2004 Poetry

As I walk through the ghetto,

I see young women with children.

Some attempting to keep them safe,

from the reality of their surroundings.

Others seemingly oblivious to these

effects on the minds of their young.

A user making a needed connection,

around the corner from their homes.

The gangs of those who wear colors,

thinking it represents their manhood.

A crack whore doing her oral business

just inside a dirty alley for all to see.

Blood stains still fresh on the sidewalk,

apparently left from the night before.

I hear a screech of tires around the corner,

just as I pass where the gang is standing.

Then a car speeds by with windows open,

and bright flashes glowing from within.

Sounds of gunshots reeling in my ears,

as a burning pain erupts within my chest.

My knees buckle as I fall to the ground,

seeing others rolling in pain next to me.

My body turns cold and vision goes dark,

as I become a victim of my surroundings

and just another memory in a child's mind.

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It was warm but with an indifferent hue,

Perhaps more biege than brown,

The reply, let's say, was somewhat overdue,

But the merit in voice was cerebral found.

A learning that cannot hope to hold a man to his stead,

In the collection of there be a wanton need for collapse.

Upon a key found sanskrit in some lost land ahead,

Where the walk and talk furrows brows and sighs chaps.

But I do adhere to a kindred if dare I say, soul,

Who finds too there be a winding path to the mount,

And knowledge be a struggle not just a fount,

To which we are to possible yet another fold.

In my hope to contact again this feature,

I hope to remain the student and not the teacher.

(c)R.H.Elliott 2004

Author's Notes/Comments: 

A talk, a coffee and the possibilities of another year of study. Or another year of love.

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you tip toe through my littered stream of conscienceness

escaping land mines long now lain

from the affluent negatives that reigned

arrogant medievalism questionably ordained

in the disasterous circumstances of ancients before

in an obscure sense

these wounded words of injustice

are Afganistan  herself

scared and abused

within their own borders

aided by too much confusion  and all her

out side influences

so much bitter conflict

rampent power struggles

sandwiched between

the poverty of hope and her caprecious tide

dealing in ineffectual politics of the region

such  bloodletting of humanity has torn away

every last remaining layer of a healthy outlook

on the world that such a starved country can claim

bereft for so long of any real possibility of a future

and left in its place

violent chaos

and oppressive rule

that the lowest of slaves from centuries long past

would not consent to bow under  

for any promise of freedom or price

a clotted artery on the heart of man's  dignity

a moral dilemma being hammered out

by the newly freed hands of The Living Oppressed

shattered no more

as they leave behind the blood of yesterday

to right the hopeful wrongs of all her peoples

in  a living breathing document  of peace

A Genuine Constitution


(writ Jan  6,2004 5am )

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Commentary 8-16-01


The food we eat is sanctafied by prayer and thanksgiving.... Pray over it.

Don't complain about pain...

Prayer legs vanish if you do...

Rebuke the Devil and the hold he has on you.

Faith- believing what God has already done.

If you don't know what to do, don't know how to act, don't know what to say. The one thing you can always do is pray.

And if you don't talk in the Spirit, the Bible is an "open book text"

Don't pray just to be a "prayer"

Pray to get results.

Don't be moved my what you see or feel,

But rather by what you believe.

It's ok to give a testmony of what you are already healed of.

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Large and many, some small, others tall,

Light, dark, and everything in between,

Together, yet apart, close, yet not personal,

Ears hear, all the same. Ideas, thoughts, many and few

Some are close, but never the same,

I am one, seperate and free, yet all together, the same I be.

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A letter To Santa (from one who was left behind)


Dear Santa:

A letter from the post office arrived today.

It said if I write to you, you would surely write back.

It said if I hurry, then you won't be too busy to hear my Christmas wish.

And holiday joy would be mine for the first time in many years.

I would wake up with the hopes of a child on that special morning as I did once upon a time so long ago.

But Santa, how can you make this promise?

Can you mend a broken heart or bring me someone to love? Will he be waiting there under the tree with open arms & promises of forever?

How is this possible, Santa? Do you have a miracle cure for the cruel disease called loneliness?

Can you promise me that the man I once loved & trusted will ever understand that his selfish middle age desires for youth & power led me to a life of poverty & hardship, as he still continues to enjoy all that money can buy & the memories I was forced to leave behind?

Can you promise me security? And that I will not be a slave to the rising rental rates or the hardships & long hours of minimum wage jobs ever again?

Could you give me back the life that was so abruptly taken away because I was no longer pretty & someone else was the sweeter wine?

And can you tell my "so - called" lawyer that just because I hired his services through some charitable organization, it does not make my case something to pull out from his dusty shelves when he has nothing better to do or when he gets a shot of simple humanity?

Santa, can you bring back the dignity of tending a home, a  family, a garden for 25 years? I think I might have lost that, too...

Also, can you please explain to my children & my grandchildren why one day I may have to depend on the government just to have a place to write my poetry long after I can no longer work?

Can you do all this for? Can you make my Christmas wish come true?

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a doe eyed gale

mere dust but before

such acidic rain

daughter of twilight

competitively swimming

in all that's insane

as repelling pleasures

hold even hotter candles

to every little flaw

as they stumble upon

a burden

embarking upon a journey

to be something great


a fast and unforgiving spotlight

foisted upon the head

of the not so perfect personality du jour

and ironicly enough

and rather quite be ftting too might I add

in such shallow of an endeavor

IDOL is in the title

we give this little train wreck of

a television show

(written Oct 19,2003 5pm)

about the ridiculous television show

American Idol-

queen in reference to Kelly Clarkson

the first winner of the show.

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Living a Lie

People can be such a mystery

Especially ones with a history.

Actin all formal

Trying to be normal,

Keepin' themselves locked away

And allowing their spirit to decay.

If they need help

They won't let you know

They'll just tell you to go.

So I don't know why

They want to live a lie.

Maybe it makes them secure

For when they look in the mirror.

But one thing's for sure...

That's not something I could endure.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Ironic, as "help" tends to be the last word I will scream.

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Can We Atone?

2003 Poetry

They were a proud people,

stoic in resolve and dignity.

Fighting to preserve their life,

against insurmountable odds.

Once they were free to hunt,

roaming the vast wilderness.

Their home filled with game,

resources, and happiness.

Strangers came forcing change,

causing pain to the great tribes.

Gathering them like the buffalo,

herding them in huge corals.

They called them reservations,

but they were for containment.

Put aside to steal their great land,

slaughtered if choosing to fight.

Attempting to be politically correct,

we now call them Native Americans.

When we treated them like dirt,

we called the Red Skins and Injuns.

Never has the white man atoned

for the sins against this race.

We live in shame for what was done,

wiping a tear away from our eye.

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