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Recent and not so recent poems.
For more poems see BOOKS – Stones on All Four Corners. One Hundred Poems
I could have written a hundred poems this winter, but I didn’t. I watched the snowfall, and the sleet, and rain. I looked at trees stiff in their winter stillness, waiting, feeling the sun’s movements, and casting shadows beneath the sky’s full moon. I could have written a hundred different things, a ball of lichen on the road, caught in a tumble of frozen snow leftover from the plow, beech leaves fluttering, making simple music. I could have written about the deer paths I saw from the second floor window. I might have mentioned peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, day after day, week after week—quick to make, and the sound of the toaster popping up the toasted bread. The ticking of the clock, wondering if the comfort I felt was similar to my ancestors knitting in front of the hearth. I could have written a hundred poems, read a hundred books, but the days flew by, and I made other choices. It was enough just to adjust to the rising death toll, which would never be possible, which, in all of its savagery, made me numb. Louise Taylor 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 Invitation
One howl, like a soprano’s finest moment, shears the late summer night. I put my ear to the screen to discern how close she or he might be. More follow, not as high, or pure, but earnest yips—I am here, where are you? Thank you for this meal. The earth after rain atomizes the air sweeter than a sweaty horse, low tide at the shore, dying leaves. Her grandeur offers a magic carpet ride. I only have to hop on. Over there, somewhere on a branch the wood thrush calls, a green frog finds cool water in the birdbath, scissor-kicks here and there, her eyes cabochon cut. Nature takes no notice of me unless I am a threat. Her thorns rip, her stings smart. She blackens the high cumulus, hails, cracks the sky with blinding fervor. Her territory yields endless awe, brutal force. She beckons: lie down on the moss. The day is hot. Winter is coming. 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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