Nature Study

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

Today’s poem has been slightly but significantly revised from the original version that appears in my collection, Love and Human Remains, Assembly Books, 2001

Now, a reader writes in to sat yesterday’s poem was “... a typical over-reaction to the amount of media attention given to fluke weather conditions this year...”

I usually respect intelligent points of view that conflict with my own, but this is hardly an intelligent response to a global crisis... well, is it?

NATURE STUDY

Brightness, falling from the sky
like summer rain, makes the flowers grow,
and the world shine
like rainbow trout on a school kid’s line
at a local stream,
who should be playing in a football team,
but his dad beat him
black and blue, with ma laid out
on the kitchen floor, and he’s not ready yet
to even take a shower

Brightness, falling from the sky
like acid rain, making the trees cry, as leaves
die like fishes everywhere
and other species, carefully laid out
under glass for science
and future generations to reason,
(or agree to differ)
how killing off a species smacks of depravation,
but biology, that’s education

Shadows, much like corpses
on the ground where skylarks once flew,
now a forgotten sound
at a spot where revelations in the clay
suggest a once-busy stream
in a world that aspired to give progress
a good run for its money,
no hint of humanity neatly laid out
under corporate glass for its endangered species
to argue rhetoric and excuses

High time humankind held Progress to its word,
encouraging a kinder, safer world...?...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2001; rev. 2021

The Zen of Yellow Roses

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When a loved one dies, a part of us dies also. Yet, my experience of death has been that, even as time passes, the worst of grief fades, and memory may even start to play tricks on us, love sees us continuing to share in the experience of loving and being loved, the quality of our inner life is all the better for that.  

In the language of flowers the yellow rose is for remembrance. What better icon then for the mind to click on at birthdays, anniversaries, whenever loss makes itself especially felt, than a yellow rose, and let flower the bitter-sweet joy of a happy memory risen above its thorns?

This poem is a kenning.

THE ZEN OF YELLOW ROSES or 

I bring truth

where imagination would feed

on fear and speculation,

engage with those seeking comfort

and reassurance

in far darker places than even

Orpheus searching

for his lost love in the bowels

of the Earth

I combat the terrors

of sleepless nights spent tossing

and turning

in early hours with no respect

for human dignity

or a desperation feeding

on such crumbs of hope

as left out for birds in winter

at its worst

I bring a lasting sense

of peace to mind, body and spirit,

where shadows

gather like key conspirators

with intent to kill,

yet kept at bay by a natural

instinct for survival,

struggle though it may against

hellish odds

As a rose its thorns, to pain I rise above,

who am Remembrance-Peace-Love

Copyright R. N. Taber 2012

Nobody Listens to Ghosts

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

Now, readers get in touch from time to time to pour scorn on my ‘preoccupation’ with ghosts while others endorse an affinity with the past and its subsequent influences on present and future behaviour (for better or worse) both from a personal and global point of view.

I believe we are all subject to a posthumous consciousness to which we can choose to pay attention or ignore, feel inspired by past achievements (including any bookmarked ‘failure’) or simply confirm our worst suspicions.

Whatever, let the inner ear and eye have its way, and any of us may well identify a ghost at his or her shoulder urging we listen and learn.

On a personal level, it is easy if only because the ghost/s in question will have helped make us who we are; on socio-cultural-religious level, though, how many of our so-called 'betters' listen and hear, look and see...?

Maybe those of us who never listen to our ghosts need to try it sometime?

NOBODY LISTENS TO GHOSTS

Stranger

on a garden fence, watching

flowers growing,

can’t decide on the best

for the picking

and taking home, then cocks

an ear to a passing ghost,

pleading, for all our sakes, leave them

alone

Teacher

at a local school desk, watching

children growing,

can’t decide on the best

candidates for success

(perhaps even fame) then cocks

an ear to a passing ghost

pleading, for all our sakes, treat them

the same

Cleric

on a classic high horse, watching

everyone listening,

can’t decide on the most

likely to want grooming

for paradise, then cocks an ear

to a passing ghost

pleading, for all our sakes, leave them

a choice

Politician

on a popular soap box, watching

audience reaction,

can’t decide on the best

cues for winning

an election, then cocks an ear

to a passing ghost

pleading, for all our sakes, talk down

speculation

Ghosts

in passing storm clouds, watching

a world in chaos

unable to agree on the best

strategy for achieving

lasting peace, turning cloth ears

to its children

pleading, for all our sakes, come good

for us

Copyright R. N. Taber 2014

Turning Point OR Time to Move into the Fast Lane

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

Today’s poem is, yes, another villanelle; an earlier version appeared in an anthology, Soulful  Emotions, Poetry Now [Forward Press] 2003 and subsequently in my collection.

Looking out and not being a part of things can make a day pass very slowly.

Looks like it’s decision time…

This poem is a villanelle.

TURNING POINT or TIME TO MOVE INTO THE FAST LANE

Time, it goes slow,

ticking like clock faces 

at a lonely window

Seasons come and go;

world, its shadow chases;

time, it goes slow

Tears may well flow

for a love the mind places

at a lonely window

Oh, dare not follow

where the pulse races ... ?

Time, it goes slow

Heart gouged hollow

as the beast, Fear, surfaces

at a lonely window

Come, adrenaline. flow,

put life through its paces!

Time, it goes slow
at a lonely window

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books,  2004.]