"elliott" poems
PLEASE FORGIVE ME
for not reading right now.
1) I've been very busy with personal issues.
2) I've been on the low with some poets
who need to talk.
3) I've been emailing Elliott York all
morning about a couple of things.
a) The asinine war that was happening
here on his site. It's caused many to leave
and it (the attacks on Wolf Spirit included)
MUST STOP. Gary L has extended the olive
branch. THE REST OF YOU MUST DO SO
AS WELL. It's kindergarten stuff! You're
ADULTS. ACT LIKE IT!
b) A couple of years ago I came up with an
idea. The Poet Tree T-shirt and poster. It would kind of look like this...
P O E T S
XXXXX
XXXX♡XXX
XXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXX
XXXX
**P
O
E
T
R**
love.joy Y peace
happiness.pain
other.poet.words.
...FILL HEARTS
The X's above would be POET NAMES!
YOUR NAME WOULD BE ON THE SHIRTS!
You could then get the t-shirt/poster
from Elliott York!
It's an idea that I personally put out
a while back but never was able to
follow up on.
Email Elliott York if you like the idea.
I want it to UNIFY POETS. We are ALL
LEAVES ON THIS TREE!
Thanks for reading.
♡ Catherine
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 3:17 PM UTC
We are, THE Ohio State Buckeyes
*Those Oregon ducks look flashy
With pretty feathers made for flight
But The Ohio State Buckeyes
We will clip their wings tonight
Our Buckeye team beat Bama
They were ranked at number one
Now we get to go Duck hunting
With Cardale and his shotgun
The Ducks they did look good
Lets give credit where credit's due
They beat undefeated Florida State
So they deserve to be there too
With Ezekiel Elliott making runs
And Urban Meyer making calls
A quarterback known as twelve guage
The Buckeyes will win it all
So now we get to go duck hunting
And as a team we hunt as one
We are the Buckeye Nation
And Duck Season has begun*
**We Are
THE Ohio State Buckeyes**
Game score
FINAL
OHIO STATE 42 Oregon 20
The Ohio State Buckeyes are College Footballs First Playoff National Champions
Poem by:
Carl Joseph Roberts
Jan 12, 2015
Jan 12, 2015 at 5:30 AM UTC
Drink up baby,
stay up all night
with the things you could do
you won't, but you might
the potential you'll be, that you'll never see
the promises you'll only make
Drink up with me now
and forget all about
the pressures of days
do what I say
and I'll make you okay,
drive them away
the image is stuck in your head
The people you've been before
that you don't want around anymore
that push, and shove and won't bend to your will
I'll keep them still
Drink up baby
look at the stars
I'll kiss you again
between the bars
where I'm seeing you there
with your hands in the air
waiting to finally be caught
Drink up one more time
and I'll make you mine
keep you apart
deep in my heart
separate from the rest
but I like you the best
keep the things you forgot
The people you've been before
that you don't want around anymore
that push, and shove and won't bend to your will
I'll keep them still
Aug 27, 2015
Aug 27, 2015 at 8:12 AM UTC
Less violence
More silence
A tear rolls from my eye
As I silently wonder why
This aching pain
Of which you are to blame
Consumes me on this day
On this bittersweet bed on which I lay
No words can keep my sadness
From flowing from my fingers
Onto this platform on which I type
This poem,
this writing,
these chicken scratches
Will serve as nothing but ephemeral reminiscences
Of what joy you used to bring me.
We can't (couldn't) keep going
We have no one to blame but ourselves
It is time to keep on trucking
Move on
And hope for someone/something new
It is a brutal, grim, meat hook realization that we are not good for each other and it is very hard to accept.
I think, 10 years from now we may either look at this point in our lives as either nothing but a flight of fancy or something we had that we were not able to contain very well that was at times equally magical and horrid.
A deep Fear surrounded our relationship and there was not enough Support from either side to make it last.
Things fade.
Time has a way of showing how Stupid and Miserable everyone was.
You fell in love with a drunken *******
I fell in love with a **** disguised as a fallen angel.
Looking back one year, we never would have thought this is how we would be spending the anniversary of our first kiss.
Our first moment.
We were crazy.
We still are.
I don't want resentment anymore.
I don't want your love.
I just want acknowledgement today.
I want you to find someone in your school that reminds you of me in one form or another and give him a hug, because you need it, I need it and judging who he reminds you of, he probably needs it to.
I will acknowledge you today in the only way I know how.
Inebriation whilst listening to Elliott Smith.
May I never do it again.
This is my send off.
Jackie
Be careful.
I still care about you.
I wish you nothing but the best.
If I didn't I wouldn't have written a poem and a brief essay today.
Have fun with life.
Now I can be happy.
This is a fitting end.
Resolution is mine.
No violence
Just silence
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 6:31 AM UTC
Oh, no one seeks a partner with a beautiful mind.
It is all beautiful bodies and *****
A girl with no other options seems to be what I'll find,
and it really makes me sick.
I could paint a picture of serenity and love
in a vast and epic view.
I seem to have none of the above
and I want you to have mine too.
Call me bitter.
Call me jealous.
Call me what you will.
None seem to understand what I am getting at,
but hopefully soon you will.
Let me take you back a decade or so.
A young, fat, spotty faced teen
thinks one day he will sometime know
love and *** through another person instead of sticky magazines.
He wastes his time looking for another soul
for years upon years until he is no longer a boy.
His short, wide ***** finally finds a hole
and it brings him great joy.
He thought *** was great hoping to do it again,
although for a while it didn't much to his chagrin.
He caves in and spends money on ill gotten ******
sadly he he gets bored and quickly finds it to be a filthy chore.
At his wits end, suicidal and sad
wanting nothing but a woman's love,
things were looking bad
until something came out of the darkness, an angel from above.
She was young and beautiful,
he could not deny.
The good times were bountiful
and he never told a lie.
He was happy and angst free for around 8 months
but the angel was a traitor and he was a putz.
A drunken ******** with no remorse.
The end had come and run the course.
Call it sad
Call it tragic
Call it what you will
I now understand it
and I hope you do too.
Now he travels this barren sea
of bros and hos and endless stupidity
with no hope, no cares,
no *** and no love.
Wishing he could do something with another
instead of hate.
He needs a new lover.
He needs a new mate.
**** he shouts with a frog in his throat,
"Why can't I be happy while everyone gloats?"
In is defense, life isn't quite fair
to those without muscles and dye in their hair.
And now all he does is silently weep,
listen to Elliott Smith, and shout in his sleep.
Call him an emo
Call him a loser
Call him what you will.
The moral is for you to quit being arrogant and judgmental, slutty and stupid.
There are men and women out there who wish they could.
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 5:46 AM UTC
'There's a cat in the window
Of the house of
My lover,'
But another
Never
Slept over,
Cuz he couldn't
Be bothered and
The clover
I pressed,
The four leaves
That impressed her
Are all I can try
To think about,
Like whether
She ever
Threw it out
Or if its still
On her dusty mirror,
Or if the weather
Of her fever
Washed it away
Like the mascara
Down her face
Flows in the brine,
The words were mine
That made them fall,
I never guessed she'd
Call a ride so soon
To drive her to
Hades
To be with the baby
We lost in June
Of '02,
She was never the same,
Out of tune
Like the guitar
I pawned to
Buy the crib,
The it's a boy
Balloons
That never did
Get inflated,
That whole ******* year
I insufflated my
Woes away
But they don't go away,
But she did go away,
Not yet physically
But emotionally and
Mentally,
The breaking point was
Beyond the scope
I could see,
Oh, my Emily,
How could this be?
How could I be
Without my bumblebee?
How could I be?
How could I be?
Now I can be
With you again,
The ability is
In my hand,
I'll see you soon
Baby,
And little Elliott, too,
There's just some
**** I need to do
First.
Oct 2, 2012
Oct 2, 2012 at 12:53 AM UTC
Miss my misery is this:
Six weeks of torment, 6 days of bliss.
Undone the former by the latters weight.
Then weightless as I sink slowly.
but warmer as I near my fate.
Quick to anticipate, I fall straight. Laid down
Amidst mid air, I feel my fall is fair.
For its not unlike flight, I just might not
be mistaken. Cause I can’t even remember
If a last breath was taken.
Breathless like the panic attacks- the anxiety medication.
Chemically imbalanced, I was just another nothing patient.
Waiting on a waiting list, unease and anticipation.
For a numb tongue, a black lung and an empty room for pacing.
I haven’t tasted my taste buds in two months,
But once they tasted bliss. It’s a wasted, missed misery
a deep and dark abyss.
But my tongue still twists truth like a noose for a neck.
Lie to the young in a suit- so they show the man some respect.
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 4:03 PM UTC
Intimate adventures: purple sunset;
Sabrina Elliott at her canvas;
My brother boarding some Utah-bound jet;
Easton Connell reciting tender lyrics,
Caught in a mad faith’s unwitting net:
“Daylight licked me into shape”; then night fell;
The city struggling with unheeded debt;
Lieberman and Sathyadev dying young;
Their mothers, a heart-wrenched duet.
James Howard humming, his guitar unstrung,
Paganini in that delicate hand:
The failed romantics; a thing to be forgotten again.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 4:40 PM UTC
I read a story to my son. Really,
I am composing it, off the cuff, but
there is no reason his mother should know.
One day, Elliott built a rocket ship.
His rocket ship was going to take him to the moon.
The boy sees nothing silly in this, and
for a second, I don't, either.
And every spare minute, Elliott worked on his rocket.
When he was at school, he drew out in
blue, and chalk-white, a dream for his rocket.
When his mother told him to do his homework,
he worked on his rocket.
When his mother left him
in the dining room to finish his carrots,
he worked on his rocket.
"I wish I could work on a rocket,
instead of eating vegetables."
Tonight, you won't have to.
One day, Elliott finished his rocket, and he went to the moon.
From the Moon, he heard the earth mumble.
From the moon, he saw the tide hug the shore,
and knock down his sister's sandcastle, left
on the beach from the summer before.
From the moon.
"He saw China!"
And Brazil. And India.
"And he got to see what his school looks like at night!"
He wouldn't know that, as a a boy, I went safely walking there,
and as a foulmouthed teen, I was drunk in the playground, at night.
That I looked down, from the hospital adjacent when my father was there.
He asks if, from the moon, you could see plain
the shadows of the craters on our planet, too broad
to behold, on sidewalks and soccerfields, during a game.
"You could. All the shadows, in the cities and the seas."
And his ruby face relaxes, deeply struck,
and musing, I think, that maybe
shadows aren't all bad.
Elliott came back, in time that his mother,
could wake him up, and he could loudly fake a snore.
And he righted his sister's sandcastle.
He went to Brazil.
He was drunk on playgrounds.
He saw shadows. They weren't so bad.
And often, when he would walk on the
sidewalk, his feet would feel light, like he
was on the moon again.
"Because the Moon has no gravity."
No gravity at all.
When I leave, and land beside my wife in bed,
I admire the helmet on my mantel,
I crumble old moondust in the paw of my suit,
I feel, still, the dimples of the sheets,
light, and shadowed, like the clefts of the moon.
Mar 8, 2010
Mar 8, 2010 at 6:48 AM UTC
I am not able to get the system to publish a lot of my writing. It seems other people aren't having that problem. Perhaps they DONATE MORE? I am not able to donate much because I'm on Social Security disability and I have a fixed income. Recently I donated more than I could afford. I'm still having this problem. I have many friends on Facebook. Perhaps they would like to know about this problem and find other poetry sites rather than hello poetry. I don't want to do this, because I used to like this site a lot and there are some excellent poets here. I have tried twice to inbox you, Elliott. You have not responded. Perhaps you're trying to force me off the site. You are not succeeding. Instead I shall take this to a higher authority. God. I pray for you. That your heart will be changed. That you will be blessed with everything I want for myself. But I will take this to Facebook also. I don't want my friends to be hurt by a site that does this to people. Thank you for reading.
SoulSurvivor
Catherine Jarvis
1/24/2021
Jan 24, 2021
Jan 24, 2021 at 7:34 PM UTC
i simply cannot fathom
going out every single
saturday night
the world is cold and vicious enough as it is,
and we all know
that nighttime is different universe,
alcoholics covering up their scars with the slogans like
"i'm young and i'm allowed to have fun" or
"YOLO!"
bars full to the brim with
**** yous and what's your numbers and i'm-in-the-mood-to-start-a-fight-bro
don't get me wrong, it is fun
to go out sometimes
but after a while it gets old
because the world is cold and vicious enough as it is
i much prefer sleeping or
curling up with a book and a blanket and a hot mug of tea
cuddling with solitude while listening
to Sufjan or Regina or Elliott or Joni
or watching a disney movie,
where i feel safe,
clinging to a place
where the world won't ruin me.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 11:53 PM UTC
David slings a rock
Cop holsters a glock, Lizzie Borden packs an axe
Mac he packs the knife, Billy battles with a club, Tommy’s gun is a sub
Kelly’s got 1 too, Bazooka Joe Is Gum, Peter Gun not, Colt 45 is not malt
Nor a horse, hand grenades, canons w/big ***** Doc Holiday had TB
Rock Hudson *** James Dean crash his car,Hank Williams in his bar
Natalie Wood don’t float, Cain killed brother, Juliette poison her lover,
Whitey Bulger, he killed and got paid, deadman walking gets to eat
Rodney King he got beat, got beat Mama Cass Elliott choked on ham
58,000 gone in Nam, 4 dead in Ohio, Kamikazes fall 1941, again 2001
Iraqi leader w/ a rope, John Belushi too much dope, C. Manson is alive
Michael Jackson isn’t, Saturday night special is very ordinary
Fast and furious is the crime, **** Clark just his time
Pirate victims walk the plank, THINK,
Next I’ll come rolling up in a tank
Hear the whistle of my missile
***** Harry had the biggest
The Derringer is small
Smokey Bear forest fire
Greek funeral is a pyre
Too many +’s or -’s
Is electrical surges
Woman and child
sing the dirges
Walking dead
Are zombies
Fat man and
Little Boy
Are atom
Bombies
as for me
in a blaze
of glory
BOOM
May 31, 2015
May 31, 2015 at 2:57 PM UTC
Lying on my back and needing a few hours to myself,
Elliott Smith was singing that familiar line in my ear as he did so often when I reached this same threshold of sadness:
"Dreadful sorry, Clementine" ,
And you seemed to know just how dreadful all of it was to me,
Slipping out of my comfort, which is shaky at best in the eyes of the public,
But the tempo did change, Elliott...
And I confess that I don't think I'm killing her,
She won't let me give her life,
She thinks she's glowing right now...
Does it mean she can't comprehend?
Someone should be ashamed, Elliott.
I'd love to sing into her some life she's yet to discover,
Replace her doubt for continued existence with nothing more but yearning for foreign lands, hand in hand with me,
Yet I digress and can only sigh.
Jul 19, 2016
Jul 19, 2016 at 11:52 PM UTC
You're smarter than me
But not smart enough to see
How sorry I am I let you go
I regret it more than you will ever know
Can you forgive me for breaking your heart?
Can you forget me tearing us apart?
Can we pretend I never ****** your friends?
Can we say that wasn't the end?
I was so stupid and I was so blind
You were always so sweet and kind
4 years on can we put it in the past?
Can it be the foundations of something to last?
you were always my captain Wentworth
My favourite person on the earth
Can I persuade you I'm worth another chance?
I'm sure we haven't had our last dance
Anne Elliott was blind and so am I
We let the men we love pass us by
So I'm sorry of this shatters our fragile alliance
But it comes down to more than your gentle compliance
I can't promise I won't hurt you again
But I can promise this time I won't have my eyes set on other men
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 5:47 PM UTC
Damm , sounds like home to me
T. S. Elliott's wasteland
Where puragatory worst residence live
Raise a toast to the Ghost of Christmas Past
for you haven't the pressence to make a future out of it .
Where happy hour never ends and friendship is sealed by the clink of glass
And all the women have traces of ***** on their lips as they ask hey buddy will you buy me a beer
Year after year until O'Hara's Pub and Grill becomes your Thanksgiving , Easter , Memorial Day , Christmas , and New Years Day
And they even paint a reserved parking space out back for you
But they were the only bar open for the blizzard when everyone took acid and danced barefoot in the snow
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 8:57 PM UTC
cutting your **** off is not something you fail at. when I ask you where it’s at you will first be sad to have a mouth at all and second say legend has it. my thinking is trying to think in a helicopter. you climb a tree to drop a rifle from it. I have so many real friends and I call them my gay odds. and so many dreams that these waking hours pass only to embellish them. if there is one thing it is Elliott Smith the name of a hungry deer.
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 9:41 AM UTC
I don't need anyone to pretend to care about my apathy.
I want to smoke cigarettes and skip meals and nights of sleep.
I want to cry to Elliott Smith and for the clouds to hide the moon because I need the darkness for a while.
The moon is shy, leave her be.
She's either shy or wants to hide.
The lunarity of my own skin shares the same feeling tonight.
I want to hide.
I want people to stop expecting me to be present, available, ready to listen
just because I have to be.
Just because I'm forced to be here.
Because I'm not being held to the earth by anything except gravity.
I don't really have to be here.
I'm choosing to be.
But gravity doesn't exist on the moon and I'm indecisive like she is;
I go through phases.
Right now, I want to be new.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 2:27 AM UTC
soft and whispering
your words
like a stab in the chest
make me feel
alone
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 10:30 AM UTC
listen--
it's two-thirty in the morning.
there is a song playing, and it doesn't remind me of you,
but i thought you should know
because this next part is important.
the singer is Elliott Smith,
and he's kissing his darling between jailbird bars
just like that time--remember?--when we kissed
through the gap in the barbed wire,
and our hearts danced like the strobe of police lights.
(we were trespassing)
i'm not thinking of you,
because while i'm out here smoking,
and i wet my lips so the paper doesn't stick to them like heartbreak,
i don't imagine your cherry Chapstick or the way it left
mellow pink stains on your cigarette filters.
these are the facts:
i've nearly forgotten you;
i'm not still hung up on the smell of lavender handsoap;
i haven't rifled through a single Facebook album;
i don't know the name, address, and telephone number
(not to mention, i haven't memorized a single
stupid, snarky tweet)
of your new boyfriend
with the pretentious French last name.
anyway, i don't know why i decided to call,
i guess it was just to let you know
how i'm doing just fine without you.
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 6:46 PM UTC
One of the only musicians I truly get.
I can relate to the emotion he puts in all his songs.
He has greatly influenced my life.
His humble tunes make me reflect.
I only wish he wasn't dead.
May he rest in peace,
may I meet him in another life.
Sep 27, 2014
Sep 27, 2014 at 5:59 PM UTC
The man in the casket
was beloved in this town.
To us kids he’d been “Doc”-
Its hard believing he’s gone.
A long time ago,
on a field far away,
He had been a young Giant
waiting his chance to play.
“Doc” Graham had played baseball
in many minor league parks,
in an age before lights,
in an age before darks.
An elegant fielder
with a strong rifle arm
“Doc” had one “cup of coffee”
and then he was gone.
He played in right field
on a warm Brooklyn day
you could look it up
the old professor would say,.
He played in the field
but was denied an at bat.
He was waiting on deck
when Claude Elliott flied out.
Though quick as the moonlight
through shadowy leaves,
“Doc” never again played
in the National League.
He hit the books instead
and became a physician
In our small town of Chisholm,
he found a position.
A lifetime of love
yields a lifetime of care:
He tended our needs
and shared in our prayers
No trace of self-pity-
having missed that at bat.
Being “Doc” to us all
meant far more to him than that.
Now Moonlight is elusive
never grasped in your hands.
But on nights short of heroes
I remember this man.
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 9:09 PM UTC
Good god
Im late for work
I can hear her thinking
I watch her leave
her eyes smile so right
I watch the clock go round
I watch the clock around
Off shadows, numbers, lines
I know when the boys come to the counter laughing
begging for a kiss
her black hair
with its line of pink
I can hear her voice
that Southern Belle
through her smile
"Well honey your sweet but Ive got a boy"
She comes home
the front door is locked at night
she drags herself in
broke for the night
and falls into bed
and falls into bed
and falls into bed
Two hundred miles away
I can hear her voice smiling
"I love you baby"
that shiver you only get
when someone kisses your picture
my picture crumpled in the hand of a sleeping doll
My picture crumpled by the Southern Belle
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 6:43 AM UTC
i've started to pray
to the toilets of public bathrooms again.
on busses & on trains travelers
can watch me turn dizzy, faint, or,
even better, turn ghostly
like a grandfather.
i've been buying travel tickets
to my brothers again.
lately in my dreams they did not die,
they never died.
there was a joint funeral
& my parents hired a soul singer
to perform cover songs of elliott smith
& i stood still as ash, doing my best
to rip open my face & my palms
& my wrists.
that day was the first day in a week
that i did not eat,
that i did not make myself *****
in dreams my brothers did not die,
but i still wait for their funeral.
my hands are roads again, or wheels,
all marked & nailed & bruised.
if you turn me into a river
then i will share my secrets with you.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 4:31 PM UTC