Why You. by Susan D. Elliott

Sometimes it crosses the mind to take a chance on someone, and leave all thoughts of safety and just jump following your heart, then your left with the question, “why you,” what made you so special, was it the chestnut color of your eyes, your teasing lips that break softly into lines and semi-circles, there’s no reasoning, no way to thoroughly examine all the countless explanations, and no way to answer why the end of a relationship brings heartache and name calling, a compassionless pit filled contemptuously with questions, when only one question is left, why you?

(c) Susan D. Elliott

Statistics Have Piercing Eyes by Susan D. Elliott

Statistics Have Piercing Eyes

It seems like things are turning around

only to collapse.
A vicious cycle,
like the abuser saying he’s sorry.

It’s just a lie.

Statistics Have Piercing Eyes

Here we are,
hands laced together,
falling face first into a down economy.

(We’re more than just statistics.)

Never knowing if there’s an end
or if
the pit just grows larger
more consuming each passing second.

Sometimes I lose faith,
I, question.

It wouldn’t be so bad
if there weren’t
young ones trusting in us.

It hurts to see their little eyes
filling with tears
as things are sold off,
their words echoing in emptiness.

“I really like my swing set, Mom,
does it have to go, too?”

I shake my head slowly,
trying to my hide tears,
and hope my words aren’t a lie.

(C) Susan Elliott


Don't give up! It will pass! 

I Hate Tape by Susan D. Elliott

I Hate Tape

It clings on for dear life,
taunting me.

I can see its edges
slowly peeling off
carelessly
exposing the underneath.

It repulses me,
just laying there.

Affixing to
any thing
that gets in its way.

It’s greedy…revolting.
It struggles against my will.

But, I am stronger.

It adheres to my fingers
scarring my hands
with sticky
crystal debris.

Worthy battle scars
removed only by soap warfare.

(c) Susan Elliott

Bamboo Gardens by Susan D. Elliott

Bamboo Gardens

The wind has a rhythm
born evident
by the sway of my bamboo garden.
It gently moves like a fine composition
harmonically pure
flute, oboe, harp in chorus.
The movement beats like wooden drums
softly calling my name,
embracing, my inner self.
Greeness, not quite a sound,
but almost; is a true tone.
It washes across the backs of my lids
ushering me across foreign fields.

(c)Susan Elliott

Roar by Susan D. Elliott

Roar

His name left written
by driftwood scribe
she stood; bathed by spray
at the ocean’s shore
closing bloodshot eyes
hearing the roar,
like a heartbeat, it
had called him home.
She alone; drowning
in bitterness
watching the tide wash
memories across
the sand, erasing
his name.
                                                               
                                               (c) Susan Elliott


I wrote this as a tribute to Heath Ledger, and it is one of my all-time favorite poems.

The Wall by Susan D. Elliott

The Wall

Seventy-two glossy black panels, stand baking in the sun,
Stand freezing in the cold,
Stand erect.

Seventy-two glossy black panels, reveal their names,
Reveal their lives,
Reveal my face.

Seventy-two glossy black panels, void of laughter,
Void of merriment,
Void of life.

Seventy-two glossy black panels, change our homes,
Change our minds,
Change our lives.

Seventy-two glossy black panels…

(c) Susan Elliott                         

Have you ever been to the Vietnam Memorial Wall?

Slipping Into Canvas by Susan D. Elliott

Slipping Into Canvas

Dripping from my fingers
like the morn’s first rays,
colors and hues echo
ochre morning sun.

One stroke up
another down.

My breath catches in the
darkness of my throat.

Thinner fills the house with
strong bitter air
like a summer breeze
to my painter’s heart.

My eyes unfocused on canvas
seeing not the whole,
but, another world
known only to me.

Shutting my eyes
I slip into canvas.
Feeling the gentle brook.
Smelling the lemon grass.

It is here,
that my soul meets me
face to face.

(c) Susan Elliott


Do you have a hobby that releases your inner spirit?

People Collecting by Susan D. Elliott

People Collecting

Upon the net I did surf
and to the site of Face
I looked upon my profile
seeing only empty space.

With a few strokes from my keyboard
I searched for an old flame,
was rewarded greatly,
with photo, state, and name.

A face, now unknown to me
brightens up my page.
The first person in my collection
rests inside my virtual cage.

Again I go to searching,
through photos, states and names
trying to find my next prize
in my people collection game.

Through luck and sweet endurance
I search and then I find.
Always hunting my next possession
like a mountain I must climb.

(c) Susan Elliott


Have you ever found yourself collecting people on Facebook or Twitter?