Elliott Bell

writer, poet, artist, expat


The sun was warm upon my face
I closed my eyes and felt it’s grace
Warming me from inside out,
I lost myself, forgot my doubts
And let myself love the sun,
For September, we were one.

But now October is creeping in
And the air’s begun to chill,
The falling leaves reminding me
That there is winter still.

So I will guard inside of me
This ember not yet done,
Lit soft and unexpectedly
By the warm September sun.



Sometime ago I fell apart
In a bout of stormy weather.
I had to tie myself in knots
Just to keep together.

Rain-soaked knots resist my attempts
To pull them loose and free.
But I ignore their frayed contempt
Determined to see them be.

For I have a new form in mind,
Something smooth and clean.
A pattern for these threads of mine,
I pick at them and dream.

As A Child

I threw pennies on the tracks
Waiting for a train,
They fell into the gaps
And there they still remain.

The Amateur

Professionals may not be impressed
By my narrow skills.
As I’ll only ever know one tenth
Of the things they will.

But the experts don’t realize
That though my skills aren’t rare,
I’m an expert in disguise,
As my talent is to dare.


Have you ever crushed a chrysalis
And seen the sludge inside?
Did y’know that we were made of this
‘Fore we were butterflies?

The Bookworm

I’ll be damned
If I go to bed
Before this book
Is at least half-read.


Once I was full of red
Screaming through my veins.
You drank from me so thirstily
A tender, hungry flame.

Red rushed into your cheeks
And over open lips,
I lay still as teeth eclipsed
My unborn arguments.

What a fool I was to give you
All the red in me,
I did not yet know
How finite I could be.


If you smell a wildfire,
Will you think of me?
As it burns,
Will you see it’s light?

Or will you see the smoke
Signaling my path?
Looming overhead,
Will you look away instead?

Running Behind

Once again I’m later than I’d like to be.
Why is time so goddamn slippery?
Running and grabbing fishing lines,
Thin and slick as they unwind,
I wrap them round my hands and run
To try to catch the end of them.

Labyrinth of Self

Every day I further explore
Lengths of well-worn corridors,
Lingering at every corner,
I don’t know why I’m moving forward.
Only one more turn, I’m sure,
To get past the endless doors,
To find out what these halls are for.