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Raychill Ellison Poem
Once in a dream-time in a land far away, MJ woke up and wanted to play.
With magic and mystic and music in mind, she went for a wander to see what she’d find.
While moving and grooving and rhythm she kept, gold fairy dust sprinkled on each careful step but the road was as wavy as water is wet, it wobbled like jelly, all gooey she’d get!
She skipped and she hopped and flew up and down, weaving through sunbeams, drank dew drops she found.
Then stopping for *kai adventure on hold, headed for home before she got cold.
Dusky and dim did the lovely day dwindle, sparkling like rows of Christmas day tinsel.
Moonlight and twinkles above her sweet head, soothing the traveller as she lay in her bed, once in a dream-time in a land far away.
*kai = food
Copyright © Raychill Ellison | Year Posted 2016
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Raychill Ellison Poem
Shady Sail Ills Forgotten,
Crests and Peaks Roll with the Laugh-in’.
Eyes and Heirs Make No Bones,
No Want Nor Wish, To Know 'the Jones.’
Tis Where You Rise,
Tis Where You’ll Lay,
There's Nowhere Else, Like T1Bay.
About a cool suburb called Tiitahi (Tee Tah He) Bay in a city called Porirua, Wellington Aotearoa-New Zealand. 'Ti' (tee) is the Maori word for a Cabbage Tree. 'Tahi' means number one or single in Maori.
Copyright © Raychill Ellison | Year Posted 2016
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Raychill Ellison Poem
Here’s a poem, a rhyme, a lyric for thee,
I’ll post it to online because it is free.
It salutes and exults your role in our lives,
Your bravery and fairness and strength make us thrive.
Our kids are all cool and sturdy and stable,
Because of your firm hand and you’re the head of our table.
You protect your own with the fiercest of growls and those that have felt it,
You’ve made move their bowels.
I could go on forever because this is fun,
But will stop now and wish you,
A Happy Father’s Day, Mum.
Copyright © Raychill Ellison | Year Posted 2016
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Raychill Ellison Poem
Chopsueycide; They’re gathering for the feast this time; last time it was a roasting.
Chopsueycide; An acquired taste that’s guaranteed to raise temperatures, but not pulses.
Chopsueycide; Added ginger will certainly blow your head off, and the last breath of garlic will keep them away for sure. Onions will make them cry their eyes out but adding carrots will not make anyone see any better.
Chopsueycide; They'll ensure the scissors used to cut up tendon like vermin-celli down to bite size, stay sharp, like the butchers’ knives that sliced through body parts and backbone.
Chopsueycide; Their words blunt and thug, like a mallet pulverising carcasses, now simmering and stewing in dark soy sauce.
Chopsueycide; Topped off by: lashings of humble pie, garroted cream whippings, garnished with sour grapes and the air’s suffocated by the stench of sweet unsuccessfulness.
Chopsueycide; A popular dish, best served cold.
Copyright © Raychill Ellison | Year Posted 2016
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Raychill Ellison Poem
Strings were played on the heart last eve, the voice on the phone made me really want to believe.
Well practiced verses, hooks oiled and sharp, here comes the chorus,
Come back to me, please.
Like a ball on a playground, a bird that’s not free, listening attentively, weak at the knees. Being lulled and caressed, words cradle like hands, lyrics like syrup yet bad they command.
Wait for the chorus, come back to me,
Breathe.
Knows when to pause, so subtle the clause, hook line and sinker, it’s the game he adores.
Promises broken, heart remember you’re free, he’s good at what he does just remember to breathe. Wait for the chorus,
Come back to me, please.
You know all the old tunes you’ve heard them before, like lovers they lead you, scores up on the board. Their comfort deceiving, and it’s riddled with dread, this time, you’ll know where you’ll end instead.
You laugh and you smile and pretend all is well, awake to the maestro, aware of his spell.
Wait for the chorus and sing the right words, gently and quietly remember to breathe.
Nearing the end of the words off by heart, you tell him he had you right from the start. You echo that you too, hate being apart.
You give it your best shot to make him believe and wait for the chorus, just remember to breathe.
Copyright © Raychill Ellison | Year Posted 2016
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Raychill Ellison Poem
A mothers work is never done, it comes with heartache, joy and fun.
But if your mum is much like mine, she'll keep loving, till the end of time.
She'll teach you wise, and crazy schemes, yet prop you up to reach your dreams.
She'll tell stink jokes, and swear they're funny, and help you out when you need some money.
She'll pick and choose, which child is best, then change her mind, at their behest.
She'll not take sides, but back you up, staunch and true, when life's unstuck.
So Kathryn Dawn, the one and only, we love you much, you're our ol' lady!
Copyright © Raychill Ellison | Year Posted 2016
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Raychill Ellison Poem
Night,
Out on my porch.
The orange glow from the street lights
Flicker through the deep blue hue.
Looking down, I catch myself fiddling, winding the ties belonging to the recycled plastic shopping bag in my clutch.
I wonder why street lights are orange.
Are they supposed to mimic the ‘slow down to stop’ orange traffic light?
I’m dawdling.
Must hurry. Deposit this bag and its contents in the rubbish bin under the orange light.
“You dropped your bag”.
Zone in fast, orange to green, so to speak.
Focusing, I see someone in the orange glow.
We both stand looking down at the soiled nappies exposed by a tear,
In the bag.
“How old”? A jovial jest.
Confident that they're wondering about the age of the nappy wearer.
“24” I reply.
“Aww 24 months”? They assume.
“No, 24 years”.
Red, means stop then.
Copyright © Raychill Ellison | Year Posted 2017
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Raychill Ellison Poem
It's not really fair for the one who stays in fear of being defeated, whose choices are swept away by the other's single choice is a single self.
It's not really fear that keeps one too near to the One whose freedom is strangled by tendons not tender.
It's not really tears that tear one up, while rage rallies beneath the veneer of endless courtesy and, no others hear or care to see tears turn to spikes of glass and facade.
It's not really reasonable when one can't appear, to not want to be here, can't stand to sit here while others over there admire ones choice, because they don't have to be here.
It's not really real, dare not say how one feels for dread of dull thuds from sharp judges’ mental mallets.
It's not really just, when fine lines so thin, keep one wrong or right where they want one.
It's not really good when one lonely one side steps tomorrow to stop feeling.
Sorry.
Copyright © Raychill Ellison | Year Posted 2016
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Raychill Ellison Poem
His mind is imprisoned by a cage.
He is framed with sentences handed down by strangers.
He is alone even though the other voices fill his head.
He is unaccompanied, even with the crowd in his cell.
He argues among all, which conspiracy we should conspire with.
He has the Freedom to sit with selves to hear who yells loudest,
He has the Freedom to wait and see who wins today's war, for tomorrow it all begins again.
He Paces round the cube, rounding off the four corners of his heart, soul, spirit and body.
He Perspires beads of knowledge learned on his troubled travels not so long ago and, while circling above, they spy the carcass of his joy and humour.
Copyright © Raychill Ellison | Year Posted 2016
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Raychill Ellison Poem
Sit there, backs turned, Eyes Wired Shut, disconnected from your gut.
Thrusting back and thirsting forth, comes in the night.
Sniffing sleeping walking, head throbbing, bowels moving
To the rhythm of your heart pumping.
Silent mourning, red hot night but it’s not the knight that’s coming.
Pricked, poked and rubbed until the shameful betrayal and physical frenzy.
Frozen by the red hot burn of white stuff erupting.
Backs turned, eyes wired shut, disconnected from your gut.
Speech strangled, sore to swallow, why don’t you wonder what my mouth has seen.
Screaming pain going nowhere. Signs of agony everywhere.
Shaking hands, spirit shattered, will never find a piece again.
Please perhaps ponder?
Eyes wired shut, disconnected from your gut.
Ghosts hanging in your face. Held up by four, skin cold, cut down too late.
Trophies counted six feet under.
Disconnected from your gut.
Stench of innocence, reeks of guilt, but those around him bathe him well.
Slithered split tongues sitting on that slashing seesaw-like swords through butter, and with whispers like back stabbing knives.
Feeds and kneads their fallacies to grow in girth, fed by terror sucked from bodies with no hair, say no, no say.
Mouth wired shut.
Smoking tempers drinking frothy ice cold mixers. Open scabs festering under strobes.
Treading softly fearing toes, balancing on breakable shells. It’s no choice for those who know.
Your gut.
Reunion highs and lows. Don’t cry. Go.
Copyright © Raychill Ellison | Year Posted 2016
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