Poems by Regina M. Elliott

starlight and raven waters
silence white of eyes
shadows nearing shore

Stepping through the pine and holly wreathed front
entrance of the homeless shelter,
as a Christmas Eve snowfall decorated the city,
I carried a fresh turkey,
I heard joyous singing of adults and children as the
warmth of the lobby with a splendid bright Christmas
tree filled my spirit.
There was also the baritone voice of a man with
such a generous hearty laugh.
I became momentarily distracted by a t.v. on
low volume playing the vintage animated
"Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer" movie.

When suddenly a scent of peppermint and nutmeg
delighted my nose,
a flash of antique-red and faux fur white trim with
a long curly snow-white beard swirled that sparkled
with ice crystals.
There was a thumping on the roof,
and a resounding jingle of many bells.

I felt Christmases of long ago were here again,
a six year old me meticulously placing decorated
sugar snowmen cookies and hot cocoa by the
burning fireplace for St. Nicholas to pause and
enjoy,
I was soon asleep after laying down in my bed.
I know I just saw him there at the shelter,
the children weren't sleepy that Christmas Eve,
there appeared so many presents under the tree,
as their parents drank coffee finishing up servings
of pumpkin pie topped with whipped cream.

We can see Santa Claus year-round in so many
people,
you can feel him in someone's hug,
in the benevolence of family, friends, and
some strangers.
In giving of time or charity in food, money,
an embrace,
someone comforting you,
a pet cuddling you.
I know I saw him,
and so do many of you-
in the Christ Child we have peace.

When I met the tall and amiable Vietnam War veteran,
my shyness showed,
yet, my throat dried and tightened when he softly
spoke the words, "The war never goes away."
All these humanity destroying wars never cease,
soldier's names, faces, their eyes so well-worn.
Their love letters sent home never faded in their
immortality,
the soldiers who made it home alive weren't
given a hero's welcome.

Their nightmares flashing as they wake up
sweating in their sheets in the dark,
yelling for respite from still hearing and being
in the firefight,
still seeing the VC,
and witnessing the life breaths leaving mortally
wounded brothers.
Descending into the night's loneliness,
the blue-gray of the t.v. on low volume,
the sobbing of a loyal wife.
Some marriages, families split apart with
crushing sadness,
many veterans homeless on U.S. streets,
such a heartbreaking shame shadowing over
the face of America the beauty.

Surviving veteran's hair becomes snow-white,
war wounds achingly arthritic,
memories of their war buddies still sweetly
preserved in their mind's images.
Vietnam War veteran's reunions as their
bones stiffen,
but still salute their brothers and sisters in arms,
their hats with the name of the war,
the pride of their service.

Many barely out of high school with brothers
of the same town,
the same state,
so much youth called up,
joining brothers from other regions of the U.S.
Blessed by God in their fraternity,
their bravery.
The deep red poppies represent their
precious blood.
I remember the 1960's-70's searing scars in
my mind,
weeping for the loss, the hurt in our hearts
over the Vietnam War.

MIA's, POW's,
disappeared as aging families still pray,
still wait.
In the local Veterans Cemetery,
I met a woman in her eighties,
she was a little confused,
couldn't recall where her Vietnam Veteran
son's grave was located.
She told me her daughter-in-law couldn't
bear to visit his grave.
We found his grave,
his name glistening in the dew of that gentle
May morning,
as wrens and sparrows sang on blossomed
boughs.
A chance encounter became such a gift to
honor her son,
and his mother.
To let her know he was not forgotten,
but cherished.
Welcome Home.

North Carolina ballerina,
sweet lady of the Piedmont,
she, so sterling,
died from the selfishness
of a drunk driver.
Gliding into a pirouette,
as she entered God's garden
of youth.

The anguish tatters the sails
of my psyche,
as the rain gently descends
from a sorrowing ash sky.
I drink the bitter taste of loss
from the goblet of the ages,
no, please no, she was a
precious one.

The dew glistens on the
white-hued roses of
maiden innocence,
as if tears on an
infant's cheeks.
Elena, our ballerina
of grace,
Death passes into life,
your beauty of a June
magnolia blossom,
charming the angels who
attend you.

Elena, Elena,
your lovely dancer's legacy,
still dwells in our midst,
Your name whispered in
summer's evefall starry music.

The souls of the seas are committed to their
maritime dwell,
and the reflected tides shall bear stars on
silent waves that mourn.
I expired in sorrow's seizing of my life,
and now my grieving for humanity has
left my earthly body.
My soul journeys to beloved Yeshua-
as the merpeople attend my seashell bier
in the summer temperate of the
vasty Atlantic's heart.

Of her gifts of nature,
once pristine flowing streams,
her green and blue majestic presence
in the infinite universe.
Jesus Christ left her in our care,
we must act now, not later-
for her survival.

Her earthly soul mourns as her
animals suffer, humans too,
her royal oceans with precious
marine life's waters sullied,
her rainforests plundered.
We must, as humanity,
rectify our trespasses against her.

Her polar regions sweating,
breaking off icebergs,
many of her kingdom species
endangered.
Stop the greed and the smokestacks
choking her air,
halt the pillaging of her resources-
for her survival.