lunatic

She has only ever inspired me,
conspiring with such passion within me,
imbuing every inch of this flesh
with the keenest and cruelest desires.

And I, poor needful soul that I am,
have only ever clinging adored her,
imploring my baleful beloved Luna
for one night more in her arms.

Yet now, she peaks at me disdainfully
behind these distant dreamy clouds
allowing me nothing more than
the memories of her I desparately treasure.

Oh my dearest soul, mournfully
do I invoke you on bended knee,
bowing graciously, gravefully,
come to me, for you have made of me

truly a lunatic, completely unhinged,
ready to leap from this terrible height
if only for the impossible chance
of touching you one last time.

spring

The ghost of spring wanders here,
aimless and anxious and waiting
to be reborn in small immaculate petals.

With tiny timid steps it traverses
winter’s indifferent graying skies
longing to repaint the world verdurous.

How lithely it will bend itself to the task,
its eager fingers caressing these hills,
birthing blues and greens and such blessings.

I watch, and everywhere I go here,
each trembling step I take into this winter,
I see you—the very image of spring!

For in you fecund hope finds a wondrous home.
In you is life and laughter without equal,
and a beauty that deftly reaches beyond time.

Winter in Göreme, Turkey (Nov 2021)

your colors

A mist shrouds this ancient land
as the gloaming grays the skies in
ashen pink hues that stubbornly refuse
to reveal all that I know must be there.

Where are the gossamer threads
of light glancing gleeful off the water?
Where the playfully sauntering greens
that grin from each layering leaf?

But the richest colors I have ever known
silken sweep across your cheeks,
descending deftly down your hair
like the wondrous warm russet of dawn,

the ever rising intimacy of the sun’s
first light before which even the gods—
curating creators of all we behold—
humbly bow in worshipful obeisance.

gift

The welcoming warm sunlight
wavers over these eager paths
piercing simmering shadows
illuminating ambitious need.

Peaking cedars point envious
crowns towards the heavens
where cooing doves glimmer
as they float on penciled wings.

In the years that spread before me
loom shapes and shades only
barely discernible, yet somehow
staggering my uncertain steps.

Yet what I see most clearly of all
imbued with the most vibrant tones
that singing shimmer across my heart
is the gift of joy you blessed me with.

And for that
I will always
be grateful.

a song

There is a song that stays
playing through my thoughts
so compellingly calling me
that I cannot help but soulful
sing it aloud again and again
wherever I may be
and whoever might hear,
following each and every note
as it teases my memories
from their reluctant slumber,
drawing needfully my thoughts
into a most insistent longing.

And I welcome it.

The voice of my soul sings to it,
as I youthfully caper and dance
and delight in the zealous joy
that such a melody instills.
The sounds are like colors,
painting fields and flowers
and the dreaming deepest woods,
and even a distant strand
where feet dive deep into the sand,
and laughter splashes over the waves.
You are the song I love to sing,
the song that urges me to hope and desire,
and to moonlight that glows
across your so beautiful face.

strands

there are strands of time
that are effortless to follow
as they wrap themselves gently
meaningfully around my heart
tugging teasing me forward
to discover in the midst of all
that is common around me
that which is truly majestic

those moments now bid me pause
and wonder at the pleasure
of far more than a memory
but an enduring vision of sensual
you in summer enchanted,
like the kiss of a sunlit day
blessed by the barest glimpse
of the eager adoring moon

little fingers

little fingers
painting pouting petals
tickling timid toes

little hands
dripping ice cream
digging in the dirt

little mouths
whispering wonders
singing so sweetly

little eyes
reflecting such beauty
tendering honest tears

little hearts
offering the biggest
boldest love of all

God, how I miss you,
my little dears

My wee Cooper, Asena, and Leona Ellington

mo ghràidh

Life thins her
tearing across her skin,
shreds of being
trickling down down
like rivulets of blood
that never cease to flow.

Time wears her
bears down upon her,
bending her over,
molding, forcing her on
with merciless intent,
or without purpose at all.

Man abuses her
refuses her voice,
rejects the veracity
of her very being
while craven crawling
between her taut thighs.

And she?

She sings her!
She rises and rages and
whispers a wondrous vision
that none can deny,
so vibrant and whole
despite the scars.

Or perhaps
because of them.

the bravest of all

https://soundcloud.com/george-ellington-978497601/the-bravest-of-all

With the encouragement of some dear friends here on WP, here is me reading “the bravest of all,” a verse I composed inspired by my past and by dear Allison Marie Conway from her beautiful collection Luminae.

Too timid these steps
as I cross over
pushing gently
through unseeing crowds
showering nothing of
the silence I crave,
fearful of the throng.

They dance and sway,
and I, staring at the sand
glistening around my feet
plead not with her
but with my own heart
for a chance to live
this one moment whole.

I see her standing there,
her back bare
beneath the adoring moon,
pursued by many,
loved so richly,
but by none so passionately
as by trembling me.

Which is perhaps why I turn
and trace my steps
back into the town,
the sounds of the players
fading behind me,
loathing once more
this poorly forged heart.

Coward that I am,
my hands shaking
as I order another drink
knowing all too well that
the bravest of all
are the ones
who feel everything.

your heart

I have known death well enough,
known it as most have—
from a safe distance,
and yet have felt it intimately
and oh so painfully.

When my mother passed
I was lying exhausted
having rushed that awful
distance to see her
one last time.

I cringed at how incapable
it—I!—all seemed,
her lying there quite
probably not hearing
my quavering voice.

And when my mother-in-law died,
I was in a train casually
traveling back to her side
without even knowing that
it was too late.

Yet now there is this—you—
mo ghràidh, facing a loss
all your own and here
this distant I quite trembling
can only wish you well,

and hope beyond reason perhaps
that you may feeling sense
any regard, any warmth
this my aging heart
can most eagerly offer you,

to hold your so tender heart
as it breathes again.