Best Elsie Poems
Elsie Marley was a playful, middle child, with five sparkling siblings,
Living on emerald, Willow Brook Farm, underneath skies very citron.
Everyone in the family lent a hand, at skillfully managing their farm.
At twelve years old, Elsie joined in, like golden bees, flower charmed.
Every fleeting day was the same as the last, yet magically different;
Like when a rainbow touches jade grass, and blazing sun is imminent.
Fantastic friends made school days fun, in the flitting, youthful hours;
With life as fresh and fabulous as spring, or as rainfall scented flowers.
Farmers sowed in fine, fragrant furrows, when cherry blossoms rained;
And family came calling, in flurries of petals, where red robin reigned.
Elsie lived in the house of doorways, of children going and coming in;
In a tumult of joyous colors; like pink moon nights, of purple martins.
Lyric larks were ever listened to, along jade, foliate, Strawberry Lane;
Located at Willow Brook's lauded south border, like love that remains.
Elsie's favorite neighbors were Naomi and Nadia, very near to her age;
Who playfully imitated being princesses, like red roses at center stage.
Careless bugleweeds were blowing, in deep, violet shades of summer;
When candytuft plants gave sweet thrills, like the flash of blue thunder.
Cupid's dart blooms went right to the heart, to the beat of raven wings;
And dame's rocket launched nighttime scents, to hear nightingale sing.
Elsie grew negligent of her mundane chores, as princesses did not work;
And her dismayed siblings picked up the slack, like dawn's redbird chirp.
But Elsie waked one day, to words that shamed her, spoken by her sister;
Like an onyx shadow, retreating hastily, once mellow sun has kissed her!
Nan told Sue, 'Elsie Marley is grown so fine, She won't get up to feed the swine,
But lies in bed till eight or nine. Lazy Elsie Marley.' Truth can be unkind!
Elsie resumed the role of dutiful sister and daughter, to her family's relief,
Coming to see all girls are princesses, like a vast garden's colorful motif.
A smell that ignites some old feeling
A sound that makes your mind roam
A glimpse of the woman who loved me
How I long to take you back home.
Once a mother, a teacher, my carer
Who would comfort and allay all my fears
Once so strong, now incredibly fragile
It is now I who must tend to your tears
‘Who is she?’ I can see you are thinking
As you smile and you touch my face
Though you lost almost all your fragments
You never lost your compassion and grace
I want to piece you back together
And show the world who you really are
They see an old silent lady
Not my beautiful shining star
We baked and we laughed together
You taught me to dance and to sew
You made me feel precious and special
You taught me how to grow
The closest thing you could find to an angel
Now sits silently staring at me.
If I close my eyes we can go back to the place
The place where you used to be.
My pal, Elsie has the biggest plans, grandiose almost, fantastically fun to hear about.
She is a complete delight to be around, and the clothes, hats, and shoes she wears really shout.
She keeps me in stitches for days on end when she flies in with her long-suffering earl.
She is going to start a blog, paint a best-selling canvas, write a novel, and paint a city mural.
Her terrific thoughts, her enormous dreams, her extraordinary plans somewhat set and well-laid.
Hilarity jumps forth when she comes around, to regale us with stories of her latest escapade.
I cannot wait to see her, to find out what she has actually completed this year, all done.
Although it has been rather tough for her to implement or start a project, she is always great fun.
What about your award-winning sculptures I ask her and your paintings, how are they coming along?
I traded those things in for calligraphy, she informed me, but I am writing a terrific love song.
What about your fantasy novel, are there a few completed chapters that perhaps I could read?
Then she throws back her head, laughing prettily from Accomplishment, her well-decorated white steed.
We wave goodbye, knowing we will have this delightful almost identical conversation next year.
It never ceases to amaze me how close to getting started dear Elsie has almost been near.
Her muse and mine hug tightly, because when we were young girls, they were exceedingly close and tight.
Her enthusiasm is exciting, I admire her determination to make her creations perfectly right.
I am not ready, she tells me. Creating a masterpiece is something that takes time.
Maybe next year, she confides because my productions and creations must be awesomely sublime.
Years of incessant planning have not helped Elsie put pen to paper or get started, it is true.
Three husbands, a two hour a week job and a couple of children have prevented her from a glorious follow- through.
Elsie, Lucy, Olive, this small boy's remarkable old aunts.
Oh, how they rubbed their hands.
But with glee or sorrow? Or even anger?
Elsie had a strict-looking expression -
when not rubbing her hands.
Lucy wore spectacles that pinched her nose
and, oh, had such a thin smile -
when not rubbing her hands.
Olive seemed serious, often frowning at me -
when not rubbing her hands.
But when they were rubbing their hands
they were ridding those hands of
flour that helped to make a cake or of
flour that helped to make a Yorkshire pudding or of
flour that helped to make joy -
the joy of making that cake or that Yorkshire pudding;
or of spiteful expressions they might wear when sneering
at this small boy, who would have to eat
their cakes or their Yorkshire pudding, or absorb
their sneers - sneers that were also smiles.
We remember our aunts in
the most remarkable ways.
I was a small boy.
(April 2023)
(Elsie appears in two other poems: "Aunty Elsie's Bathroom" and "Coronation for a King")
Borden’s milk had a gorgeous sidekick cartoon cow, Elsie.
In the Midwest we had Elsie dolls, Elsie curtains, Elsie pins.
I wanted Borden’s milk more than anything in the world.
My cousin had it, because her parents bought it.
My parents bought another brand of milk.
Because it was two cents a year cheaper.
I could tell the difference.
I would not drink our cheap milk.
I had been to my cousin’s house
My aunt was evil and she made me drink their milk.
It was tasty. I told my mother I would drink Borden’s.
She insisted I could not tell the difference.
She gave me a taste test.
She told me I had chosen the cheap milk.
I knew this was a lie.
Thirty years later she told me I had chosen Borden’s.
But they had to save that two cents.
(Charles Philip Arthur George - b. 14 November 1948)
I had a cousin called Charles, said Aunty Olive.
Nice young man. That's him on our TV.
That's not cousin: it's King, said Aunty Lucy. It's King Charles.
Now watch it all on this TV. It's a TV, Olive, a TV.
It's nineteen fifty-three, isn't it? asked Aunty Olive.
I remember Victoria. There she is.
She's dead, said Aunty Lucy. And you meant Elizabeth. She's gone, too.
Now look at those oils. They're from the Mount of Olives.
Very posh, said Aunty Elsie. Olives.
Nothing to do with Aunty Olive though - she's here, right here. Ha-ha!
Do be quiet, said Aunty Olive. We're all different olives. Ha-ha!
And this boy is Prince Charles. Prince Charles.
Prince Harry, Olive, Aunty Elsie corrected. Not Charles.
Harry's the King's second son. That red-headed one.
Now, said Aunty Lucy, you must have heard of this chrism oil on this TV?
Oils of sesame, rose, jasmine, cinnamon.
Oh, yes, said Aunty Elsie. I've heard of them.
Neroli, too, and that benzoin, amber and orange blossom.
Oh, you do show off, our Elsie, said Aunty Olive.
We're not that Mr Shakespeare's three witches, you know!
But look who's here, Aunty Olive added:
That Prince What's His Name chap, that Princess royal.
Yes, said Aunty Elsie: Duke of Gloucester, Viscount Linley,
Prince George - that nice boy - and Princess Charlotte, it never stops.
And nor will this TV show, said Aunty Olive.
So let's watch this King George, er, Frederick, er . . .
Charles! Aunty Lucy bellowed.
Charles! Charles! Charles! Charles! Charles!
(6 May 2003)
(You may wish to see also "Trooping the Colour" of June 2022 and "Obsequies for a Queen" of September 2022; and Elsie appears also in "Aunty Elsie's Bathroom" and "A Rubbing of Hands")
Why this time? Why our culture?
Has the beauty of our palace not fade away?
Is it on a high ground we stand to quench defeat?
What say ye, Elsie?
Crimes of the past -
Bone in my throat!
Saving the face for heinous crimes -
A sculpture with hidden doors.
Innocent look - emblem of the horned prince.
Alarm raised! Our loins exposed -
Caught in the act - a mere show of shame;
In the sight you see this.
Loss of decency attained; like a crest on our badge.
Deceit celebrated - victory we say,
Elsie - a lost shadow chasing dreams never to be born.