Louise Taylor
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Poems

Recent and not so recent poems.
For more poems see BOOKS – Stones on All Four Corners.

A Poem about Water

Would mean a poem about life,
for without water, no vertebrates, invertebrates,
insects, oceans, plants—a planet-wide list,
and not to forget the beauty of fog.

Or when raindrops pelt the dark flat sea,
a ferocious wind pinches and lifts her,
creates froth and spray and wild angles.
Still the seagulls soar.

Salt or fresh, water soothes, loons call,
pebbles shine in the wet sand,
seashells are taken home.
We need this reverie like no other.

And during a drought, horrid wildfires abound,
wells dry, flowers hold onto their nectar, honey bees suffer.
We pray for soaking rains,
for the scent of earth to rise again.

Louise Taylor


The Unknown
 
The unknown alters perceptions, an unwanted lift off,
a rocket careens off course—black sky, too many liars.
This is the time to hunker down, drum in the night, drink water.
I am safe in my body. I am safe with my friends.
 
A rocket careens off course—black sky, too many liars.
Dead polar bears, rape on the rise, children mimic hate.
I am safe in my body. I am safe with my friends.
Peace is supposed to come from within—I bought a pair of jeans.
 
Dead polar bears, rape on the rise, children mimic hate.
I witness my fear—I am not my fear.
Peace is supposed to come from within—I bought a pair of jeans,
ate a bowl of pasta—butter, cheese, salt.
 
I witness my fear—I am not my fear.
Greed, misogyny, the brainwashed—what can be done?
I ate a bowl of pasta—butter, cheese, salt.
Nothing resolved.
 
Louise  Taylor




Debba

 
I can’t call and tell you that you died,
but here you appear anyway
in all these lovely faces so altered by loss.
 
You always showed up, so tell me what comfort
could I possibly give your family, your harbor of friends,
tied close like fenders to soften the blow of this terrible storm?
 
I searched for answers, but only found clichés.
Then came an image of one thumb tucked inside
your fingers, you talking like the supreme authority.
 
Oh you, barefoot in your wild blue moo moo,
brewing extra strong coffee, Tico and Chi Chi
waiting for their empty cat food cans.
 
You my childhood friend, were such a jerk, so stubborn,
so silly, so lovable.  And didn't we have fun insulting each other,
eating chocolate ice cream, squirting that lady in the fanny
at Queen’s Byway so many years ago.
 
I will leave the line about life without you, dear mother,
sister, mother-in-law, aunt, cousin, friend – I will leave it blank.
As the wind shifts into the southwest there you are at the helm
of the Emma Pigeon, letting the mainsail out as far out as it will go.
 
© Louise Taylor


Moored

Through the window beyond
where trees fell and the light
introduced herself – poured in
like fresh cream and ferns gathered
like ships in a port of call.
Beyond where wide-armed maples,
young pines, spindly and firm as ballerinas,
a stone wall and a sagging barbwire fence,
I noticed two white pines towering
so high they had the sky all to themselves.
And a contentment rose in me, as if
I were finally moored,
as if the pines had morphed into masts,
and hadn’t I always yearned to live
in the halcyon days of sailing ships –
the canvas, the nomenclature,
knots and charts, sextants and curves?
 
© Louise Taylor


Wandering Souls
 
Four deer step through the snow,
appear amidst thinned-out maple,
birch and beech.
They pause, ears askew; they assess,
gingerly take a few more steps,
brush against young pines,
wing-like branches lift and fall.
Snow, once at home on silver-green needles,
crumples, showers down. The deer
disappear into the messy woods
and I think about following their tracks,
but a storm comes—a foot of snow.
Anyway, I might grow tired on such a trek;
find the tracks never ending, like wandering
souls looking for what might have been.
Or, I might notice a hollow,
a brook curling under a shelf of ice,
weathered tree stumps
or ones newly uprooted — marvelous brown.
Yes, yes, nothing is for certain.
 
© Louise Taylor


Sanctuary
 
Old conch,
with its pagoda-like spire,
rippled crusty skirt,
must have flourished in the curl of waves
as tides ebbed and flowed;
thickened every season,
formed a welcome opening,
when it lived as a mollusk.
Now is a sanctuary I can roll up into,
follow spirals far into the unknown,
the walls of forgiveness envelope,
whisper – stay as long as you want.

© Louise Taylor




 
 
 
 
 




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