Poetry of Laura Elliott
And Don’t Ya Know. . .?
I’ve hit stormy waters and I can see no way back,
I’m stranded out here, and dependent on this rackety shack.
My raft, that is! It’s as fragile as love,
I shout in my prayers, ‘God send me some doves!’
I see flashes and beams of bright light in the distance,
They signify hope and lack of resistance.
I hold on for dear life, but can’t help but wonder,
‘It’s gonna strike back, and restrict me – this thunder!’
Stranded on tin for Hours, Minutes and Seconds,
The waves, the darkness – the fear, all used against me as weapons!
‘A float, a prayer, a ray of light,
‘Isn’t that God? – calling out, with all of his might.’
The satin wrap is off, and with each promise of hope;
Aqua blue, burnt orange, ‘I been thrown a rope!’
I begin to see what’s been there all along,
The Rime, and the Ancient Mariner singing his song!
Beneath the Apple Tree
(For My Boy M…)
Beneath the apple tree, Summer dances,
Her Spirit shines bright — unpolluted, untainted
Like the beauty in light.
If I lose myself please see me in her,
Know that I’ll return, my faith and courage can never be burned.
This Is Your Rock Opera
(For J…)
“It’s me Aurora — I want to tell you
What you want to hear
Is that the way it goes?” she calls.
The trick’s simple
This runway is ours tonight
Remember the lights.
Daddy’s in the armchair, pleadin’ with the Devils for a win
Lolly dances, but she don’t know what for
She don’t understand the game.
The remote falls through his fingers — did he see this fate arise?
Aurora’s bathed in this summer’s sun
A new dance? She’s all dressed up!
Heel to toe, every inch of her heels in the clouds,
Take a taste of Bombay and revel in that smile
For the lime – it’s just a placebo
The trick’s simple
This runway is ours tonight
Remember the lights.
Lovers sit by the lake,
“He looks so good and he smells divine,”
The Joker blindfolds the girl with a satin wrap
And you work so hard
Tired, she retires until the next time
And the scent runs through her veins like poison –
In a fragile mind
And she keeps on wishin’ he’d tell her what she wants to hear.
Operas, Vices, Pearls, Graces!
Said the wordsmith who intended some meanin’!
This ball at number 8 – the host’s muse is summer,
But what happens when the host becomes your muse?
The trick’s simple
This runway is ours tonight
Remember the lights.
And the girl who can’t shut up — sits down,
This is your Rock Opera and it shall not be your nemesis.
Laura Elliott, a resident of Derby, England, is a 2004 graduate in English and history who writes fiction and poetry. ‘This Is Your Rock Opera’ is her first submission for publication.