Poems by Regina M. Elliott

Arriving in June's rose dawn hope
Nuanced with morning stars crowning the moon
Gliding in iridescent robes of light
Enveloping me, capturing my dreams
Lilting songs gentle as baby sighs

Kissing my cheek on a summertide Sunday
Intricate patterns of silver lacy wings
Sweet misty smiles
Sojourn of God's comforters

starlight and raven waters
silence white of eyes
shadows nearing shore

On a sweltering humid July morning,
she was escorted by her best friend,
as they walked through whispered prayers
into a beige brick one story building.
She laid on a padded table in a cool
gray room.
She didn't want this, she felt coerced-
in youthful vulnerability she obeyed
her abandoning boyfriend.

Her goosebumps rose as she waited
in a mint-green cotton gown,
her shallow breath in and out,
her mouth and throat parched.
She looked up at overhead glaring
lights,
God's own.

She felt she just couldn't tell
her Mom,
the words wouldn't come forth,
a searing secret bitter on her tongue.
Fragments of jagged thoughts cutting
her psyche,
she was sweating cold through
her forehead.

The abortionist was as if an
anonymous shadow,
his voice distant,
flashes of kindergarten in her
eighteen year old's mind.
Waves of utter pain,
her heart pounding,
her ears thunderous with throbbing,
a sudden stillness,
God's own-
another of God's own,
returned to Him.

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.

As the empathic moon pales of lustre of life,
and the downcast stars fall in the hour of lamentation,
unforgiveness has its own realm of misery.
Our anger and resentment strickens our lives,
smothers our love.

Still absent from one another,
we grow grayer into white.
The evefall speaks of barren dreams,
of words unsaid that could of professed
a healing pardon.
The unforgiveness borne on a catafalque,
yet, not unburdened, and still unburied.

To my dearest mother and father,
I was your only child,
you both desired that I go to college.
But I joined the Army right after I
finished high school.
There you were at my boot camp
graduation,
clapping in the stands,
your eyes were welling,
so proud of me.

Mom, your warm homemade bread
scent filled our farmhouse with comfort,
it tasted so heavenly with our own
churned butter.
Dad, I wish I could shoot baskets with
you again,
the Middle East wars claimed so many
of us,
yet, our valor and honor survives.

Please, don't feel the painful aching in
your chests anymore,
please don't weep,
as I still feel summer timothy beneath
my bare feet in the purest of dew.
I hadn't a betrothed to carry in my
heart,
but, then again, I was only nineteen.

At the Veterans Cemetery with family
and friends in an ebony clothed sea of
mournful humanity,
Mom, the folded flag of our America
was placed gently in your hands.
I know your souls have a brokenness
over the loss,
yet, God has me for the ages.

I miss working our dairy farm,
the cow's mooing is sweet music
to me.
There are other fallen soldiers midst
us,
it is sad to say some didn't hear
from home.
Our spirits are here with you,
my beloved parents.
We are standing watch over our
farm of many acres.
And, dear Mom,
we can smell your homemade
bread,
that fills our afterlives with love.