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Stephen Elliott

of

Dublin, Ireland

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The Beggar

by

Stephen Elliott



I stare into your deep, dark eyes,
They show such pain and such hurt.
My heart melts at this sight,
As passers by, wearing Santa hats and singing carols, skip over you merrily.

I stare into those deep, dark eyes,
As you frighten children away, as you grunt at anyone who shows interest.
I see people stare at you, stare with inquisitive eyes,
They donít understand, they never will.

What depth there is to your deep, dark eyes,
I see other things when I look past your untidy exterior.
I see a broken man, promises made and not kept?
And so many hearts shattered on the way.

And so as people toss cents into that half filled cup,
As children pick on you constantly, taunting you with their silly games,
I see your pain; I see your hurt,
A soul in turmoil, a heart in disarray.


My New Years Trek

by

Stephen Elliott


Where will my New Years Trek take me?
Where shall we travel?
To elegant Paris or to charming Rome,
Through olive groves or through hot deserts.

I have no fear, I will show no worry,
Of whatís to come and of whatís unseen.
Last years troubles are overshadowed,
And my courage tugging on its leash.

We shall travel far on our New Years Trek,
A voyage of transformation and of self discovery.
Past souls will watch over us from distant lands,
Guiding us, caring for us and loving us.

I have no doubts, I show no dismay,
Lets start our voyage, lets go straight away.
My future awaits, my destiny cries out,
Passing majestically from one year to the next.

Why must it be a pansy?

by

Stephen Elliott

There they are, they lean from side to side,
Nobody doubts their elegance and their simple beauty.
Where was the pansy, when that fatal whistle blew?
Where was the pansy, when that deafening sound approached?
Why must it be a pansy?
Why not a nettle or a thorn?

A pansy could not show so much courage,
So much strength and so much honour.
A pansy could never express so much sacrifice,
Never express so much hardship.
With that delicate stem of yours,
And those fragile petals.
Why must it pansy?
Why not a cactus?

With your sweet and luring smell,
Not of rotting flesh or disintegrating corpses.
Does the red symbolise blood or death?
Why must it be a pansy?
Why not a lily in all its gloom?

If we were Given Wings Would we fly?

by

Stephen Elliott

If we were given wings, would we fly?
Or would we perish into the cold mist of our souls?
Would our hearts crack at the sight of such awesome splendour?
Or would they be split into two broken halves?

If we were given wings, would we journey?
Or would our enthusiasm be overwhelmed by our minds?
Would time wait for us and stop?
Or would it continue without us at that racing normal pace?

If we were given wings, would we listen?
Or would we fly without ever knowing?
Would we calm ourselves with earths beauty?
Or calm ourselves at the thought of flying?

If we were given wings, would we fly?
Or would we have the courage and the bravery?
Can we see who we are without flying?
Or do we need those all so vital wings?

Unbroken

by

Stephen Elliott

Like this scrap of paper,
You sing your last song.
Left to the stone dead silence,
Its note heavy and long.

Ripped in two like the corners-
of this very broken soul.
You edge towards to brink
No time to breath or think.

The cry and echo of your name,
Sing tears to my future grave.
This eloquence in life, goneby,
These wings were never meant to fly.

The corpse of your tomb,
Rings quiet bells to my ear.
And reflects melodies and goodbyes.
On my lifeless, lonely, lingering eyes.