Mark R. Elias
Biography of Mark R. Elias
Hobbyist versifier from South Wales, UK
A world away from all the things
That keep us in the world,
I show my heart, now that my wings
I’ve timidly unfurled.
And from that heart I offer you
A prayer, a song, a rhyme,
And hope I stir in your heart too
The sacred and sublime.
Mark R. Elias Poems
Shadow Of Sorrow
Only those in the shadow of sorrow Know the meaning of real despair For the darkness so cast on their spirit Is a darkness found only in there
The Sorrows Of The World
In every heart, a sacred fire, Dancing brightly with desire The sorrows of the world to burn, To turn to ash, to turn, to turn.
First Hurdle Blues
I'll write however the hell I want And stay needlessly stubborn. And ignorant Of what self-serving circles let live and die. Yes, I'll write however I want, will I.
Just Write It
Write it short, write it sweet, Write it pretty, cutesy, neat; Write it dainty, write it nice. Just write it, that is my advice.
I wander through each busy street Near where the busy Tawe flows And see in every face I meet Christmas miseries, Christmas woes:
On The Pleasure Of Forgetting Your Weddi...
Forgot it we did The two of us. Forgot it together. Just oops. No-one shirty,
A Tree Sings
I may bend and shake Against the wind its might But I will not break.
He looks down at the keyboard, at it there. He looks right to the mouse, the wear beneath. He looks to where his drink is, feels his mouth Prepare a shape on instinct, and looks where
Sleepyhead, sleepyhead Up you get, let's go, I said. Your eyelids they fell heavy then, You couldn't lift them up again.
On Seeing A Handwritten Letter By Prince
To satisfy my need that frame to know; That hair to witness, loose or tightly set; Those eyes to fathom, bright as eyes can get, Deep-lit from inside by a unique glow;
He serves a perfect border, measured tight - Returned, a centre circle with a tree. He hits back with some pebbles, grey and white -
Reflection After Reading The Turn Of The...
Chilling, how the Governess In writing down her tale, Luxuriously manages -in thinking it I'm pale-
At A Pauper's Grave
Borne of the earth, return you now to earth. Return you, yes, to welcome in the seed, To sing the mighty flower into birth, And green the grass for all its holy worth.
Prayer By The Fire
Store of books and wine I keep For nights this bitter, dark and deep Ignite I pray my heart and mind That I might, till such time I sleep,
These Little Things
The gnat who beats its little wings,
The moth on light conveyed,
The wasp who greets with little stings,
The woodlouse on the spade,
The grasshopper on little springs,
The spider on parade -
It's how we treat these little things
That shows us how we're made.