A Poet's Blog: Roger N.Taber shares his thoughts & poems...

Thoughts and observations by English poet Roger N. Taber, a retired librarian and poet-novelist.- "Ethnicity, Religion, Gender, Sexuality ... these are but parts of a whole. It is the whole that counts." RNT [NB While I have no wish to create a social network, I will always reply to critical emails about my poetry. Contact: rogertab@aol.com].

Name:
Location: London, United Kingdom

Sadly, a bad fall in 2012 has left me with a mobility problem, and being diagnosed with prostate cancer the same year hasn't helped, but I get out and about with my trusty walking stick as much as I can, take each day as it comes and try to keep looking on the bright(er) side of life. Many of my poems reflect the need to nurture a positive-thinking mindset whatever life throws at us.

Friday, 29 May 2020

B-u-b-b-l-e-s (On Cue)

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Love, passion...they come in all shapes and forms as do those of us who have them, often  kept in some quiet (even secret) corner of the heart, sometimes jealously guarded, sometimes waiting (even longing) to be shared with the right person.

Who doesn't love blowing bubbles? Whoever, wherever we are in the world, whatever our socio-cultural-religious or, yes, sexual persuasion, it is an opportunity to indulge ourselves in  just being human, neither as others or even ourselves might have us otherwise; nor is it ever too late to give it a go ...  

"Two bubbles found they had rainbows on their curves. They flickered out saying: "It was worth being a bubble, just to have held that rainbow thirty seconds." - Carl Sandburg, Bubblesin “The Complete Poems of Carl Sandburg

"Miracles happen every day. They bubble up from their hidden source, surround us with opportunities and disappear." - Deepak Chopra

This poem is a kenning.

B-U-B-B-L-E-S (ON CUE)

I creep up on cold feet
(love to blow bubbles in a cynic’s face)
lead them a lively dance
away from querulous urban sprawl,
where open spaces beckon,
prose fields beside satire’s streams
where songbirds give the lie
to dashed hopes, impossible dreams,
cruel whispers in the ear

Oh, how I love to play games
(preferring pretty bubbles to drab tears)
especially hide-and-seek
among trees looking on with a grin
where open spaces beckon;
though telegraph poles might trespass,
along with mobile phone masts
and utility pipelines crowding our space,
we’ll not let them get to us

I play tricks on cold feet
(bubbles like eyes winking mischievously)
lead them a lively dance
away from heads-you-win-tails-I-lose
looking glass wars
in dusty rooms, opening up windows
to let back in the heady smells
of honeysuckle and freshly mown grass,
Earth Mother in on the game

Call me Passion, whose cue the lyre of Eros
arousing its life forces for better, for worse

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009; rev. 2020


[Note: This poem also appears on my gay-interest poetry blog today.]


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