Elided poems on Hello Poetry

William Zimmerman May 2014

It were perhaps too good to preen,
This thing, this much elided stream,
To rest therewith, tremulous ream
Of thoughts forthwith from misery.

Let not the beggar hear my words:
There is no hope in timely dress;
World it cares not for men deferred
From caring press and relatives.
Too much it cares for common things,
A word said soft, need not for pain,
Yet broken in its gleaning thoughts,
Suff’ring not well deserved stains.

These things, I say, they cast a sea
Before dim eyes, make blind men cry,
Rob their sight, ev’n in sight’s drought;
This I say, casts little more t’me.

#of #the #on #beggar #mount #olives

Mohd Arshad Dec 2014

Poetry And Prose

Once, in an orchard, two great men, Prose and Poetry, were walking at twilight, and the golden light of the day was shimmering through sieve of leaves. Both were pacing at the same speed. They came across a wounded bird, fluttering on the pavement. Poetry stopped to see it, but Prose elided this and moved on. Poetry, taken aback, called out him and said:

Poetry:  Please unfold your identity!
Prose:   An intellectual man, very sharp at wit!
Poetry:  Add more!
Prose:   A social reformer and moralist!
Poetry:  So true! But it is only me that weeps for man, bird and beast.

Poetry picked up the bird and brought home for its treatment, and Prose continued his exercise!

Notes (optional)

S E L Jan 2015

Back to the wall

The grind

Facing the wall again, deep awkward and painful staring at the floor
Tittering a laugh, cruelty unintended but the long grind of waiting
The stucco church, solid near the bulk shop
He started earlier than the rest and they never could catch up
He left earlier as well.

Where to turn?

Well elided turns makes a lazy talker, yes m'am, no sir
Carry over from prior months, a horror thick with worry
Fish swim no more here, Auriole has been called home
And the child she took from autistic streets rakes thoughts together
Rugged ones hardly expected success from the slower one
Well, surprise.

Stone**
Baking rays, in the shade we climb
The spider said to the vine: how art the tidings there?
Be told unlike, the searcher's dream wilts slow in a postbox
The chart burns, and discrepancy marches again.

Mohd Arshad Feb 2014

One Summer Night

One summer night in a library
The moonlight was penetrating from the sky
The wind was playing outside and inside
The books out of their homes gleamed
The pages were the fluttering butterflies
A little sound was there no mortal cries
From a shelf a holy book skipped down
Clothes were rugged, skin brown
"I am here at rest on the bed." Said she "unsolicited.
They come; speak to you, I am elided.
You are always jovial and no despair.
New birth you take , of death no fear.
Have they forgotten who look after me?
It is He who made the hills and the sea.
I don't need their care, their heed.
They do me to themselves better feed.
I am the only ship to take them heaven
To enjoy his blessings, to sorrows shun."

Evan Dec 2018

A Day at the beach

The Winds serene Embrace beneath the Sun's deterring Gaze
As i watch the sunset and its rays glide across the tide
To my side my lover watches with me, our hearts elided
with nothing on earth, not even thunder, could rip us asunder

To know a force greater than any other power, tis my Finest Hour
Nothing could turn this moment sour, a day our souls imploded
In the infinity of the sunset, we go forth without regret
As we sit frozen time, free from any feeling of crime

As I look across the boardwalk, to the Girl at which I Gawk
She turns to look at me, and i see her face
Only then do I realize, life never was a race, merely a journey to this place
Under the boardwalk, just my love and I, The look in her Eyes, says it all
Love's Victory March

A poem i wrote in my personal time

oriana phor Nov 2020

as if it's a final thing

i think about ambiguity more than
most people
i draw a sharp, thin line
around ambiguity
and press it into my pages
I slice through the guts of ambiguity
and diagram each piece
until I can see all
the unspoken things
that are transparent to those
who don't have my scalpel
I eat up and digest ambiguity
to see the impressions crawling
under my skin
then I spit it all out
back into its context
and watch it bloom in the pool
of its common ground

but the people I do think about
I have no logical blade for
their names were etched into my pathways
but context elided
and reconstruction is impossible
remnant revenants
with no interpretation

— The End —