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Best Poems Written by Elizabeth Wyler

Below are the all-time best Elizabeth Wyler poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Elizabeth Wyler Poem

A Lady Waits

A Lady Waits

The sleepy sea massages a creaking ship which slowly navigates
through blackness the sky emanates and the great Atlantic integrates.
A sailing school of serenading seagulls dips and dives and celebrates,
and amongst the sea-sick shipmates, a welcome murmur swiftly circulates.
A wave of steerage class splashes onto the seaweed-soaked stern and congregates,
viewing a line of lights which levitates on the horizon it incubates.
As fingers point to a distant shore, the name “America!” reverberates.
The salty air invigorates, and the chorus of commotion escalates.
A cry pulls the tide of faces to the rear row of citizen candidates.
Her wind-whipped shawl barely insulates the ravenous newborn she placates.
As if Moses were parting the sea, the silent congregation separates.
Gleaming with gratitude, she glides to the front rail the moon illuminates.
As her baby’s throat pulsates with mother’s milk, through lash-locked lids he fixates
on the Emerald Empress whose torch radiates on the dreams she consummates.
Beholding the beacon who beckons brave believers, his mother boldly states,
“When this restless night abates, the misty morn of a daring dawn elates,
but tonight, sleep well my child … for across the harbor, the lady waits … ”

-	E. V. Wyler -

Details | Elizabeth Wyler Poem

The College Caravan

The College Caravan

Last night we loaded the minivan with her
suitcases, Rubbermaid vats, and chest of plastic drawers
stuffed with clothing, toiletries, school supplies, and posters.
While our vehicle is tightly packed, her room stands hollow;
drained of stuff and spirit, except for the furniture she left behind
like the last icicle melting unnoticed in the spring thaw. 
Morning’s excitement, today’s foreseen guest, found her passkey
so early, she displaced the alarm clock, announcing her presence.  
On the verge of adventure, our cramped van vacates the driveway, 	
eager to meet the other jammed vehicles joining our journey. 
Sporadic chatter splinters moments of spurned monotony,
spanning the miles amassing in our rearview mirror until …
A hatchback hauling a heavy load leads our line exiting for the rest
stop, where the parking lot hosts vehicle after vehicle stuffed with
suitcases, Rubbermaid vats, and chests of plastic drawers …
Our re-entry acceleration runs smoothly, courtesy of a 
clamshell-covered car graciously slowing to permit our advance.
From sedans to SUV’s, the right lane is flush with fenders and 
families, forming a cohesive chain whose links approach “The Exit”
signaling for the deceleration lane.  The college caravan, flowing 
onto the exit ramp and through the green light, turns and winds 
along Main Street.  As the minivans, hatchbacks, clamshell-covered 
cars, and SUV’s pour onto college campus USA, they’re carrying
suitcases, Rubbermaid vats, chests of plastic drawers,
and, of course, the proud, nervous parents …
escorting the Freshman Class of 2018! 

E. V. Wyler

Details | Elizabeth Wyler Poem

Potty Parity

Potty Parity

I sadly think when I have to go badly
that perhaps it’s petty, but were I a man
then I would already be in the can!
When Freud enjoyed his heavy levy
that women have toyed with “penis envy”,
maybe he meant these frequent lines we resent!
If annoyed women employed their un-“suppressed” quest
against the rarity of “potty parity”,
we could befuddle Freud in his zest to muddle
through women’s very best “protest puddle”!

-	E. V. Wyler    -

Details | Elizabeth Wyler Poem

Stadium Seating

Dear Graduate,

… Sometimes, a spring breeze softly blowing 
whispers that a presence needn’t be seen to be felt … 
						
… And sometimes, the people piling onto the benches 
of packed bleachers sense that a sacred space 
is simultaneously filling … 				
							
… And often, clustered families gleefully 
crane to glimpse their cap-and-gown-clad graduate,
but once the band pipes up
and you triumphantly take the field, 
you’ll know you’re in perfect view 
of missed and remembered mentors rejoicing
up, up, up so high, so very high … in stadium seating …

… And usually, principals and presidents will proceed
to spawn perfunctory speeches … politely received …
by the assemblage patiently waiting … 

… But always, always, count on this classic climax
creating an incredible crescendo:
Thunderous applause will
rumble through the bleachers,
rambling onto the field, and
rocket through the air,
rolling onto the heavens
as a sprinkling of caps rains
up, up, up so high, so very high
and … for a slice of a second …
before starting to tumble,  
mortarboards are a sea of confetti
tipping their corners in displays of gratitude
to the angels smiling upon you  … from
up, up, up so high, so very high … in stadium seating!

E. V. Wyler

Details | Elizabeth Wyler Poem

If We Try To Ask Why

If We Try To Ask Why

It was another plain morning in the mundane business belt
until we felt the day stay still, and we knelt to pray at will.
In the decade since our engrained tranquility was strained,
our prayers have waned, and cooperation was not sustained.
As proof time is trained to be aloof to tears of our grieving,
the babies born to widows, our high schools are now receiving.
And in history books, I fear a new chapter must appear …
Alongside its heavy content, the sheen on serene sheets shall screen
the extent of torment The Event means to they who lament …
Until the day they die, for some, when the autumn sun is high
in the September sky, the past and present run as one:
The scene, never done, repeats; people run; the crowd retreats …
And, where the cloud of carnage meets startled city streets,
the ash painting the panorama underpins
our divine Manhattan skyline mourning her twins … 
If we try to ask why, theologians will explain,
when God grants free will, evil may reign, despite its pain.
My theory, one of many but as good as any,
is that the gist of why a sadist’s bloodlust exists
isn’t to be endeared to God, but feared like God.
Some philosophers pry, “Why was the September sky
a nearly perfect hue of select, pastel blue?”
The poets sigh, “… because on this date the land stayed dry
when the cascade of nearby angels refused to cry;
they came to fixate upon the souls they had to elevate,
and through the demure azure, the dead felt peacefully lead …”
If we heed our ancestors’ lead, never letting faith recede,
the wealth of our prayers might impede the stealth of the slayers,
but if we try to ask why, our first task may be to find
ourselves resigned to God sometimes being disinclined
to thwart an evil mastermind within humankind.

E. V. Wyler

Details | Elizabeth Wyler Poem

If We Try To Ask Why

If We Try To Ask Why

It was another plain morning in the mundane business belt
until we felt the day stay still, and we knelt to pray at will.
In the decade since our engrained tranquility was strained,
our prayers have waned, and cooperation was not sustained.
As proof time is trained to be aloof to tears of our grieving,
the babies born to widows, our high schools are now receiving.
And in history books, I fear a new chapter must appear …
Alongside its heavy content, the sheen on serene sheets shall screen
the extent of torment The Event means to they who lament …
Until the day they die, for some, when the autumn sun is high
in the September sky, the past and present run as one:
The scene, never done, repeats; people run; the crowd retreats …
And, where the cloud of carnage meets startled city streets,
the ash painting the panorama underpins
our divine Manhattan skyline mourning her twins …
If we try to ask why, theologians will explain,
when God grants free will, evil may reign, despite its pain.
My theory, one of many but as good as any,
is that the gist of why a sadist’s bloodlust exists
isn’t to be endeared to God, but feared like God.
Some philosophers pry, “Why was the September sky
a nearly perfect hue of select, pastel blue?”
The poets sigh, “… because on this date the land stayed dry
when the cascade of nearby angels refused to cry;
they came to fixate upon the souls they had to elevate,
and through the demure azure, the dead felt peacefully lead …”
If we heed our ancestors’ lead, never letting faith recede,
the wealth of our prayers might impede the stealth of the slayers,
but if we try to ask why, our first task may be to find
ourselves resigned to God sometimes being disinclined
to thwart an evil mastermind within humankind.

E. V. Wyler

Details | Elizabeth Wyler Poem

That Sentimental Style

If our high hopes
and a rainbow’s slopes
collide,
wide scopes of kaleidoscopes
raining
bold, forgotten designs
upon old, cotton twines
we’re staining
still bind the gentle mind,
after all this while, to
tie-dye’s sentimental style.

E. V. Wyler

Details | Elizabeth Wyler Poem

To Bear Witness

To Bear Witness

To bear witness … and awaken the world … he’ll rise:
Helpless to halt routine horrors he’s seeing,
A scared, adolescent boy of slender size,
Nabbed and dehumanized solely for “being”,
Keeps records of the cruelty his captors devise.

Yesterday once stayed his tenacious tenant of time,
Occupying today in recurrent roles of reprise,
Until death voided its lease, evicting crisis from crime.

Exiled to sight and sound, languages always languish:
Lone words, limited mediums too dull and shallow,
Impaired all the expressions of their author’s anguish,
Except to press, “What shall humanity hold hallow?”  

Woven together, his words threaded truths for which he fought,
Iterating a haunting testimony of torment.
Emancipated prose, sprung from his mind’s prison distraught, 
Sew our human bond on basted seams of past and present:
Empathy must be a measure of our moral fitness
Lest we lose lessons taught by he who lived … to bear witness!

E. V. Wyler

Details | Elizabeth Wyler Poem

A Tribe of Trolls

A Tribe of Trolls

A tribe of trolls escaped their cage! 
Now rabid wrath and rancor rage.
Hurling hurt from hidden hellholes
(most notably, their toilet bowls),
they flush their filth across your page …

Anonymity sets the stage
for word-“warriors” who rampage
as today’s internet unrolls
a tribe of trolls …

Let’s hail the stone-age cyber sage,
“bravely” mounting his mouse to wage
invectives with the screens he scrolls.
Unmask their names!  Expose the trolls!
Let public shaming disengage
a tribe of trolls.  

E. V. Wyler

Details | Elizabeth Wyler Poem

Stadium Seating

Dear Graduates,

… Sometimes, a spring breeze softly blowing 
whispers that a presence needn’t be seen to be felt … 
						
… And sometimes, the people piling onto the benches 
of packed bleachers sense that a sacred space 
is simultaneously filling … 				
							
… And often, clustered families gleefully 
crane to glimpse their cap-and-gown-clad graduate,
but once the band pipes up
and you triumphantly take the field, 
you’ll know you’re in perfect view 
of missed and remembered mentors rejoicing
up, up, up so high, so very high … in stadium seating …

… And usually, principals and presidents will proceed
to spawn perfunctory speeches … politely received …
by the assemblage patiently waiting … 

… But always, always, count on this classic climax
creating an incredible crescendo:
Thunderous applause will
rumble through the bleachers,
rambling onto the field, and
rocket through the air,
rolling onto the heavens
as a sprinkling of caps rains
up, up, up so high, so very high
and … for a slice of a second …
before starting to tumble,  
mortarboards are a sea of confetti
tipping their corners in displays of gratitude
to the angels smiling upon you  … from
up, up, up so high, so very high … in stadium seating!

E. V. Wyler