why question who I become?
a canyon of lives span in me.
having their wisdom,
having their diversity,
having their years,
is how my life is Grand.
poem by Gregory C. Ellison II (words by Luther Smith)
when birds fly above, but near, water
and time, past and future, moves
where the ancestors forgive
Poem by Dr. Helen P. Smith (Words by Gregory C. Ellison II)
What happens when I lose sight of what makes me TICK?
Then, do I have to grease the wheels of my TICKer?
So, I search to find my TICKer, to grease neglected wheels,
but is it in my chest or somewhere deeper, a mystery I feel?
Beyond my heart I hear a grumble, a grinding if you will.
I hear NO tick, NO tick, NO tick…
Yet, a deep low TOCK; it makes me still.
With the stillness of the TOCK, I take stock of my ticker.
In the darkness of the the deep, the TOCKs grow louder, they grow quicker.
Perhaps, the gears weren’t clunky, a malfunction there was not.
Could my ticker now be a TOCKer,
from the heart to soul it dropped?
How must I care for a beating heart,
when a soul now animates life?
I must not live with ticker tightness,
or the flutter of family playing fife.
I need my ticker pumping amidst
judgment, envied strife. so, be still
In the darkness of the grumble, I hear the Clockmaker clearly say
“Greg, you must trust your TOCKer to plod a path, a way,
To live and love and learn from life beyond the fettered fray.
Your gears have not malfunctioned, but you must live different now.
Your clock TOCKs on kairos time from only which I endow.”
There’s a wrinkle in my pant leg,
it bothers me a lot
Not a green inked stain or
Knee-ripped hole or
Botched bleach colored blot
A tiny wrinkle, oh so little,
18 inches above the shin
Can’t walk it out or
Pat it out
It’s cotton-welded in
i’m self concious of its placement
even on this isolated street
From the board room table,
i see it,
Though i’m sitting in a seat
Few others care as much of fashion,
their attire is wrinkle-clad
But their looks of judgment pierce my thigh
Now, i’m limping and fucking mad!
Could this wrinkle be a chink in my armor
for them to deal a crushing blow?
If so, this ain’t just a wrinkle
if so, if so, if so….
Some pants I send to cleaners,
others i iron with great care
How did this chink wrinkle get beyond my gaze?
Perhaps, I feel threadbare
Yes, I’m tired.
So, tired I ironed in the dark
My covering now compromised
at threat,
my loves,
my life,
my heart
Tomorrow, I’ll don new pants
the chink wrinkle may be invisible to
plain sight
But, judging eyes will cripple
til I iron in the light
“Take great care to cover
your loves,
your life,
your heart.
And, forgive your self for vanity,”
Thine Ironmaker doth impart.
G. Ellison II
28 March 2019
there i sat
fog rolled in
it covered me
swallowed me
whole
i saw it from afar
invited it close
misty depression?
no. not quite, greg
we are
THE CLOUD OF WITNESSES
to cover you
shower you
make you
whole
With eyes widened,
she anticipated collision before contact.
Unbelting from the passenger's seat,
she bolted from the unparked car.
Before a single foot touched ground,
"Please Jesus..." echoed from her heart.
It happened so suddenly...
One moment, I'm gripping handle bars.
The next, I'm wedged under a white sports car.
Out of the corner of my eye, my ten-speed crumpled like papier mache.
Above me, my teary-eyed mother.
3-inch band aids covered my scratches, my scrapes.
3 weeks she walked alimp because of the ankle sprained in her sprint.
For all my life, she prayed before contact and gave selflessly for me and mine.
Thank you, Mom. With love, GE2
Mother's Day 2017
A Holy Saturday Benediction for My Love
In times when I feel empty,
I'm learning to see the fullness of life.
On occasion, when life is all too full,
I'm learning to seek the solace of sanctuary.
Empty and Full our lives will be.
I'm learning there is wisdom in both.
In loving memory of one of my best friends... my sister-teacher, Mari Evans
In loving memory of my best friend and sister-teacher, Mari Evans
Musings on the Writing Process
In the fog &
in the night
there comes a sense
of second sight
the gift of gab to rouse the bear
and calm the mouse with gentle care
in the cave, i hibernate
& to the mouse hole i escape
in neither place do i find home
to lay my head
i am the lone
then to the treetops I retreat
unfurl my wings in nested seat
adaptation is the key
not second sight
but I have three.
GE2_21November11
Copyright 2016 GE II & Associates