Elise

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Galway, Ireland
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Writing

19 Years , One Regret

A Poem by Elise

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About Me

Eils� is a 21 year old female freelance writer , from Ireland (Republic). She is originally from South Dublin , but currently resides on the west coast. She has been writing since the age of ten. Her influences in life are;

'Socrates'
'Karl Marx'
'Albert Einstein'
'Paul Howard'

plus, many many more.

She writes for many reasons. You may catch the odd poetic piece, the ramblings of her daily lifestyle or the serious political discussion. Either way, you are bound to enjoy this girls words!

Personal note from Elis�:
"Hey guys + girls, I randomly found 'writerscafe' via a search engine (good auld google eh ha). I adore writing. To me writing is like an action, words on a piece of paper/internet mean a lot more than words just said. I can take critism , feedback is ALWAYS good, it just gives me the strength to improve.

I'm not sure what to expect of here, but I am willing to keep an open mind and find out. Hope to maybe catch some of your own work or ramblings too.
Peace out and enjoy your life <3

Elis�
xx"

Comments

Eagle Cruagh

Posted 15 Years Ago

Forgive me please, I am late.
WELCOME !
I hope you find Cafe to be helpful in your
writing career. Many of us write only for
fun or to get something off our chest.
If I can make it easier here just sound off.
Yours,
----- Eagle Cruagh

Micheal Teal

Posted 15 Years Ago

This World

I would like to write a poem about the world that has in it

nothing fancy.

But it seems impossible.

Whatever the subject, the morning sun

glimmers it.

The tulip feels the heat and flaps its petals open and becomes a star.

The ants bore into the peony bud and there is a dark

pinprick well of sweetness.

As for the stones on the beach, forget it.

Each one could be set in gold.

So I tried with my eyes shut, but of course the birds

were singing.

And the aspen trees were shaking the sweetest music

out of their leaves.

And that was followed by, guess what, a momentous and

beautiful silence

as comes to all of us, in little earfuls, if we’re not too

hurried to hear it.

As for spiders, how the dew hangs in their webs

even if they say nothing, or seem to say nothing.

So fancy is the world, who knows, maybe they sing.

So fancy is the world, who knows, maybe the stars sing too,

and the ants, and the peonies, and the warm stones,

so happy to be where they are, on the beach, instead of being

locked up in gold.

~ Mary Oliver ~

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