to do, and it gets worse
If I should e’er neglect it.
I still will do my little part
To press ahead with ragged art,
Thus easing upset of my heart,
Which I’ve too oft neglected.
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Looking back on what I wrote before,
Reading aloud the words to those for whom I wrote them,
In whose honor and praise I lifted my pen
And in whose honor and praise I would do so again,
Seeing one smile not only at her own,
But also at that of the other–
An uplifting joy matched only by
The fall from the other not bothering to listen
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I sit surrounded by the books I’ve read–
Not all, of course, that have passed through my head,
Years taking many from me. They have led
Me down strange roads and long, my scholar’s self,
Those tomes and pamphlets ranging on each shelf
That all together make the little delph
Through which I, longing, search out wisdom’s ore.
Such as I find, I gather, put in store
For later smelting, shaping, thence to shore
Up bulwarks raised against the creeping doom
That seems yet more each day to o’erhead loom.
If I should die here, I’ve at least my tomb,
Already wrought as I’d have me surround
Between my final breath and final ground.
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The day has come.
I look around,
But what I seek
Cannot be found,
Not in the air
Or underground.
(I’d search the sea,
But I would drown.)
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Now, as my coffee swiftly drains away,
I ready me to face another day
Of work. These weeks, I have no time to play,
No time to smell those flowers I pass by,
Though they are fragrant as they grow up high
From roadsides. I still have not found out why
They burgeon there, but I don’t need to know
To find in them delight, nor they to grow
Demand I see or smell them. I must go
About those tasks for which I am yet paid,
Must not in them let myself be delayed;
Failure’s consequences are not stayed
Because I stayed and smelled to my delight
Those growing glories under mornings’ light.
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The day of false delight has passed us by,
And though some mark it, fewer still know why
On that day of all days it’s less awry
To turn towards cruel and often harmful pranks
Than other days. I ought to offer thanks
That on one day, we are not held as cranks
Who look askance on things put forth with glee,
Who see sharp smiles and think to from them flee.
That wind has now blown out, and from its lee
We must creep out and face a world unkind
That, thinking we have put out of our minds
Its japes, still waits to us unwary find.
I will my vigil keep, despite the day;
I will thus hope ill will not me waylay.
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Now April once again with showers sweet
Has risen from her bed, and poets meet
Her rising with their verses, seek to heat
The chilly ling’ring winter’s grasp away
From her soft flesh, hope with it they might play
Instead. She smiles, of course; who could gainsay
Her grace what others do to it attract?
She says no word to them, replies not back
To written pleas, not uncouth or with tact,
Nor yet to spoken words they belch aloud,
Guttural cacophonies of which they’re proud;
Children will act thus when they’re allowed,
And she is old, though she is born again
Today, the pilgrimage’s ever-friend.
It’s not just sonnets I can write for you–but I’m pleased to write them, too!
Elliott RWI 