A Writer’s Lament

by Ellis Wright
by Ellis Wright

What Time Has Handed Us

trace the topography of the hands

time has whittled lines in the skin

like water over rock

these mountains of ours were once impermeable to the storms

but now they shake and tremble

we read the history of our lives in our palms

soon they will be nothing but sand, tossed easily by the wind

how the mountains have eroded, crumbled

these doers of evil

these doers of good

it is nature’s way, we will say

and one finger will follow the other into the dark

scramble over the ridges of our knuckles

follow the lush blue rivers that pulse beneath our skin

the wrinkles are worn out paths, reducing this forest to desert land

there are tales here, buried like unmarked graves in the sand

these doers of evil

these doers of good

these tired gloves pulled over

the hands of childhood


Photography by Acton Wright

Poetry by Ellis Wright


– Moony and Padfoot


I swear they’d be raindrops
if minutes could fall
even if we stood in the storm
we couldn’t catch them all
I think we would realize
how fast they go by
we’d understand that we’re drowning
and how soon we must die
I swear they’d be raindrops
if minutes could fall
I swear time is drowning us
and when the rain stops, that’s all.


Simple Love

They will tell the young,

“You know naught of love,

for love of a song sung

by a bird from above

is too simple to be love.”


And, they’ll point out with mirth,

that the chid is a fool

who attempts to love the whole earth,

the good and the cruel,

and sees in every stone a jewel.


They will warn the young, that,

“You know naught of love,

who hide unformed minds ‘neath your hats,

and still worship a God above.

Oh — if only you knew love —


Love as we know it

is pain, is unkind

and oh — it loves to sit

in those shadows in the mind!

If only we could find


an escape from this tenant

who reminds us daily of our loss,

for that terribly childish remnant

is constantly trying to toss

our hearts back to — a cross.”


And the young will say,

“They know naught of love

who cannot appreciate the day,

the changing skies above,

and His unchanging love.”


For the young, they see

love in every smile,

every face, every tree,

every path, every mile,

knowing, all the while


Love is simple, so they heard;

Love is simple, love is pure.

So they chose to love even the bird.

This is where we find our cure:

Love is simple — of this I’m sure.