Highs and Lows

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"Time changes everything except something within us which is always surprised by change."  - Thomas Hardy 

" Life is your see-saw. You may not stay balanced long, but you can aim for a high after every low. Sanita Belgrave

"What is straight? A line can be straight, or a street, but the human heart, oh, no, it's curved like a road through mountains." - Tennessee Williams

“Painting is silent poetry, and poetry is painting that speaks”. - Plutarch“

Now, most, if not all of us, get to experience the highs and lows of life as we progress; anyone, at any age, from any walk of life. At the time, the lows may well seem insurmountable, but trust the human spirit to see us through, and see us through, it invariably well, all the kinder and quicker with the love of and help from those who care about us. Whatever, like it or not, life is a learning process; we can learn and progress or be in denial and risk being unable to move on…

Common sense, do I hear you say; nothing new, heard it all before…? Almost certainly, yes, and definitely from yours truly. Even so, knowing something and acting on it are two sides of the same coin, as we all know only too well. To be sure, we may flip the coin and it gives the wrong message. Ah, but if, even just a part of us recognizes that it is not answer to our problem, we need to trust heart-and-soul to message mind-body-spirit to…flip the darn coin again, and again… until it comes up with what it senses is the right message. Thereafter, we can feel confident about confronting our problem/s and working them through to a kinder end than when we first flipped the coin… and be reassured that, if things take a turn for the worse at any stage, we can always blame it on that old standby ‘fate’… wry bardic chuckle

Many a time have I tossed that coin and, many a time, blamed ‘fate’ for not helping me bring whatever mess I happen to be in to a hastier, more ‘successful’ conclusion. But… success, of course, is relative and getting out of whatever mess we may have fallen into - invariably down to ourselves, however inadvertently, from start to finish - well, that’s a successful outcome, and don’t let anyone tell you any differently who may have judged you for getting into a mess in the first place.😉

Creative therapy, in any shape or form, is a sure way to help us sort our thoughts, give us a new, more positive perspective on life. How can I be sure? Why else do you think I have turned to writing – especially poetry – since schooldays…?  I may not be famous, in any ‘celebrity’ sense, but, believe you me, having reached my late 70’s is a personal success story. We all have them, it’s as my mother once told schoolboy Roger, on my failing an important exam: “That’s what life is all about, dear, picking yourself up and starting all over again.” 

 I didn’t ‘get it’ then, and was sceptical, to say the least, but I certainly ‘get it’ now! wry bardic grin

HIGHS AND LOWS

It’s our early years
that help shape the rest of our lives
taking on perceptions
of family and friends, wondering where
and why a rainbow ends,
open to such fairy tale explanations
as will lay the foundations
of a worldly rhetoric appearing to offer answers
that leave us asking more questions

In our middle years,
we stand at a crossroads in our lives
taking decisions,
learning about their consequences, taking
responsibility for them
(or not, as the case may be) mixed feelings
throwing us into a confusion
we can shrug off, prepare to bluff our way through
or put mind-body-spirit under review

In our later years,
we may look back with anger, regret, 
even degrees of shame
for paths unwisely taken, mistakes 
haunting mind-body-spirit,
yet comfort, too, for heart-and-soul’s capacity
for learning from them all,
nurturing personal space, the wiser and more mature
for the nature of its past-present-future

For better or worse, in brush strokes on a live canvas,
find home truths that are the be-alls and end-alls of us 

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2022 

A Word to the Wise

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"Crying does not indicate that you are weak. Since birth, it has always been a sign that you are alive.” – Charlotte Bronte

"You don’t stop laughing when you grow old. You grow old when you stop laughing. – George Bernard Shaw

“Age isn’t how you are, but how you feel.” Gabriel Garcia Marquez

“Everything has beauty but not everyone sees it.” – Confucius

“In three words, I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: it goes on.” – Robert Frost 

Now, I started to say that, on the whole, I am not enjoying old age…until I looked again at that telling phrase ‘on the whole’ and realised that age is but the sum of its parts, just as we are the sum of ours. 

Having always had to take the rough with the smooth, better, surely, to keep the smoother in view and put the rougher behind us…?

Smooth is good and life, at any age, is invariably a mix of good and bad, though not forgetting that old standby, muddled…

I well recall that, as a schoolboy in the 1950's,  I once considered the prospect of 'fate' as something to be scared of until I heard Doris Day singing Que sera, sera (What will be, will be) in such a bright, fun, lively way that it never seemed anywhere near as scary any more, just something to muddle through, for better or worse, as best we can; in the case of the latter, once through, best learned from and  moving on...

So, yes, in the course of writing this preamble, I have reached the conclusion that old age is a bit of a muddle. Since mind-body-spirit has always urged yours truly to muddle through whatever and keep looking on the bright(er) side of life, I guess that’s what I’ll continue to do… 😄

You may well ask what  sexuality has to do with growing up and/ or growing old. What, indeed...?

A  WORD TO THE WISE

Growing old, faster than I would
ever have believed it
of as feisty a mind-body-spirit
as always as a part of me,
tugging gently but firmly at the heart 
strings, reminding me 
I’m gay, and nothing wrong with that;
no matter some folks may call us perverse
it’s good, it’s cool. this you-me-us

Growing old, time passing at a pace,
I’d never have though it,
for making the most of mind-body-spirit
in such ways as obliging
its everyday calling in such life forces
as cheering heart-and-soul on
in what has never been a competition,
just ordinary folks but doing their damnedest
to enjoy the best, endure the worst

Grown old, confirms a birth certificate
that’s but a piece of paper,
not a record of its owner’s path in life,
whether or not ever able
to make any sense of such flaws 
in certain life forces set on 
debasing our humanity for so interpreting
various moral agendas as would have us seen 
an enemy of ‘what-might-have-been’

Where age a measure of potential from the start,
come winners all, the young at heart

 Copyright R. N. Taber, 2022

[Note: this post-poem also appears on my gay poetry blog today; after all, we all get old, and we’re as old as we feel… like Methuselah some days maybe, but, on the whole…] 😉RT

 

The Witch's Hat

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“To me, a witch is a woman that is capable of letting her intuition take hold of her actions, that communes with her environment, that isn't afraid of facing challenges.” - Paulo Coelho

“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.” – W. B. Yeats

“Our life is what our thoughts make it.” - Marcus Aurelius

Now, as a child in the 1950’s one of the places I loved to visit, along with other kids on the street in Gillingham, Kent where we lived, was a park playground that had a Witch’s Hat roundabout, so-called for its conical shape;  it was banned in the 1980’’s on Health & Safety grounds. I

A favourite ride for children across the UK, a new ‘safer’ version of The Witch’s Hat can now be found at Wicksteed Park in Kettering.                                                   

                                                      Photo (c1950's) taken from the Internet

THE WITCH’S HAT

Singing on a witch’s hat,
eagerly scratching our initials,
to show we were here,
winging clouds and sailing seas, 
hoots of laughter driving
all four winds, magic of childhood
in the blood

Other roundabouts to try,
at world fairs no less likely to work 
their magic, but leaving us
feeling foolish, even taking fright 
at (eventually) sussing out  
its secrets, fuelling mind-body-spirit
with self-doubt

Round and round, again, 
only vaguely aware of killing time
in the wake of successes,
failures, safe houses letting us down,
disillusionment set to move in
till kinder life forces inspired to revisit
the witch’s hat

Midnight, owls in full flight
sounding out various human senses
even as they sleep,
winging happy memories, breathing
new life into mind-body-spirit,
an inspired motivation all but restored
in the blood

High noon, heart-and soul
a new dynamic, working its magic 
on us, having us engage
with hoots of owls as coos of doves
for clues to making the best
of past-present-futures as last seen sat 
on a witch’s hat

R. N. Taber, 2022

The Inheritors

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Today's poem is one that was written in 1973 and had appeared in several UK poetry magazines before being included in my first collection, Love and Human Remains, in 2000; I have only recently slightly but significantly revised it while struggling to rise above certain health issues and compile new editions.

How often, as a child, I would wish I was an adult, especially whenever prevented from doing something for which I was considered too young! Invariably, my mother would wryly comment, "Be careful what you wish for..."

THE INHERITORS  

Man, discovering diamonds
in the sand, hastily gathers them up
in a greedy hand;
a breeze blows the fortune
in his face 

Poets, reflecting on diamonds
in the sand, love counting them out
in the palm of a hand,
then clouds happen along,
hijack the lot 

Lovers, dreaming of diamonds
in the sand, till enemies at the door
forcing our hands;
yet another lonely dawn,
and we’re gone 

Children, discover diamonds
in the sand, happy to share them  
among dear friends;
a fun day to remember, a treasure,
 for keeps 

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2000; rev. 2021

The Story of a Life

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Although I am 75 years-old, I remain at heart much the same person I was as a child. Hopefully, I have learned enough from various life-experiences not to dwell on the many mistakes I have made, but take sufficient strength from all they have taught me to keep looking on the bright(er) side of being human. 

The pandemic has given us all much food for thought, not least for a growing sense of isolation. 

Relatively few people have such confidence in themselves that they rarely need to share their thoughts and ideas, especially with those friends and/ or family members whose opinions matter most to us, if only because we can be sure they will be frank rather than just kind. 

The need for social distancing has been kind to no one, often leaving only the inner self to fall back on, not the most objective confidante to share our concerns. Even so, the self is all of who and what we are, and we need to trust it to give mind-body-spirit all the encouragement it may need. 

As a child, I would take my cue from the spirit of Happy-Ever-After tales, however questionably they might have ended. As an adult, I guess I still do. For better or for worse, it has seen me through good times and bad, and I can but hope it will continue to do so…

THE STORY OF A LIFE 

Listen, I am near,
poised to bid a heartfelt farewell
to winter’s darker ways,
mind-body-spirit eager to re-engage
with joie de vivre,
for growing younger, its sunlit days,
a timely reminder,
though whether humanity any the wiser
remains a brain-teaser 

Listen, I am here,
seek me out and you may well hear
whatever the head
seeks to know, while loath or unable
to break down
a heart’s closed door lest it reveal
it was but a dream,
the love for whom you dared hope to be
another’s one-and-only 

Listen, and be sure
to hear of what songbirds are singing,
that joie de vivre
we would all engage in for homing in on
people and places
we can always rely on to fill the heart
with happy thoughts,
inspiring all mind-body-spirit to go for gold
put aside growing old 

I am much the same favourite bedtime story
that’s the stuff of all live-and-let live history

 Copyright R. N. Taber, 2021

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Frontliners

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All those in the front line of our war on Covid-19 deserve our thanks, respect and admiration. How they cope, day after day, defies belief. I have been retired for 10 years now, but like to think I would have played my part, although I suspect few of us know how we would react to certain circumstances until they are upon us and we are tested.

My father and I did not get along. From childhood, he never believed I had a hearing problem. More   than once would send me to my room for ‘ignoring’ him when I genuinely hadn’t known he was talking to me. Needless to say, this did nothing to improve our relationship. “He’s weak!” I heard him shout at my mother once, “He’s weak, that’s his trouble. Always got his head stuck in a book, it’s high time he started acting like a boy instead of a bloody pansy.”

Later, I asked my mother, “Am I weak?” Her reply was typical of her grasp of human nature. “None of us really know our true strengths and weaknesses,” she said, “… until they and we are tested. Even then,” she sighed, “… it’s invariably left to others to judge and we alone ourselves to know. It’s called life,” she added with a rueful smile. “But just you go to sleep and put it out of your mind…” She turned off the lamp I had been reading by, and I could have sworn I heard her say, “…while you still can.”

I suspect we are tested at all stages in our lives although we may not realise it at the time. As we grow up and grow older, though, we do get to know ourselves, although how much is fact and how much is wishful thinking … that’s for us to take on board, reject or work through for ourselves, hopefully with more than a little help from loved-ones and friends.

Whatever our battles, we are the front line, win some, lose some…

FRONTLINERS 

War or peace,
whatever the cause in us demanding
we fight,
at the end of the day, it needs to be
for the better,
if only to keep us safe , drive any enemy
to rout 

Early years,
learning to talk, walks, laugh and play,
choose friends
come to recognize certain aspects
of behaviour…
as in where our empathising with it begins
and ends 

Schooldays,
inviting us to see how competition
demands
targets our strengths and weaknesses, requires
we stand up
for its rights and wrongs or go to ground, head
in hands 

Come, youth
to have its day, before such times ahead
as we know
will test us, even cut us down before any gain
or losses
can take us where we may (or not) have chosen
to go 

Middle years,
basking in sunny climes or sheltering
from storms
beyond anticipation for our underestimating
how maturity
may yet see us bested by any variety of tempting
life forms 

Old age,
a final reckoning of sorts, for the better
or worse
as we harvest all mind-body-spirit has incited us
to be, urging us
do whatever may yet see all or some of our parts rest
in peace

 “Advance, friend or foe,” finding out wherever we go,
ourselves to know 

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2021

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Boy on a Rocking Horse

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

Todays poem first appeared on the blog in 2012; I recorded it on You Tube at the time:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b0gU5W8OQ2I (direct link to Video)

http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtabe (for my You  Tube channel)

‘Powerless Structures is the beautifully created figure of a boy on a rocking horse and was the latest art work to grace the 4^th plinth in London’s Trafalgar Square.

The poem I have recorded over the video unfolded in my mind the more I considered what the sculpture meant to me personally. The rocking horse that stood by my bedroom window when I was just a boy provided an escape from the harsher realities with which, as a child, I was poorly equipped to cope. My imagination would let fly and take me into magical realms of fantasy, fairy tale and legend as regular readers of my blogs and/or collections know. .

Hopefully, video and poem complement each other in such a way that where the poem is a fairly personal take on the sculpture, the video leaves plenty of space for the viewer to bring his or her own take to this bronze figure of a boy on a rocking horse and latest art work to grace the 4th plinth in London’s Trafalgar Square. 

In line with the existing iconography of the other statues in the square, the child is elevated to the status of a historical hero. However, where they acknowledge the heroism of the powerful, this work celebrates the heroism of growing up. The image of a young boy astride his rocking horse encourages observers to consider the less spectacular events in their lives, which are often the most important.

Danish artists Michael Elmgreen and Ingar Dragset are widely reported as saying it was “up to the public to love it or hate it, but hopefully not ignore it."

Never ignored, that’s for sure.

BOY ON A ROCKING HORSE

Boy on a rocking horse,

rocking to and fro,

are you part of a happy family,

and do they love you so?

As a child in my bedroom,

I used to rock to and fro,

looking out of my window

at the garden below …

One day, at my window,

rocking to and fro,

a swallow settled on the sill

and said, ‘Hello.'

‘Don’t you ever get fed-up

just rocking to and fro

when there’s so much to see,

scores of places to go?’

‘There’s far, far, more to life

than rocking to and fro.

Fly with me and see the world,’

said the swallow.

If I had been happy enough

rocking to and fro,

now I longed to see the world

like the swallow

I became, oh, but so excited

that I rocked to and fro

so hard that, suddenly, I took off

through the window;

at first, flying was a terrific thrill

(after just rocking to and fro)

seeing how people, places, animals,

make up the world we know 

Then I recalled my little room

where I’d rock to and fro,

believing my folks would miss me

and how I loved them so.

‘Please, swallow, take me home

where I can  rock to and fro,

feel I belong, be part of a family

if only because I miss it all so.’

The swallow then took me home,

to just rock to and fro

by a window, looking on a garden

in a house (still) haunting me so

as any child who ever dreamed

while rocking to and fro

on a safe, friendly rocking horse

will, oh, but surely know

I know you, Boy on a Rocking Horse;

we met years ago, in a looking glass

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

Mind-Body-Spirit, Champing at the Bit

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Today's poem last appeared on the blog in 2017, and I have since changed the title. 

Several readers have asked how I am progressing with the new poetry collection and if I have found a potential publisher. Well, progress is slow but sure, and I haven't given much thought to finding a publisher as I will probably self-publish again. As I have said before on the blogs, the majority of publishers here in the UK have never shown any interest in my previous collections; indeed, it would seem that poetry publishers in general are inclined to shy away from a volume that includes both general and gay-interest poems. I am toying the the idea of only making it available as an e-book, but may have just a few hundred copies printed as they have always sold. As always, time will tell if and how opportunity knocks. wry bardic chuckle

Meanwhile...

Provoked by a classmate, I fought with him in the school playground some 60+ years ago. We were both given detention, and I missed a favourite TV programme as well as having to explain to my mother why I was late home. I protested that it wasn’t my fault, to which she replied, ‘It’s never anyone’s fault, dear, which is why no one gets anywhere fast because everyone is too busy blaming someone else to actually get to the bottom of things.’ This meant nothing to me at the time, of course, but continues to resonate with me, making sense of  the kind that has taken me the better part of a lifetime to grow into …

Various religions/cultures all offer us their own agendas for raison d'etre, but I suspect it is the human spirit that will find its own way n its own time ... and come to what conclusion, I wonder?

If ever a common mind-body-spirit was ever champing at the bit, I dare say rarely if ever more so than now as the world waits to see if the Covid-19 coronavirus can be beaten once and for all ... or whether a second wave and/ or strain is inevitable, and we will all  have to learn to live with its consequences one way or another. 

For the most part, yours truly remains optimistic that a reasonable balance can be struck between the sound and the fury of a common humanity that doesn't quite grasp what it's all about, but hasn't quite given up on certain priorities either; among the latter, find love, peace, respect for and pride in its diversity... and, yes, last but not least, plain common sense.

‘Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

And then is heard no more. It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury

Signifying nothing...’ – Shakespeare (Macbeth) 

MIND-BODY-SPIRIT, CHAMPING AT THE BIT  

Childhood, waving me on
to such better days
as grown-ups taking notice
of what I might think,
even (openly) concede we
should agree to differ 

Teenage years greeting me
with false promises,
aspirations soon warned off
by self-styled ‘betters’
for overreaching potential,
(mere pipe dreams?) 

Paid work, not so different 
from schooldays;
angst about promotion, if only
to impress those peers
yearning a greater freedom
of personal space 

Retirement, welcoming me
with a cheery wave,
promising leisure times filled
with fun and laughter, 
less stress, more time to spend
with family, friends… 

Old age, having the last laugh
on us, harvesting
home truths, yet finding us
no less sinned against
than sinning, if only for playing 
our part by default

Copyright R. N. Taber 2017; 2020 

[Note: a slightly but significantly different version of this poem appeared on the blog in 2017 under the title ‘A Personal History’] RNT

 

You-Me-Us, a Growing Passion

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

I am not getting on too well with either my fractured ankle or the hormone therapy for my prostate cancer, but writing love poems always cheers me up. Although I have not had a partner for many years, the memory of our love always lifts my spirits whenever they hover at the edge of some abyss and contemplate going into free fall...

One of my favourite songs is 'All The Way', beautifully sung by the late, great Frank Sinatra in the movie, The Joker is Wild; it starts, 'If somebody loves you, it's no good unless they love you/all the way/ through the sad and lean years, and all the in-between years, come what may...

Neither love nor passion are reserved solely for people, of course; places, pets, books, works of art (creating as well as viewing) we can so easily fall in love with these, and over a lifetime such love can just as easily become a passion. Nor should we ever forget or underestimate the role of platonic love in our lives ... 

"Love is the wisdom of the fool and the folly of the wise."

- Samuel Johnson

"Love without passion is dreary; passion without love is horrific."

-- Lord Byron

Love, though, can be something of a lottery, and you have to be in it to win it.

YOU-ME-US, A GROWING PASSION

I built a sandcastle for you,

but you kicked it down with infant feet,

and made me cry buckets

I wrote a love poem for you,

but you threw a typical teenage tantrum,

and tore it into tiny pieces

I composed a pop song for you,

and everyone loved it except the person

for whom it was intended

I painted a portrait of you,

but you didn’t care for the way I see you,

and cold-shouldered me

I made a solemn promise to you

that I’d love you forever, no matter what,

and we kissed

We made love together, bonding

with eternity, transcending a born intimacy

and centuries-old creativity

Together, we built a castle

to withstand all temporal waves, reaffirm

the spirituality of creativity

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

[Note: This poem first appeared under the title 'Making Sure of Love' in Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012.]

Engaging with Disillusionment

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Not infrequently, readers (among others) people confide how they feel helpless against a tide of socio-cultural-religious forces manipulated by various leaders to their own advantage and/or agenda to the detriment of anyone who chooses not to wear a mask. ‘Why are we all so divided?’ someone only recently wailed in my ear, ‘Why must it take a tragedy like a terrorist atrocity to bring people together …until innate differences start to drive them apart again?

On the grounds that repeating the obvious is sometimes necessary if only to prevent its being lost in a sea of trite, I often make the point in my blogs that our differences do not make us different, simply human; we can and should learn from them, not gang up against them. Far too many if not most socio-cultural-religious leaders are invariably quick to agree in principle, but less willing to practise what they preach.

So… what can we do?

It is (surely?) down to each and every one of us to live our lives as best we can and try not to be judgemental, the very trap our leaders and so-called ‘betters’ would have us fall into by appearing to refute it, thereby planting the very seeds of division in our minds that suit their individual purposes while cleverly avoiding either blame or responsibility.

A socio-cultural-religious metaphor may well be a chess master’s political strategy where the likes of you and I are taken to be vulnerable pawns; it is, however, a game that two can play...

Being our own person (no pressure or aspiration to be someone else) and living our lives as  best we can, refusing to be put down by unfair or irrelevant comparisons...now, that is what's known as being on a winning side.

Who wants to go through life being made to feel a loser by so-called 'betters' who are often only any better than the rest of us by virtue of their being in a position  to make us feel worse,various  if only by pulling invisible strings attached to various socio-cultural-political and/or religious trappings lending them a sense of authority?

ENGAGING WITH DISILLUSIONMENT

What is it really all about,

I’d ask myself as a child, this growing up

among restless giants…?

Why do giants have a mask

for every occasion, always seem so wary

of letting any slip…?

(Why must I tread so warily

for fear of offending by just being honest,

speaking my mind…?)

Diplomacy is all very well,

but no substitute (surely?) for keeping faith

with basic principles…

Oh, and what of love’s light,

come to guide us through a darkening world,

but frequently cutting out?

Yes, we need rules to live by

or sheer chaos likely to get the better of us all,

but who rules what, for whom?

It’s a discerning inner eye

that perceives the flaws in any moral authority

over anxious to flex its muscles

So where does that leave us,

who can but trust basic instincts albeit thwarted

at every turn of phrase and policy?

It leaves us strong, stoic, free

to speak up, make ourselves seen, felt and heard,

risk being ignored, mocked, bullied…

Or... what has it all been for,

I ask myself each new day as time rushes on past

and I grow old…?

Copyright R. N. Taber 2017

[Note: An earlier version of this poems appeared on the blog several years ago under the title 'Living with Giants'.]

Nature Boy

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This poem, and much of my introductory preamble is taken from my gay-interest poetry archives for October 2017.

Maybe it was the aspiring poet in me or simply because I have always been partially deaf, but even as a child I was easily contented with my own company, especially with my head in a book or communing with nature. While my mother was OK with this, my father was critical of what he considered to be unbecoming for a boy. Thankfully, my brother was more ‘masculine’ so that took the heat off me a bit. Needless to say, my relationship with my father was never a good one; there was no father-son bonding, probably due his being a product of a generation scarred both by war and even more misguided stereotypes than my own would see. Children, of course, only come to understand such things in time. Meanwhile they can but rely on adults to point them in the right direction; what is right for them, that is, not, the mentoring adult. Fortunately, my mother was cut from a very different cloth to my father and I survive to tell the tale.

I grew up with very mixed feelings about how I should approach the world, family life and (not least) myself. Perhaps that is why I love everything about the natural world; for all its unpredictability, it exudes relatively less than its human counterpart. On the whole, nature  also suggests a greater sense - for me, anyway - of being on one’s side ; at least, not against anyone simply because he or she has a mind-body-spirit of their own that may not be in sync with some socio-cultural-spiritual ‘norm’. Having been raised to think being gay was terrible because it was ‘different’ I was never more glad of the sense of spirituality nature has always inspired in me. While my mother could not have cared less, the same could not be said for the rest of my immediate family or even some I looked upon as friends.

As a gay man In my 70’s now, I am SO glad attitudes towards homosexuality continue to change for the better in many countries and even among some intrinsically homophobic cultures; often too slowly, yes, but any progress has to be better than none at all. There is, of course, no room for complacency; more education is needed about how - whatever our race, religion, sex sexuality, age, political persuasion etc. - we are all part of a common humanity and all, each in our own way…different.

Legislation to re-enforce Equal Opportunities and Political Correctness may well be steps in the right direction, but you cannot legislate for bad attitude which, in turn, invariably stems from ignorance of the issues involved (making the case for education) and/or a point-blank refusal to enter into any points of view other than one’s own; therein lies the beauty of human nature, and its flaws.

As for my scepticism, that remains part of who I am, too, and most likely always will. At the same time, I am also a very positive thinking person; a contradiction, some will say, but then what’s one more contradiction in a world whose elected (or self-appointed) spokespersons contradict themselves for much if not most of the time…?

NATURE BOY

I’ve heard folks say I should get real,
and I do, as needs must…

Yet, I love to talk to flowers,
let them know I am here for them
and care whether they live
or die, much as I would have someone
care for me, watch out for me
as I make my way through passages
of time and space among crowds
jostling to be first in line for whatever
best is yet to come as rumoured
by those assumed to be in the know
if only because it would appear
they have the ear of Someone said
to really count for something
in a greater scheme of things high
on promise, short on detail,
scarcely a mention of any Plan B
as a better option if likely to adversely
affect profits

I’ve heard folks say I should man up,
and I do, as needs must...

Yet, I love to spread wings, fly
among (all) birds over cities, towns,
and dreary suburbs top heavy
with killer-by-stealth pollution,
escape to the countryside,
take off with ducks, swans and the like
on its waterways, nature’s answer
to frantic airport runways…
comment on city carbuncles, enthuse
about country cottages, get angry
about global warming, especially where
powers-that-be in denial refusing
to put it on various agendas just in case
they lose votes (or face) among any
who couldn’t really care less so long as
they don’t miss out on rewards of a (very)
pecuniary nature

I’ve heard folks call me a born sceptic
and they could well be right...

Yet, I’ll believe a sunset’s promise
of sunny or stormy days in the wings
before I’ll trust a politician’s word
that the shape of things to come is safe
if not (quite) secure in party hands,
prefer to take my cue from such cloud
and bird formations as nature inspires
from time to time by way of suggesting
we make due preparation, less need
for reparation such as any powers-that-be
might have us make for what turns out
to be their (only human) mistakes
and ours for listening to what we’d prefer
to hear rather than what any mind-spirit
might undermine for being less out of step
with the commoner (if only human) failings
of contemporary society

A dreamer, me, perhaps, though some folks
see only that I'm gay....

Copyright R. N. Taber 2017

A Word to the Wise

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

Some parents, especially mothers, so love their friends' children to be the best of friends. Mine was anxious to know why I had all but ignored a friend's son - a fellow pupil at my primary school - during a recent visit to their house, not far from where we lived. I recall shrugging and putting it to her that the other boy and I had nothing in common, unlike our respective parents. "I don't dislike him," I tried to explain, "... so much as, well, he's so different from me. We like different things and have little if anything in common so...what's the point?" "It's up to you, of course," my mother conceded, "...but there's a lot we can learn from each other's differences. Unfortunately, it's our differences that make the world the way it is rather than any willingness to learn from them." I shrugged off those words at the time, but they came back to haunt me at bedtime and have haunted me ever since.

Needless to say, we became good mates, that boy and me and, yes, we did learn a lot from each other even if it did take us awhile to agree to differ about (many) things without getting personal. We were never best friends, but always enjoyed each other's company. Indeed, when I finally came out to family and friends as a gay man, he was one of the first to say it made no difference, even quoting yours truly in so far as to suggest that our differences do not make us different, only human.

A WORD TO THE WISE

Where did they all go,
days of childhood, where freedom
kept its word, any concerns
easily distracted by an enthusiasm
for new thing, new people
new avenues of thought less littered
with a narrow-mindedness
all too often found characterising
adulthood found wanting?

Where did they all go,
those days of emerging maturity
less fettered by the cares
and concerns of everyday survival.
still in the welcome grip
of curiosity, a sense of adventure,
an idealism tested
and found increasingly vulnerable
in as so-changing world?

Whatever happened
to halcyon days of early adulthood,
few leftover laurels
seen floating floods of opposition,
rejection and humiliation
touching base with needy conscience
and self-awareness, inciting
a rebel consciousness to explore ways
to make itself felt and heard?

Whatever happened
to that rebel in me, thinking to change
a world whose imperfections
are glossed over by a well-meaning
global consciousness, yet out
of touch with a common humanity
increasingly sensitive
to its much-divided politics and religions
all claiming to have answers?

No prescribed wisdom ever made less sense
than in any Here-and-Now


Copyright R. N. Taber 2019

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

The Yellow Balloon

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

Children across the world are expected to take its worst tantrums in their stride, but for how long…?

For the many caught up in its conflicts, the world must often seem a bleak place, any worthwhile future, for them at least, an all but impossible dream.

Of course, it is not all doom and gloom, but children should not have to snatch at happiness as and when they can; it should be the greater part of growing up. Yes, even playtime has its ups and downs, good times and bad, but that’s life, a learning curve for all of us at any age. 

True, the world today is a dangerous place, but children need to be reasonably prepared for, not scared of it. Besides, is not having to deal with parental and peer pressures enough without having to contend with being made to feel they are a disappointment for not fully participating in someone else’s second hand life or, far worse, struggling to survive a war zone? 

Whatever, indeed, happened to playtime?

THE YELLOW BALLOON 

Children
playing with a yellow balloon,
mothers calling   
back home, as a mocking wind 
snatches it from tiny fingers,
dispatching it to drift mottled skies
weepy with satire?

Children
chasing after a yellow balloon,
father calling
back home, but they play deaf
among innocent cries
inciting adventures, welcome respite
from secrets and lies

Children
trying to catch a yellow balloon
beyond either reach or ken,
no sense of direction, quickly
consumed by angry skies,
menaced by cloud figures waving
smoking guns

Children
observed in tears over a balloon
burst by a phoenix
rising from its everyday ashes
to heavens where sunlight
last seen glancing off shrapnel
slowly killing them

Children, in near and faraway places
picking up the pieces…

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

A Growing Sense of Where Reason Fears to Tread

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

As I grow old (born 1945) I can’t help wondering if I may well have made fewer mistakes in life had I put more trust in heartfelt sensibilities and less in the (arguably) devious designs of reason.

Whatever, what is done is done and can never be undone although (sometimes) compensated for if only in part…provided we have (or can find) the heart for it.

A GROWING SENSE OF WHERE REASON FEARS TO TREAD

Days, weeks, years,

stretching across a wasteland

like a disused rail track

where ghosts play

at mind games to confuse us

about time lines

Time lines, in a haze

of remembrance playing fast

and loose with Memory

where conscience

pulls our strings and leads us

into shadowy places

In shadowy places,

wandering as lost and alone

as a child whose parent,

but for one awful moment 

in time let fall the clinging hand

into unbearable space

An awful vacuum

this freedom once longed for

with, oh, such passion,

meant to fire the flames 

of ambition, not made scapegoat

for an untimely burn out

Responsibility, moral

obligations where bucks stop

at a scary self-searching

where none so blind as dare 

not see block any home truths

demanding a voice

Home truths, eroding

comfort zones, pulling rugs

from under feet bent

on standing up to be seen 

scoring points over alternatives

and so-called 'betters'

Alternatives, for better

or worse, we’ll never know

unless given a voice, 

allowed to speak, make a case

for setting mind-body-spirit free

from dogma's chains

Mind, body, human spirit

stretching across a wasteland

like a disused rail track

where ghosts play football 

with 'live' heads, scoring off-side

more often than not

Copyright R. N. Taber 2016, 2019

Marking time, Sapling, Waiting On Its Seasons

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

Today’s poem has not appeared on the blog since 2008 so I guess now is as good a time as any to give it a airing albeit a slightly revised version. 

I am in my late 60s now. Now and then I consider the discrepancy between what I have achieved and what I’d once hoped to achieve, and my heart sinks...until I consider various off-shoots of that ‘unfulfilled potential’ and then the tree doesn’t look half so bad after all.

MARKING TIME, SAPLING, WAITING ON ITS SEASONS

Youth, with dreamy eyes

and wind in the hair,

soaking up heaven’s store

of tears for cares

like leaves untimely fallen

on slim shoulders

Like a sapling in a breeze,

see it bend, never break;

watch leaves bud and grow;

now green, now red,

now gold for each mortal

breath it takes

Nor shall its season cease,

grown older, stronger,

a bold heart harbouring 

the finer seeds

of Creation for nature’s  

nurturing

Spirited tree, proud and free,

a living part of earth’s

finer tapestry, sheltering all

(no one’s enemy)

though they carve initials

on your body

Forever, tall and beautiful

in the mind’s eye;

where lashed to dark skies,

a freedom won

by egg cries sure to archive

its leafy passions

Potential in its prime, marking

time

  

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2011

[Note: An earlier version of this poem  appears in The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books 2004; 2nd (revised) e-edition in preparation.] 

A Perception of Ghosts

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

[Update, June 15th 2019: A reader says he is left 'very confused' by my use of the term 'posthumous conscious' so I will try and be clearer. Take my old English teacher , 'Jock' Rankin, where I went to school in 1956-64. He has had a profound influence on my life (and poetry) although I had no way of appreciating just how much so at the time.  He died some years ago, but a part of him lives on in me, just as it does his family, friends, and probably many other young people he taught. Knowingly or unknowingly, we influence others, either by word or deed, even both, thereby archiving a little bit of ourselves in them. 

I often refer to  'Jock' Rankin in my blogs; hopefully, he lives on here as well as in the minds of all those who knew him in one capacity or another, although they may not realize it at the time, or any time for that matter. So it goes on... each and every one of us sowing seeds in each other that will grow as part of the human continuum for as long as humanity survives, and given its basic instinct for survival, I suspect that is likely to exceed all expectation.]

Meanwhile...

Now, as I grow old(er) there are times when childhood  seems like yesterday and even leaves stirring in the wind carry its echoes to my ears; the stronger the wind, the stronger the echoes, now happy and excited, now weepy and anxious, as I cannot help but reflect how life is much the same...

A PERCEPTION OF GHOSTS 

North wind,

roughly raking the last glowing coals

of a wintry day

Birdsong,

faintly among the trees like an echo

through my years

like tuneless whistling noises 

made by a child failing

to impress peers that mock,

and run away, 

never to know the hurt to self-esteem

left to contend with cruelty 

in all shapes and forms

left roughly raking the last glowing coals

of a wintry day

Wind drops,

nature’s opera taking off on wings 

of light into a blueness

such as a child feels when playing 

with imaginary friends,

happy and sad at the same time 

for meeting reality halfway, 

creating a safe place, yet less safe 

for being wide open

to fantasies, deserted, by the same 

once on-screen trolls insinuate all defences 

to loneliness

South wind,

gently stirring the last glowing coals

of a sunny day

Birdsong,

as strong among the trees in the twilight

of my years as shrieks

of joy uttered by a child when birthdays

finally arrived, in such times

as family get-togethers were mixed

signals of such love

as the child craved, feasted on, 

yet always left hungry, 

never (quite) able to satisfy an awareness

of a growing maturity always found wanting

in its nurture

Human hearts,

engaging with changeable perceptions on time

in personal space

Copyright R. N. Taber 2013; 2021

[Note: This poem has been significantly revised since it first appeared on the blog in 2013.]