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–
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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
I remain happy to write for you; fill out the form below to get a piece started!
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
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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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The old wounds scrape open often enough with
My stumbling into walls and doorframes or
Brushing up against the thorns hiding under more flowers than you’d think
Ripping open again to bleed and stain my shirts and pants
That I then have to throw away because
I cannot show myself as I must appear
If such stains linger where they can be seen
So I do not need to pick at them to keep them open
Although my bitten fingernails are drying red beneath
And I certainly do not need
Other hands tearing at my still raw skin
Flaying me a little bit at a time
I’m not giving up writing poetry, even with the month ending, just as I didn’t give up other writing while the month was going on! Get your piece started by filling out the form below!
As out into the world this verse does come,
I go, as I too rarely do, for some
Conversing lunch. I seldom brave the scrum
That comes with ev’ry workday’s afternoon,
And seldom spend the cash to fill a spoon
With soup or fork with meat from cattle hewn,
More often eating at my desk from home
Than daring from my office out to roam.
As staid and stolid, I am rightly known,
Both plain and proper such as well enough
Will serve those I am often near. Such stuff
As tales are made of, I from me rebuff,
For I know I am not of such a kind
As greater stories keep in their designs.
I do not do great deeds, but I write well about them. Try me out!
That my coffee for the day is done, I know,
Yet still I reach for a cup I expect to find there and filled,
And when I do not find it because,
Responsibly, I rinsed it out and put it away,
The tide rolls in from the sea without which I cannot see,
And I cling tightly so that I am not swept away,
Small and weak against the world
I’d be pleased to put my pen to work for you!
Elliott RWI 