Once again
I dip into the flow
Feel the currents ripping past me
Carrying me along
And while I think I know where the flow is going
There is still fear in
Being dragged under
I have found the rocks too many times
Not yet worn away by the years
And perhaps not smoothed by them, either
Jagged edges and solid things
Have left me cut and bruised more than once
But I still go back in again
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The poems have started to come to me again
Passing by in review where I sit in what might have been thought a grandstand
Because I have made much of myself here and often
Saluting with swords raised as they cross my sight
A drum major swinging the mace up and down before
The band beats out its cadence and the horns blare
And I marvel at their shining uniforms
Ribbons and buttons gleaming in the light
Streaming down from above
Before I hunch in again and
Get back to what else I was doing
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In mesquite, oak, and cedar, limestone hills
Rise towards the sky, a sight that thrills
In summer heat or winter rain, and stills
The anxious worry of a heart beset
By many cares. And in the springs of wet
Years, flowers bloom in colors bright and set
At ease or raise in joy the souls of those
Who look on them. But it is not the rose
That does such in the hills, as each one knows
Who has the wildflower carpet seen
Stretching out amid the trees’ new green
In colors that reflect a sunrise scene.
Such only happens in the limestone hills;
No wonder, then, that the Hill Country thrills!
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A blackout poem taken from public documents, here
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When even the cedars wither
Boughs browning not from the vigor of their love
But from a loss mourned without tears
What then?
So far
They yet show green and strong
Feathery fabric still enfolding limestone hills
But there are tatters beginning to show at the edges
And many still look only at the center mass
Refusing to recognize that
It is not only the single shot that kills
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The dying stalks of grass beside the highway
Barely stir as traffic passes
Sibilant whispers hissing through the double glass
I look through from where I sit
Staring at the choking face whose
Lone unblinking eye stares out
Such that the glover’s son might call him Hugh
When he first makes his score
I think that I am like the grass
And if it moves but little with cars passing close by
Think what I do sitting further from the road
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Dark is this day, though it dawned long since,
Saw the light of the lamp lifted on high
That some say is swung by a seraph–
The blinded and bragging one bold among them–
Far from a feast of the fair love-goddess,
Unless the love lauded is given to lucre.
Those who will gather go forth in greed,
Bickering, bargaining, coming to blows
In search of a sale to delight them this season–
While I must wait for my time in the world yet longer,
Keep out of the crush until the day comes
That I will fare forth, ere I, too, will feast.
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She is, as she sits now, a slip–not mere,
As any whom my voice will reach will hear,
And as who speak with her will find quite clear.
Though young, and small with youth, she is of will
Quite strong, of insight keen, and thinks no ill
Of those who do no ill. To them, she still
Behaves with grace to far surpass her years–
Although her tongue will redden many ears,
Such is the skill it has. I have my fears
For her, of course, as I could hardly not.
The evils of the world, I’ve not forgot;
I worry that she will be by them caught.
But who might think my daughter to restrain
Will soon rethink that thought, I still maintain.
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While some will say they seek gold eagles there behind a long gray line,
Others looked to Callard and Bowser and got along just fine.
In cooling spice and lance’s kin, and others, it abounds
In kitchens, and at holidays, it makes its starlit rounds.
Standing off the causeway road, it presses queens and kings;
Its condition is desirable for a great many things.
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It occurs to me that I did not provide the answer to this riddle; it’s “pen.”
Once again, I write a little song
While sitting at my desk. I have not long
In which to do the task, but there’s no wrong
In spending idle moments shaping lines
That some might read while sipping at their wines
Or in which some might see un-thought-of signs
That all may yet be well. There is a hope
In writing, though each written piece might grope
Ineptly towards some unseen hanging rope
By which it might itself and readers haul
From out that pit into which many fall:
Despair. Each verse becomes another call
To stand up, rise up, take up noble task,
Give all therein; nothing more is asked.
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Elliott RWI 