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
Reflection After Reading The Turn Of The...
Chilling, how the Governess In writing down her tale, Luxuriously manages -in thinking it I'm pale-
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
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 -
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,
There was a young man from the city who thought himself ever so pretty. He would walk down the street with high heels on his feet
On The Film 'Earthlings'
Can't bring myself to watch it But I should but I should. My duty to endure it Yes it is.
On The Death Of A Gerbil
What once was them is now only her. Three years together. Spinsters they were And tight as a bundle. Often they'd lie One on the other in a tumble of fur.
The Song Of Holding Hands
Let's slip ourselves away somewhere And let our burdens fall. The world will gather up our care. Today let's be the love we share
An Indulgence Of The King
I know no finer vessel For to hold my wine Than the hollow, upturned skull Of a foe of mine.
My pretty Zen my gritty Zen My whimsical and flitty Zen My self-absorbing pity Zen My Zen my Zen my Zen
Starts the yearn for Dickens His damp London, his dark London. For him in all his secretness Walking abroad, at night, alone.
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.
Your song's as good as anyone's. Indeed,
While you've no angel carved, no monument,
No lurid lasting testament to greed,
No sacred words some mason's hands to bleed,
You've soil to share, having known the same descent