New Poetry of the "In Silence"
Without our names.
Those moments that you deem perfect
Fade like an old over worn belt
Donned around the waist of time
Underneath the shinned leather
Is the gray fabric called Shame
And this, we all wear delicately
Even when referring our past
When we were ivory deities—
But no one recalls our memories
They have sailed away down stream
Into a small pond full of dreams,
Delusions of grandeur, and moments
We are left up stream, in silence
Left only with our nightmares,
The acceptance of obscurity,
And time traveling around us
While we are harnessed to a rock
Where we die a little more each day
Only to rise the very next
And wait to be torn apart again
By an eagle. Or maybe vulture
As the historical record
Fades and is carefully rewritten
Without our names.
© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.
About Me
No one will read of me.
About me no one
Will ever wonder.
My existence?
Purely negligible.
I am the small cog
In the American
Dream machine
Limping home every night
Defeated again
Defeated again.
© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved
15.6.07
New Poem
Welcome Home
These blank walls
That welcome me
Back inside
Make me sick
So, I throw up
A painting here
A picture there
Masquerading
The emptiness
With Feng Shui.
No avail
This here room
Has not found
Itself yet
And cycles
Through fads
Underneath
Which lays
The same void.
© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.
These blank walls
That welcome me
Back inside
Make me sick
So, I throw up
A painting here
A picture there
Masquerading
The emptiness
With Feng Shui.
No avail
This here room
Has not found
Itself yet
And cycles
Through fads
Underneath
Which lays
The same void.
© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.
12.6.07
Announcement and New Poem
I am starting a new body of work- which means that I have already started it and will close "The Unmentionables" soon. The new body of work will be entitled "In Silence". It is partly enspired by the fact that one day I ran out of things to write about I had noticed my topics become boring. I fell into a poetic silence. I searched inspiration and found an audiobook of Billy Collins' which I listened to promptly because I rather enjoy his literary style. He encountered a similair experience in his writting carrier to the one that I am in - so, I decided to take a few pointers from his work. "In Silence" is basically what I think of when I am surrounded by silence. It will be a collection of quiet calm maybe sad maybe happy moments. The blog will be filled with it and such and so forth. Art Galleries was the first of this new venture.
Here is a new one.
Airplane
There is something
So warming about
Watching airplanes
Fly overhead
The way the white stream
Slowly follows the plane
And passengers soaring
Soaring above us mortals
Stuck with our heads
Supported by our arms
Stuck in the grass
Like tent pegs.
The plane moves slowly
Or it seems that way
From such great distances
But really, the plane is speeding
Towards a horizon that we,
Down here, can never reach.
Once the plane goes over the horizon
We must find another flying machine
To watch drift across our little blue sky
Perhaps aliens in a flying sauce pan
Who has come to take you and I
Back home – at last.
© Liam Elliott 2007. All RIghts Reserved.
Here is a new one.
Airplane
There is something
So warming about
Watching airplanes
Fly overhead
The way the white stream
Slowly follows the plane
And passengers soaring
Soaring above us mortals
Stuck with our heads
Supported by our arms
Stuck in the grass
Like tent pegs.
The plane moves slowly
Or it seems that way
From such great distances
But really, the plane is speeding
Towards a horizon that we,
Down here, can never reach.
Once the plane goes over the horizon
We must find another flying machine
To watch drift across our little blue sky
Perhaps aliens in a flying sauce pan
Who has come to take you and I
Back home – at last.
© Liam Elliott 2007. All RIghts Reserved.
10.6.07
Yet Another New Poem
Comments and criticism very welcome. You do not have to be a member to comment.
A Car Ride
She listens to bland music
Riding in the car back home
The kind of music
Which drives men to seats
Erupting long stares
At the plaster on the wall
Or maybe, out of a car window
At night as yellow streetlights
Move like stars briefly lighting
The car and couple returning home.
She drives, the radio drones,
And he watches light-speed
In the white lane marks
Wondering about movement
And whether the world moves
Around him
As if he was perpetually
On a treadmill watching scenery
Drift slowly by inanimately
Or if things are as they seem
And he is insignificant
To the world outside
The four wheeled vessel
Traveling along a stationary road
Late at night.
© Liam Elliot 2007. All Rights Reserved.
Ta for reading.
~Peace.
A Car Ride
She listens to bland music
Riding in the car back home
The kind of music
Which drives men to seats
Erupting long stares
At the plaster on the wall
Or maybe, out of a car window
At night as yellow streetlights
Move like stars briefly lighting
The car and couple returning home.
She drives, the radio drones,
And he watches light-speed
In the white lane marks
Wondering about movement
And whether the world moves
Around him
As if he was perpetually
On a treadmill watching scenery
Drift slowly by inanimately
Or if things are as they seem
And he is insignificant
To the world outside
The four wheeled vessel
Traveling along a stationary road
Late at night.
© Liam Elliot 2007. All Rights Reserved.
Ta for reading.
~Peace.
New Poetry: Art Galleries
Art Gallery
Art galleries
Are spiritual
The souls of artists
Reaching out of a canvas
Towards the heart of the viewer
Causing the beats to quicken
The pupils to dilate
The eyes to dart-
Mouthwatering
Splendor.
But sometimes
The artist fails
Reaching out of a canvas
Towards the heart of the viewer
But aims for the purse—
A nullified stare
The eyes blink
Dry mouth
Emptiness.
6-9-07
© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.
Art galleries
Are spiritual
The souls of artists
Reaching out of a canvas
Towards the heart of the viewer
Causing the beats to quicken
The pupils to dilate
The eyes to dart-
Mouthwatering
Splendor.
But sometimes
The artist fails
Reaching out of a canvas
Towards the heart of the viewer
But aims for the purse—
A nullified stare
The eyes blink
Dry mouth
Emptiness.
6-9-07
© Liam Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.
7.6.07
Skin Deep
Skin Deep
My indulgences
Are more then skin deep
Then run like chasms
Throughout my mass
That etch into my heart
Bleeding it raw.
I cling to a teddy bear
Stuffed with barbed wire
Doused in poison.
Daily I thrust my teddy
So the barbs impale my chest
Digging deep, the ridged wire
Fastens itself to my muscles
Causing indefinite paralysis
Until the poison fills my blood.
I am addicted
It laces my capillaries,
Veins, ventricles,
And even heart
When it runs low
I must have more.
I am addicted
To a 90 year
Suicide process.
ⓒ Liams Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.
My indulgences
Are more then skin deep
Then run like chasms
Throughout my mass
That etch into my heart
Bleeding it raw.
I cling to a teddy bear
Stuffed with barbed wire
Doused in poison.
Daily I thrust my teddy
So the barbs impale my chest
Digging deep, the ridged wire
Fastens itself to my muscles
Causing indefinite paralysis
Until the poison fills my blood.
I am addicted
It laces my capillaries,
Veins, ventricles,
And even heart
When it runs low
I must have more.
I am addicted
To a 90 year
Suicide process.
ⓒ Liams Elliott 2007. All Rights Reserved.
4.6.07
NEW POETRY:
Where I am Weak
In a dusty field
In my mind
I kneel down in slow-mo
The great army
Follows suit in a panning
Slow cascade.
Rows of soldiers on their knees
The wind moves
Dust flies as I arise
The army jumps
And I, at the head of it
Would rather die
Here, a sword through my heart--
Than in the future
Where I am weak.
In a dusty field
In my mind
I kneel down in slow-mo
The great army
Follows suit in a panning
Slow cascade.
Rows of soldiers on their knees
The wind moves
Dust flies as I arise
The army jumps
And I, at the head of it
Would rather die
Here, a sword through my heart--
Than in the future
Where I am weak.
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