A Measure of Creativity OR Nature-Nurture, Life Forces for All Seasons

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

This poem first appeared on the blog in 2014. [I do not intend to repeat all earlier poems, but readers are welcome to explore the blog archives as indicated in the far right column of any blog page; poems published again here have been removed, and in some cases, revised.]

The cover for my collection On the Battlefields of Love (see the first pic below) was photographed by my friend Graham Collett, a graphic designer who also films and edits my YouTube channel, working wonders with my barely fit for purpose video camera; it shows the folly by the lake at Virginia Water just outside London. There was much evidence of repair work going on at the time that Graham had to Photoshop out to convey the bigger, better, picture. We were both struck by the sheer creative power of illusion; it was like hanging on to a dream and experiencing it at its very best only seconds before having to wake up and let go…

Virginia Water was first dammed and flooded in 1753. Until the creation of the great reservoirs, it was the largest man-made body of water in the British Isles; the woodlands surrounding it have been continuously planted since the middle of the 18th Century.

Nature, like human nature is both a life force for good and bad, yet predominantly for the good in the sense that both share a predilection and talent for nurture, since its earliest beginnings; for humanity,  it is left to the human spirit to engage with nurture; for better, for worse, depending on that old standby for inspiration (or excuse) - circumstances.

[Virginia Water: photos from the Internet]

A MEASURE OF CREATIVITY or NATURE-NURTURE, LIFE FORCES FOR ALL SEASONS

Like nature throughout history,

love takes on its worst fears,

act of immeasurable creativity

Glistening like a vision of eternity,

a sea of glad-sad tears

like nature throughout history

Home truths, the blackest comedy

imposed on we poor actors.
act of immeasurable creativity

Find Earth's last laugh on humanity

falling mostly on cloth ears
like nature throughout history

Watch how feisty skies effectively

feed on the world’s prayers,

act of immeasurable creativity

Find illusion but cascading prettily

down centuries of applause

like nature throughout history,
act of immeasurable creativity

(Virginia Water, UK. May 9th 2009)

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2009; 2020

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title 'A Measure of Creativity' in Tracking the Torchbearer by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2012.]

Victims

http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber

Domestic abuse can happen anywhere in the world at any time. More often than not family members and/or friends and/or neighbours and/or teachers and/or work colleagues may have suspicions. It is not a subject on which anyone should remain silent for fear of being wrong. Better to be proven wrong than let a wrong continue and say nothing, surely…? 

Domestic abuse is not uncommon in any society; men, women, children, it can happen to anyone. Yet, the same people that will protest about environmental and Human Rights abuses will often remain silent about domestic abuse.  Where is the logic in that and what excuses can there be? Yes, well, plenty of excuses; even love - to its everlasting shame - is one of the masks perpetrators of domestic abuse often wear.

VICTIMS

Brightness falling from the sky

like summer rain, makes flowers grow,

the world shine like rainbow trout

on a school kid's line at a local stream

who should be in the football team,

but his dad's beat him black and blue

where ma's laid out on the kitchen floor,

can't take any more

Brightness falling from the sky

like acid rain, making the trees cry

as leaves die like fishes in the sea,

collector specimens neatly laid out

under glass for generations to see
how dead things appear to suggest

a history of human deprivation for want
of a better education

Shadows, like corpses on the grass;

skylark, a near forgotten sound at a spot

where revelations in the clay suggest

a once-busy stream in a world earmarked

for the winning team, the rest of us

neatly laid out under corporate glass,

(preserved for a new century, a new class)

victims of abuse

Copyright R. N. Taber 2000; 2016

[Note: This poem has been slightly revised from an earlier version that appears in 1st eds. of Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001; revised ed. in e-format in preparation.]

Christmas, the Great Pretender

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

Even as a child, I had a love-hate relationship with Christmas.Like most if not all children, I loved the festivities and (of course) the presents, but my father would always find a way to spoil Christmas for me and drive home the conviction that it was all a beautiful fantasy, a dream, and sooner or later needs must reality start biting again, fiercer even than any winter.

Regular readers will know I am not a religious person although you don’t need to be religious to appreciate the spirit of Christmas. Religion - Christianity or whatever - is meant to be about peace and love, a fact history may well be inclined to dispute. Whatever, there is a feel-good factor about religious celebration that I suspect its founders would not disapprove. For all the evil and hardship in the world, there is also much good, and for that we must be thankful and spread the word.

The human spirit may well be the epitome of stoicism and resilience, but both feed on hope and the kind of inspiration we see all around us in good people everywhere, no matter their colour, creed, sex or sexuality.

The likes of terrorists and psychopaths such as Islamic State, Boko Haram, and Al Qaeda cannot hope to get the better of the finer human spirit for all the dastardly acts they may inflict upon mind and body.  Small comfort for their victims, but light, at least, at the end of a long, dark tunnel; a light their attackers will never see for all they may attempt to call upon religion to excuse their behaviour.

Religion for the true believer is an inspirational way of life not an excuse for barbarism nor, for that matter, is it an excuse for anti-social behaviour at any level.

How many religious celebrations, I wonder, are enjoyed by those simply playing at religion and/or hedging their bets regarding mortality …?

CHRISTMAS, THE GREAT PRETENDER

Rudolph, the red nose reindeer

has a very shiny nose,

and makes a wish every year

that on Christmas Eve

it won’t just be cold, but snows,

creating a Christmas world

of peace and love, too rarely   

more real than a beautiful dream

painted on a card

Hey, there, Frosty the Snowman,

Santa’s on his way

so be sure to listen for jingle bells

for quite possibly his elves

have loaded a surprise for you

to ease the bleak midwinter,

rework every child’s imagination,

sure to invite even the holly and ivy 

in on the magic

Christmas time, mistletoe and wine,

cause for celebration,

no matter our social, cultural, sexual

identity or even religion

for the Spirit of Christmas brings

hope, love and peace

to mind, body and spirit, shades

of darkness transcended into angels

on wings of light

Oh, Christmas tree, oh, Christmas tree,

as good a metaphor for fantasy any…

Copyright R. N. Taber 2013

L-i-f-e, Beachcomber Tales

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Now and then, readers of one or other (even both) my poetry blogs  - all ages, both sexes, gay and straight - email to say they are in London or coming to London and would like to meet up for a chat (about anything and everything) over a few drinks or a meal. I always enjoy these get-togethers, have met up with some very interesting people and keep in touch with many of them if only by email. So feel free to contact me any time, even if a meet-up is never likely to be on the cards. While I don’t allow comments on the blogs, I will always reply to emails; a lively exchange of views and opinions is always enjoyable.

Meanwhile...

'There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat. And we must take the current when it serves or lose our ventures.' -  William Shakespeare

Dreams and daydreams are more a part of us than we care to admit, carefully – or even carelessly - stored away in some shadowy corner of the mind waiting for sandmen to come along and explore, rather like a children  rummaging through the contents of an attic and turning it into an adventure as only children can. Quite possibly, too, they instinctively recognize the worth or worthlessness of whatever they find there…as only children can.

Like it or not, few if any of us leave childhood – or at least its natural instincts – behind altogether; naivety and innocence may be tiresome from an adult perspective, while both harbour an honesty unfettered by the so-called ‘wisdom’ that comes with maturity and invariably urges discretion if not total restraint…for (our) survival’s sake if nothing (or no one) else’s.

L-I-F-E, BEACHCOMBER TALES

Sun going down,

leaving our daydreams to float

on waves of twilight

where some are sure to drown,

others washed up

on green-gold shores of infinity,

the rest left drifting

on a vast sea of darkness,

flotsam and jetsam

of human nature to be claimed

in the passing of time

by that old beachcomber, Sleep,

and re-appraised,

reworked by sandmen, guardians

of our secret selves

Twilight dimming,

anticipating thoughts drowning

beneath wintry waves

of abandoned hope, ambition,

darker aspects of nature

and human nature sure to drag

the human condition

into an unfathomable despair

were they not there

to watch over us, keep us safe

in dimensions of Being

beyond its everyday assumptions,

painting picture-poems

on closed eyes anxious to open

closed minds

A Smiley Moon

overseeing black holes for worms

and makeshift coffins

made up of pillows, duvets and sheets

where monsters lurk, waiting

to pounce unawares on consciences

left exposed and vulnerable

in the absence of any conscious effort

to make the kind of excuses

we need to half-believe in or spiral

into a state of half-living,

inciting us to try and beat The Reaper

as his own game,

losers all, we bit players in the greater

scheme of things

Sun resurfacing,

lending passage to lion and lamb

and all of nature’s own

going about the business of living

much as we human beings

if more protective and protecting

of its species and spaces

in spite of the world’s demanding

of Earth Mother far more

than its share of natural resources,

but all’s fair…(so they say)

and the human beast needs must

be the best of a bad bunch

occupying Her territories, fighting

over them for centuries

Cold light of day,

taking us through everyday motions

many if not most of us

think of as living, taking for granted

every ripple, every wave,

carrying us to the very edge of a world

created for ourselves,

all-comers welcome while remaining

in their seats lest they rock

this Ship of Fools chartered by ‘betters’

to take the rest of us

towards a landfall some call ‘Heaven’

where no going down

of the sun, no pillow promises made

at dawn cruelly broken

Selfies, everywhere

like dogs at a bitch on heat inciting

priority attention

as becomes nature’s motivation to fill in

time’s blank spaces

with living, loving, thriving species,

meant to mature,

(since such is the cycle of natural life)

by filling in their own blanks

with living, loving, thriving issues,

and any black holes

with light enough to show we were here,

we bit players, we flotsam

and jetsam, we bringers of all history

coasting shores of infinity

Copyright R. N. Taber 2015

Home Truths, Martyrs to Love

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A reader once got in touch to say he feels such a fool because he can’t help loving his girlfriend even though she continues to see other guys. 

That same day, there was an email in my In Box from a gay guy relating how he could not get even begin to get his head around his boyfriend's wanting an open relationship. While I, personally, would walk away, I do not underestimate either the power of love  or of well-meaning (if often ill-advised) pressure from family and/or friends - reminding us of our various 'responsibilities'; in other words, we mustn't be seen to let the side down. (Better to let ourselves down...?)

What can I say except these are among many men and women around the world who, for centuries, have settled for less - sometimes far less - in a relationship than, at heart, they desire and need. Some people, of course, can live with open relationships; for others (like me) it is asking too much.

It has to be one of the saddest facts of life that many potential partners cannot always see the other person’s take on love or…each other. Yet, many of us will settle for a one-sided relationship than no relationship at all, and the threat of loneliness; the latter reason perhaps why the world is full of martyrs to love.

Relationships between two people can only work if both partners want it to work, and neither should forget that everyone has a choice.

HOME TRUTHS, MARTYRS TO LOVE

You warned me not to fall in love with you,

that it was sex alone, never love, spurring us on,

for love is only for fools (you said) its course

set and steered by wet dreams; we worldly types

know better (you said) while tonguing words

of intimacy as if rites for a benign conspiracy

Keeping up appearances, it was nothing more

(never love) fuelling inspiration. Gladly I’d let

your fine body take mine, clung to the hope

that you’d come to love me, despairing as each

frantic, mindless, orgasm ripped through us

like that double-edged sword we call honesty

A culture of hypocrisy concealing human needs,

never quite able to satisfy the loneliness it feeds

  

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007; 2015

National Curriculum OR Connecting with Wannabe Heroes

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When I worked in public libraries as a librarian, it seemed that children and young people were frequently given homework projects on the subject of war. To confront them with the horrors of war has to be a good thing. However, when they were telling me all about their respective projects, enthusiasm would nearly always stem from getting a buzz from the idea of war rather than being appalled by its consequences…

A parent once complained to me that her son wept while repeating a teacher’s graphic description of how a relative had suffered a lingering death from ‘undignified’ wounds sustained during WW2. “No child should hear such things!” she protested. The ‘child’, though, was 16 years-old and (surely?) deserved to know that war just ain’t like it is in the movies.

I well recall being caught out by a teacher engaging in whispers with a classmate. I was invited to share the subject of our discourse with the whole class. I confessed that we had agreed that the lesson was boring. i expected a severe reprimand at the very least. To my surprise, the teacher merely shrugged. Learning, Taber;' he said, is the key to life. You can take it and use it or leave it and lose it, up to you. Now, where were we ...?'  The incident was more years ago than I care to remember, but  I recall it as if it were yesterday, and glad I am that I do; of course, I didn't have a clue at the time what he meant and was simply relieved to be let off so lightly. 

NATIONAL CURRICULUM or CONNECTING WITH WANNABE HEROES

Today we have History

and World War Two

spills across the classroom,

filling every trench

with a stench of homesickness

and blood, desks dripping

pools of mud, where elbows

nudge each other,

half an eye on the clock

as we get stuck in

Under fire, bayonets fixed,
human clocks ticking;

somewhere, there's birdsong
and sunshine overtaking
rain clouds where Death’s face
pours acid tears
on an atomic bomb package
in texts selected
to temper any gung-ho

perspective

Science, and time to discover

more about ticking clocks

Copyright R. N. Taber 2001; 2015

[Note: An earlier version of this poem  appears in Words of Wisdom, Poetry Today (Forward Press) 2001 and  First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002; alternative title added 2015.]

Wannabe Hero or the Real Thing?

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

A 'regular' blog reader has contacted me via the the Comments Box to ask that I repeat the link to an interview I gave about my poetry to a postgraduate student of multi-media journalism who emailed to ask if I would mind being the subject of a project. Benjamin Richter, a very talented young man, and I have his permission to post the link on my blog. As the blog reader did not give an e-mail address, I am posting it here in the hope that he or she will read today's post. You may need to copy the link into your browser to access:

https://r224e31251.racontr.com/index.html

We all have our own take on dreams, psychiatrists not the least. Many if not most of us like to think of ourselves as - subconsciously at least -  painters of our own dreams rather than simply subjected to whatever some proverbial Sandman happens to dish us. Some years ago, someone put to me that the greater part of what we know as wakefulness is but a dream, and the greater part of what we call sleep, a living nightmare. An interesting hypothesis, I thought at the time, and wondered how we would be expected to tell to which mind-body and spirit truly belongs...?

I guess it's much as my old English Teacher, 'Jock' Rankin used to say, "You can set your mind to anything if you try, Taber, but don't always expect to succeed, and never forget there is always a  price to pay one way or another."

For the record, I am still trying...

WANNABE HERO OR THE REAL THING?

I've painted pictures
only I will ever get to see,
an alternative reality
to the world surrounding me,
confounding me, creating
an alternative persona to one 
I am meant to be

I have lived in pictures
where only I will ever go,
a surrealist panorama
of the world surrounding me,
confounding me,
creating the kind of person
I 'm not meant to be

Ah, but in every picture
I'll never (really) get to see
a vibrant wood
for a heavily painted tree
or sail an ocean
for expecting its every wave 
to answer to me

I might even mistake
cloud shapes for skylarks,
even missing out 
on nature's other songs 
for starry heavens 
inviting a poet's (wry) take
on life and death

There are no people
in my pictures, smiling,
waving, kissing...
only ghosts, ever gesturing
loss, regret, and pain,
daring me to make the best 
of a sorry world

I archive the pictures
only I will ever get to see
an alternative reality
to all that's surrounding us,
(still) confounding us,
making of us what we will,
we sleepwalkers

Though the memory
exhibit visions of the mind,
imaging what lies
behind the world's chaos
and our confusion,
let's not mistake art for life,
risk missing out

Copyright R. N. Taber 2015

Christmas Revisited

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Now, every year, for many years, I have written a Poem for Christmas that I send to friends instead of a Christmas card.  They are rarely if even conventional Christmas poems, not least because I am not religious person, just like to keep in touch with people and cards are so commercial at a time when this should be the least of our concerns, and many people can’t really afford them anyway. I used to send cards just to keep in touch and let people know I was thinking of them, but nowadays we have e-mail…

Why do I write a Poem for Christmas at all? Well, regular readers will know that, although I am not religious, I like to think I have a strong sense of spirituality. Only, I find it in nature rather than any religion, especially as religions are so divisive. (We should respect different points of view, not attack them.) Born on the winter solstice, I dare say there is an element of pagan in me too.

For many people, their religion is a club, ‘Members Only’; it takes the spirit of religion to reach out to non-members too. Don't get me wrong. I respect religious points of view, simply cannot enter into them.

So here is my Poem for Christmas, 2014. Whoever and wherever you are, and whatever your Belief or non-Belief, it comes to you in the spirit of Love and Peace.

CHRISTMAS REVISITED

Clouds, like baggage

on a tramp’s back trudging the sky;

doom-gloom of winter

threatening to extinguish flames

at a roaring hearth,

humanity's way of creating shades 

of kindness

Ghosts, wistfully engaging

in a pillow fight in remembrance

of a Santa Claus

that betrayed every trust created

to reassure us

with mockery of the cruellest blasts

of winter

Snow, like white feathers

heaping accusations on doorsteps

and at windows

where humankind flirts with blame

long enough be acquitted

by cosy fantasies fuelling conscience

in home fires

Tramp in the sky falters

under a load growing heavier, Apollo

pondering whether or not

to join the pillow fighters, kill off

the best snowmen,

leave Christmas to the complacency

of religion  

Frost on the glass

creating a kaleidoscope of life’s pain

and pleasures, urging us

to dwell on the latter, believe

in happiness in spite

of a sorry world’s worst misgivings

about Christmas

Doom-gloom of winter

ever threatened by the fiercer flames

of a roaring hearth,

humanity's way of creating shades

of kindness to pass on

to the next generation in the spirit

of Christmas

Copyright R. N. Taber 2014

Christmas, Glossing Over Missed Opportunities

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

At this time of year, people often tell me they are so looking forward to Christmas because they see it as a reason for celebration and renewal, usually more in a temporal than religious sense, as if Christmas will make everything bad in their lives so much better, keeping up the momentum until New Year, and then…?

Too often, the bubble of make-believe is burst soon enough as January arrives with all the indifference to human potential of a Grim Reaper.

We may not be altogether masters of our own fate, but life is what we make it. Mind and body may well be subject to external influences, sometimes of the worst kind, but the human spirit is better than that, and deserves to be given its head. The inner self knows us better than we think we know ourselves, and more of us need to listen rather than turn a deaf ear in favour of false (if attractive) promises the world often makes but has no intention of keeping.

Christmas, like all religious festivals is too often seen as signposting a sanctuary or at least some respite or escape from the harsher elements of life threatening to overwhelm us. Rarely, in my experience, will religion remove the threat for long; we need to build on the spirit and spirituality of peace and love (religion may have its share of both, but no monopoly), not be afraid to ask for help, and make a better life for ourselves on terms we will not flinch from meeting, no matter whether they are unacceptable to those who think they know us better than we know ourselves.

CHRISTMAS, GLOSSING OVER MISSED OPPORTUNITIES

Rain soaking the shirt, jeans;

body responding freely

to Earth Mother’s call to live,

let live, and get real

Face upturned, glad to be out

getting wet, mind distracted;

domestic crises, work targets

and assessments wreaking

havoc (with the best intentions)

stifling that very inspiration

meant to persuade, encourage,

leaves us feeling like flies

feeding on garbage left out

for the bin men, fodder for stray

cats, dogs, homeless folks, waiting

for Christmas

Oh, we may have a job, home,

mortgage etcetera - but a life

to call our own…?

Some may beg to differ, thinking

through yet another staff rota

at supper or marking homework

once guests (finally) gone home

to snug beds, 1001 nights and more

besides of cramming heads,

misting-up eyes, asking questions,

stirring up more lies and half lies

meant to persuade, encourage, only

to leave us feeling like flies

on garbage left for the bin men

to dispose

Christmas comes, Christmas goes;

it’s the inner self knows best

how to make the most of a potential

too precious to waste

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2018

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title 'Waiting for Christmas' in A Feeling for the Quickness of Time, Assembly Books, 2005; revised ed. in e-format in preparation.]

Anatomy of Illusion

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

It often seems to me that everyday life is all about reading between lines, exposing rhetoric, making choices based on hunches…and hoping for the best.

ANATOMY OF ILLUSION

World keeps turning;

life choices

like everyday heroes

exposing tricks of light

for shadows

World keeps turning;

its worst divisions

hosting jaded heroes

performing tricks of light

among shadows

World keeps turning

open minds,

its comic strip heroes

chasing Job’s comforters

into shadows

World keeps turning;

room at the top

for air brushed heroes

blaming the worst selfies

on shadows

World keeps turning;

Earth Mother

inciting its heroes

to challenge illusions cast

by shadows

Shadows, infiltrating

a world turning

on everyday heroes

tripping the light fantastic

into chaos

Copyright R. N. Taber 2014

Lines on a Carthorse

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

I wonder...how many of us pause every now and then to look at something (or someone) and see something (or someone) else?

Photo (Internet)

LINES ON A CARTHORSE

Green patch, bursts of sunshine,

retired carthorse munching

contentedly away at a spread

of dandelions

Light breeze in a solitary ash

washing down a dusty heart

with tactile thoughts inclined

to haunt like romantic songs

played on your guitar dedicated

to the pair of us, could well

be now, fancying that I glimpse

a lock of red hair at the edge

of a teasing, passing cloud whose

oh, so-familiar ears, eyes,

nose, lips, turned to another

I didn’t see what was happening,

lost sight of listening, forgot 

to look at what I saw, mistook hazy

infringements of personal space

for a lazy contentment, happiness

unaffected by the world beyond

that perimeter fence I constructed

with loving care, either assuming

we'd want the same things or maybe

too scared to ask, unknowingly

afraid of getting it wrong, ending

up alone

Retired carthorse, last seen munching

on dandelions by a solitary walker

shot down in a green patch by bursts

of sunshine

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004; 2010

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in Observing Life, Anchor Books [Forward Press] 2000 and The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004; revised version appears in CC & D poetry magazine, Scars Publications, U S., 2010.]

Looking out for Christmas, Anyone?

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

Yes, Christmas will be with us in less than a month. However, not everyone enjoys a happy Christmas. For homeless people and others down on their luck, it is a time much like any other time...unless we can somehow make it special for them too.

Years ago, I met a homeless gay man who had been physically ejected from his family home on Christmas Day after his father discovered he is gay. This Christmas, I know of a couple on the run from their families who disapprove of their relationship because they are on opposing sides of the same religion. [If God doesn't mind, why should anyone else?]

No matter what religious festival is being celebrated at whatever time of year, a little understanding goes a long way. It is, after all, part of the pact we make with love. And what worth any religion without love in it? I am told that the God in whom so many people believe is a God of Love. Take love out of the prayer and ritual and all I imagine He sees is someone enjoying an ego trip.

We can't always expect to understand those we love and may not always agree with them, but that doesn't (or shouldn't) mean we love them less. It has always been one of humankind's greater tragedies that too many of us let socio-cultural-religious traditions dictate how we live, even love.

At the heart of every religious celebration is (or should be) love in all its shapes and forms...or what is there left that any God would have anyone celebrate?  

LOOKING OUT FOR CHRISTMAS, ANYONE?

Come, hear the bells of Christmas

though lost, alone, in the snow,

recalling times past when we’d leave

a card for Santa, hot cocoa

and a mince pie, try to sleep while

listening out for reindeer hooves

pounding across the sky, a cheery cry

ringing loud and clear for children

everywhere to hear, know (for sure)

that we are loved, no matter who

we are or how our lives shaping up,

whether or no we’re finding signs

of Christmas or much the same cruelty

(or worse) than the day before

Peering ahead down an endless road,

lost souls, alone, no place to go

till time (at last) to reclaim gifts of love

and peace, count blessings, let bells

speak for us, echo high and low, anxious

to share out the joys of Christmas,

fearful for lost souls looking for refuge

from a bitter-sweet winter snow
where no pretty flowers able to grow
yet nurtured out of sight and light
by Earth Mother, chief carer for a world
beyond even mind-body-spirit,
where all the odds stacked high against
mutual understanding or trust

Copyright R. N. Taber 2003; 2013

[Note: This poem has been slightly revised since it first appeared in Christmas Remembered, Anchor Books [Forward Press] 2003 and subsequently in The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004]

Real-Life Heroes and Popcorn Soldiers

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

I know I have said this before but it never ceases to amaze me how, when terrible clips of deaths and injuries suffered during the war in Afghanistan are shown on TV News, some people - especially children and young people - instead of being appalled, become excited, as if they were watching a war movie!

Oh, but it’s a sad reflection on our times if we cannot get across to everyone how to discriminate between fact and fiction.

REAL-LIFE HEROES AND POPCORN SOLDIERS

Dust, sand and blood

on his boots;

dust, sand and blood

on his uniform;

blood, sweat and tears

on his face;

blood, sweat and tears

in his eyes;

only a quiet heart kept

clean if not safe;

as for more of the same,

bags of them

No dust, sand or blood

on designer shoes;

no dust, sand or blood

on custom tee shirts;

no blood, sweat or tears

in high places;

no blood, sweat or tears

in eyes glued to TV,

only the armchair soldier

biting popcorn bullets;

as for more of the same,

bags of them

Copyright R. N. Taber, 2010

The Last Long Hauler Out Of E-Bay

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

Some people like to hedge their bets regarding what if anything they might face once they have ‘shuffled off this mortal coil’. (That’s straight out of Hamlet, of course. Good ole Shakespeare. Sounds so much better better than just being dead, doesn’t it?)

Me? Well, I was never much of a gambler so I guess I’ll just have to take my chances with nature…

THE LAST LONG HAULER OUT OF E-BAY

Bid for a ticket,

now halfway to (Heaven?)

angels rushing by - no

less anxious than I to see

the end of the line

Looking down, I see

people on hands and knees

in poverty and pain - far

more anxious than I to see

if God’s at home

Looking out, I feel

a devil’s breath on my face,

smell incense burning

like a pot-pourri of roses

and grow anxious

Bid for a ticket,

now halfway to (Heaven?);

angels rushing past - no

less anxious than I to make up

for lost time

[From: Accomplices to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007]

Some Days Smack Of Burning Rubber

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

[Update 9/6/17: After weeks of heated campaigning and debate, the UK has a hung Parliament, the worst possible result for everyone because now the Brexit path ahead is unclear and uncertain. No one likes uncertainty, least of all the financial markets. I have to confess, I am very disappointed with the result. At heart, I am no Conservative, but I voted for and hoped for a Tory majority simply because I believe passionately in Brexit. However, I also believe passionately in democracy. Britain is divided, many people uncertain about what they want or expect in the immediate years ahead, No political figure here appears to command the level of universal trust, respect and loyalty that a Prime Minister (or any leader) needs and deserves. Brexit or no Brexit, though, we can - as always in the political arena - but hope for the best, and get on with or daily lives.] RT

We all have them from time to time...

So when was your last really, really BAD day?

SOME DAYS SMACK OF BURNING RUBBER

Shadows like ghosts burning rubber on the highway

come dead of night

One mischief-making ghost gets to play at navigator

for old times sake

Driver takes a shortcut across a field of bad dreams

sprouting like four-leaf clover

Ghosts like shadows ready to drive a hard bargain

with the living for their favours

Driver on a Big Wheel screaming for the fun of a fair

under an acid rain of spreadsheets

Driver on a shrinking wheel, Gulliver lost in Lilliput

without a map

Highway coursing the driver’s veins as sure as boards

turning an actor inside out

Driver’s eyes opening. Wheel of Life resumes a pace

unworthy of a ghost

Home stretch, final act, driver’s waking up to a kinder

endgame than limbo…?

Shadows like ghosts burning rubber on the highway

come dead of night

  

Copyright R. N. Taber 2009

[Note: this poem is one of 100+ that will appear in my new collection Tracking the Torchbearer due for publication by late February/early April; like my previous collections, it will be divided into (7) themed sections for easy reading.]