Ellie Hastings Poems

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?