The Swing Set
Ellie Hastings
© 2011
We sat on the swing set
As if we had never flown
Our legs too long
Left furrows in the sand
We knew we were always dying
And could see it in our eyes
So we let words fall delicately on tomorrow
Though we felt them as heavy weights
We talked about our times
And the minutes that we missed
And the memories we collected
Pulling them out like forgotten jewels
We are only friendly ghosts
From long ago when our feet could float
And higher on the swings
Was our only dream
Were You Among the Trees
Ellie Hastings
© 2011
Where were you when the sun fell down
And the clouds moved like desert sand
And became wisps among golden stars
Shooting into violet light
Where were you when the poplars whispered
And spoke of bitter winters, and nightmares
And the juniper confirmed its healing
But was still heavily rooted
Where were you when the oak trees shook
Furrows opening doorways to new realms
Wisdom flooding through roots
And acorns falling for dust
Where were you when the forest King rose
Tangled branches giving way to erratic moonlight
Touching the gods of lightning and thunder
And sharing inspiration with the woods
You were sleeping in foreign fantasies
And shifting through endless traffic
Fictitious in fabrics and counting coins
From pursuits in clouds you could not even see
Your eyes were closed as the trees spoke
Evasion through sleep when night was breathing
Blind in daylight by your own neon lights
And deaf by the rush of empty thinking minds
You were not breathing with your heartbeat
But in time with a ticking clock, fixed and counted
Willingly driven by gears and noisy voices
Passive of the wind that brings so much more
You missed the trees painting the sky
Like worn brushes with bent and wild bristles
Desperate to add their spring flames to the charcoal
And reaching to set the stars on a deeper fire
Where were you when my trust faded
Your compassion turning to dust and laughter
As I stood two feet from myself, bleeding out
And you lived in a circle so small you were choking
Where were you when the sun shattered
And I, pathetically, hoped for you to look
Your incapacity overflowing with my faults
And ignorance blind to time as deeper thorns
Though here is my doubt relieved by the trees
So you may mindlessly waste in your dreams
And I will walk to find somewhere I am going
Grow among trees and change with the wind
It’s not the “Painting,” it’s the painting.
Ellie Hastings
© 2011
What the fuck is a Pollock?
It’s when the night sky is
red and promising,
though only a darkened day
steps forth.
That moment when you choke
on the ‘X’ in flux.
When caution never fades from trust
or doubt strangles worth.
It is the seconds before a storm,
or after a storm.
It is the storm.
It’s when poetry comes
dancing with the wind
or burns up in the fire,
or in yourself.
It’s when hard falls come
from high climbs seeing victory.
When Tomorrow brands itself
with all your flaws
and spits them back as faults.
It’s when eyes look into shadows
and shadows look for growth.
It’s when sunlight comes
through the window
and reveals dust as gold.
It’s when breathing joins relief
or bitterness steals it harshly.
But what the fuck is a Pollock?
