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

Mother Love

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

[Update March 11 2018]: Today is Mother's Day here in the UK so I am posting this poem for sons and daughters everywhere.]

When I was in Brighton the other day, I kept thinking (gladly and fondly, not in the least sadly) of the times my mother used to take me there for day trips when I was a child. Someone contacted me to ask what I am  thinking about for much of the time as I stroll along the beach in the video. Now you know:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eZLV23r6NdQ&t=12s
(For anyone interested, find more videos at: http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber )

Now, today's poem has appeared in several poetry publications since 2001 and, for obvious reasons, is a favourite of mine. I wrote it for Mother’s Day here in the UK as a tribute to mothers worldwide, not least my own mother who died at the age of just 59 during that long, hot summer of 1976. I was 30 years-old then, and still miss her. She was OK with my being gay while confirming my gut instinct that I should not broach the subject with other family members.

Now, mother love isn’t just about mothers of course; there are many women (and men) who, for various reasons, may be called upon to take on the maternal role to children other than their own; like birth mothers across the world, they, too, rise to the challenge and well deserve our love, admiration, respect and gratitude.

Ah, but we should never forget (as I fear we often do) that mothers are only human; we should give them some space sometimes, and never take them for granted.

MOTHER LOVE

I hear an angel crying
for the joy of a child newly born;
a lovely, gentle human being
to live and love, laugh and mourn
through tears of its own;
I hear an angel singing for the joy
of a child newly grown;
a lovely, gentle human being
risen above worldly troubles down
to human foibles

I see an angel winging
for the joy of someone’s passing;
a lovely, gentle human being
taken at last, well deserving of rest
among the best - lark risen
like an angel, a measure of joy
at a new dawning, on wings
of song, a lovely, gentle motion
at Earth Mother’s bidding, glorious
to behold

Mother love, through grief
as well as joy, a gentle tale told us
at each bedtime like a quilt
to keep us warm, we children
of Earth, much as orphans
in a storm ever seeking sanctuary
from acid rain as the worst
of human nature pours divisions
on a world ever challenging its faith
in Everyman

Copyright R. N. Taber 2002; 2012

[Note: An earlier version if this poem appears in First Person Plural by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2002]

Caught On CCTV

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

This poem was written in 2006. It first appeared in an American poetry magazine and subsequently in my collection. It has been requested today by ‘Marian and Peter’ with whose wry comment to the effect that ‘nothing changes much, does it?’ I can but agree. Even so, it is down to each and every one of us to effect some  change for the better and let the ripples spread...

CAUGHT ON CCTV

Men and women, every shape, size, colour,
on the street…
crowding each other, elbowing a passage,
nobody apologising

Man in a suit, pocket picked by a kid about
fourteen…
Woman in a short skirt, fumbled by a guy
getting married soon

Children wanting this and that, parents look
scared to say, ‘No!’
Cop on the beat, deciding… no pay packet
worth this hassle?

Dark faces and lighter stuck in poems about
racism…
Light fingers and darker rewriting bylaws
for drug free zones

Child runs in front of a car, tyres screaming,
people crying blue murder…
Driver doesn’t even stop, a few folks rushing
to help, more hurrying on

People - all shapes, sizes, colours, lips moving
on deaf-blind streets

Copyright R. N. Taber 2007

[First published in Accomplices to Illusion by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2007.]