Footprints In A Field Of Dreams

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

Today’s post is duplicated on both my general and gay-interest blogs.

Many thanks to those readers who have been in touch with kind words about my latest YouTube video filmed in the Memorial Garden in London’s Grosvenor Square created in memory of the British victims of the 9/11 attacks. One lady has asked me to repeat the direct link:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bF9KHwjC6zg

And if it doesn’t work, just go to my YouTube channel:

http://www.youtube.com/rogerNtaber

Meanwhile...

How many times, I wonder, do we ask ourselves why, oh, why do we bother and just what is it all for?

FOOTPRINTS IN A FIELD OF DREAMS

The world, it’s so big;
we, we’re so small,
and, oh, what’s the point
of it all?

The flowers, they grow
only to rise and fall,
and, oh, what’s the point
of it all?

Some people succeed
where others fail
though they try so hard
at it all;
others, they struggle on
at hardship’s call,
the most deserving among
us all

I look from my window
and feel so small
but, oh, that’s the point
of it all;
expanding its parameters,
walking tall,
and where doesn’t matter
at all

I’ve watched flowers die
where their petals fall
but, oh, that’s the point
of it all

It’s love peace and beauty,
though they be fragile
will see us win our wars
after all

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011

Past-Present-Future, Time Traveller

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

I can be whimsical, even quirky in some poems. Some readers enjoy this, some hate it while it would appear that yet others can even feel inspired.

Today’s poem has not appeared on the blog since 2008. I have been asked to repeat it by ‘Angela’ who has been in touch to say, ‘...it inspired [me] to start tracing [my] family tree, with such amazing results that I am now passionately into genealogy.’

Good luck with that, Angela.

PAST-PRESENT-FUTURE, TIME TRAVELLER

One day I visited a churchyard
looking for a gravestone;
I found it, but only after hours
foraging among weeds;
I knelt down and cleared away
years of moss and grime;
in time, I could even make out
a legend, dates, a name

I felt cold, cheated, no feelings
of compassion for the dead;
here lay a total stranger, albeit
of my family line (so what?);
it filled a box on the family tree;
the rest, but photographs,
letters, and a diary with pages
faded or missing

I’d found what I was looking for
so why linger there?
I tried to leave. My legs refused
to do as I wanted;
I couldn’t move, even after a few
conspiratorial drops of rain;
then the stone opened like a door,
and I needed no telling

I entered, began feeling my way
along a gloomy tunnel;
in a light at the end stood a man,
his features obscured;
as I closed in, he spoke. I strained
to hear a choked voice
saying it was ages since anyone
had sought him out

He said I had the family likeness
and it meant a lot to see;
then he was gone and I was left
staring at a gravestone;
that day I visited a churchyard
looking for family,
I found it, and was infinitely
glad I’d come

Copyright R. N. Taber 2008

Among Games People Play

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

We see politicians and religious leaders at it all the time, but can any of us say in all honesty that we have never played the blame game?

 AMONG GAMES PEOPLE PLAY

There's a secret game people play,

that rarely stays a secret very long;

before you know it, they'll leak it,

see gossip machines into overdrive

It’s a so-nasty game people play,

that nearly always gets (far) worse

before any signs of getting better

for anyone whose head in its noose

It’s a so-sorry game people play

that must (invariably) end in tears,

 its losers left cut to the quick,

while rare, a ring-leader who cares

It’s a so-lonely game people play,

(needing to be one of an in-crowd)

eager to point invisible fingers

at human kindness going belly-up

It’s a game we all love to deplore,

yet who among us can honestly say 

we've not played gossip machines,

regardless of any risks to overdrive?

It’s the blame game people play,

deemed as good a diversion as any

from errors of their own ways

(masks mistaken for friendly faces)

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011

Universal Soldier

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

Today’s poem has appeared on the blog twice; in 2007 and 2009. I am repeating it again for no other reason than I feel a need to let off steam.  Hopefully, new readers and those who never have time to browse the blog archives will enjoy the poem and regular readers won’t mind becoming reacquainted with it. Mind you, I cannot (and don’t) expect everyone to like every poem I write...

I am coping with hormone therapy for my prostate cancer, but with some difficulty. I dread going shopping on my own. Some days, it seems that everywhere I go I am a target for abuse, the more so for refusing to take being treated badly with a nod and a smile as if that’s perfectly okay. I can’t wait to get home, sometimes close to tears and falling apart, to let several cups of tea help put me back together again. [Mind you, my mother did warn me that as you get older, you become more and more invisible...] Oh, well it is what you come to expect when you live in some areas of London. So why don’t I moved away? Well, I can’t afford to, and besides why should I?

What is it about humankind, I often wonder, that our need and desire for peace of mind is invariably undermined by someone else’s appetite for conflict? I guess the trouble is, the latter often if not always provokes the same in us.

It doesn’t even take a war, not here in London anyway. You might glare at someone for nearly knocking you flying because they are on their mobile phone so you are expected to get out of their way, but weren’t quite quick enough, and the next minute you are on the receiving end of a stream of verbal abuse. Or you are crossing the road and someone walks right in front of you causing you to stumble. (It is your fault, of course.) Or you are on an escalator at a London Underground station and someone in a hurry pushes you so you fall but (hopefully) avoid a serious accident. You protest and are either ignored or, again, verbally abused for being in the way. Or you are coming out of a shop, and some cyclist who thinks he or she has every right to ride on a busy pavement sends you sprawling and rides on without a care. By the time you are nearly home, the slightest thing is likely to trigger rage, and then someone suggests you need anger management.

An average week (if not day) in the life of a pensioner in London...

Yesterday a little lad about 6 years-old was playing on the floor in a store where I was queuing. Apparently, I knocked his head with my basket. The mother laid into me verbally as if I had done it on purpose. She demanded I apologise in such a way that I stormed out of the store without purchasing my items rather than stay within an inch of the woman and her children another second. Maybe she was right and I was wrong. Whatever, it was the last straw in a chain of events that made me feel like going to war with the entire human race; end-game, annihilation.

Today has to be a better day...Well doesn’t it...?

UNIVERSAL SOLDIER

Wrestling in the womb
with thoughts I cannot know,
feelings unable to show,
I start to grow…
the way of all humanity
that’s gone before, a personality
and identity to call my own
though I take my place
in a world anxious for a face,
to place here, there, 
within the easier confines 
of a history classroom taught, 
and purpose-built

Wrestling in the womb
with thoughts I cannot know,
feelings unable to show,
I continue to grow…
a microcosm of all human
endeavour, facing the complexities
of fate without a murmur,
one to one with God
without fear of the world’s
goading icons, relishing centuries
of silence brought soundly
to bear upon Man’s first cry,
'War, war, war!'

Copyright R. N. Taber 2000

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in Love and Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2000.]

Whatever Happened To Once-Upon-A-Time?

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

Regular readers will know that I am often revising earlier poems, usually only slightly, but sometimes more drastically even when the original has already appeared in one or more poetry publications. Why? I suspect that, years on, I am quite simply looking at the same poem/s and their theme/s from a different perspective; it is not necessarily a criticism of the earlier version.

The first version of this poem was written in 1996. It had already appeared in Thoughts from the Pen, Book Mark (1997), Meridian Poetry Magazine (1998) and Visions of the Mind, Spotlight Poets [Forward Press] (1998) before I included it in my first major collection in 2001. The second version is a revision with which I have been toying only recently.

So which version do you prefer?

Ah, but the sheer escapism of my childhood continues to see me though the harsher aspects of reality. So much for growing up...

(1) WHATEVER HAPPENED TO ONCE-UPON-A-TIME?

Fairies in the garden,
dragons in the sky;
Shadowy mists of Avalon
risen high;

Home, some dark cave

in a far, far distant time;
Poetry and heroes,
legends in their prime
come to rescue us from
the terrors of bed-time;
All gone, kids grown,
and who's passing on
secrets of protection
to a generation
that prefers computer games
or, better still,
copycat storylines
from Pandora's Box?
Issues of the day, strategy
in a ratings war. Peter Pan
shot down over Walford;
Beasties under the bed
breaking out like chicken-pox
on a child's face

And no hiding place

[From: Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001]

(2) WHATEVER HAPPENED TO ONCE-UPON-A-TIME?

Fairies in the garden, dragons in the sky;
shadowy mists of Avalon risen high;
Home, some dark cave in a far distant time;
poetry and heroes, legends in their prime,
come to rescue us from the terrors of bed-time;
All gone, kids grown, and who's passing on
hard hat protection to a generation
that prefers computer games, copycat story-lines
from Pandora's Box?

Issues of the day, strategy in a ratings war
(Peter Pan shot down over Walford);
Beasties under the bed, busy breaking out
like chicken-pox on a child's face

And no hiding place...

Copyright R. N. Taber 1997; 2011

[Note: Walford is a fictional London Borough in a long-running BBC soap opera called Eastenders.]

The Mad Hatter's Tea Party Revisited

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

Once there was a Boston Tea Party, and then...

An American friend recently asked me for my thoughts on the US Tea Party. I was relieved to discover that he is as appalled as I am regarding the antics, rhetoric more than occasional ignorance and suspect morality displayed by this appalling political phenomenon.

As I have said before, though, I hope Sarah Palin is elected as the next Republican candidate for the presidency if only to ensure Barack Obama a second term.

Who in their right mind would vote for the Tea Party? Alarmingly, a growing number of disaffected voters or so statistics would have us believe.

I suspect many of us world-wide are disaffected voters in the current economic climate. Ah, but is that any reason to lose out heads?

As for those readers who may well say that a UK poet has no right to comment on US politics, may I remind them that just about anything and anyone is up for comment, including via art and poetry.

My thanks go to Lewis Carroll for giving me a child’s take on the mad, mad, mad world of adulthood that would prepare me for the real thing...

THE MAD HATTER’S TEA PARTY REVISITED

There once was a white rabbit
that ran down a hole
for fretting that the world
was in poor shape;
a little girl (with big ideas)
ran after him...
thinking it might be an adventure,
and had to be better
than moping because her daddy
had just lost his job

White Rabbit, he had contacts
in high places
whom the little girl (with big ideas)
was so thrilled to meet
and get an invite to a Tea Party
hosted by a Hatter
even madder than the rest
of the guests,
including a Queen of Hearts
and (peculiar) Minds

‘Off with his head!’ Queenie
kept shouting
at anyone who might have been
listening and game
to give her their vote as Hostess
with the Mostest,
and saw the little girl (with big ideas)
as the ideal candidate
to try the very humbugs she’d slaved
over a hot stove at all day

‘Try these dear,’ said Queenie,
‘and tell me honestly
if you love them or hate them
though be sure
it’s off with your head if they’re not
to your liking.’
The little girl (with big ideas) insisted
she never accepted sweets
from strangers in case (who knows?)
they are poison

‘They will probably make you ill,’
agreed the White Rabbit,
‘and then you’ll be in a fine pickle
with no health insurance
to pay the bills, and not a soul
giving a damn
if you take to your bed. Oh and do
have some tea,
it’s a party, not a wake, leastwise
no one’s dead yet...’

‘Off with his head!’ cried Queenie,
but the White Rabbit
laughed and said, ‘You can have my head
for desert, it’s big enough
to go round, especially since all else
on offer here
is humbug, humbug, humbug - and
more humbug. Oh, and what
does Dormouse think he’s doing
with that teapot anyway?

The little girl (with big ideas) loved
every maddening minute,
was so disappointed when she woke up
to realise it was but a dream
that she pulled a white rabbit from a hat,
set it loose, made it an excuse
to chase The Dream, have a tea party
of her own, Mad Hatters invited,
she delighted to play Queen of Hearts
and (peculiar) Minds

Copyright R. N. Taber 2011

Seagulls Over Brighton Pier

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

Given that it has a gay-interest story line, I am thrilled that feedback suggests many gay-friendly straight readers, including some parents, are also enjoying it.

Dog Roses comprises 25 chapters + Epilogue so I hope you will enjoy it through to the end; when a terrible tragedy strikes, Rob, its narrator, for all his flaws,  eventually finds new strengths among family, friends and colleagues, a wiser and better person:

http://rogertaberfiction.blogspot.co.uk/2011/07/dog-roses-chapter-one_14.html

Meanwhile...

Today’s poem has not appeared on the blog since 2009 and is another favourite of mine. Regular readers will know that I have been visiting Brighton (East Sussex, UK) for many years, since I was about eight or nine years-old. (Born in 1945, I will be 66 later this year.) Its ghosts are never far away; a dear late partner, mother, cousin and old friends are always happy to keep me company here, there and just about everywhere. In this particular instance, it is the only partner fate has seen fit to allow me, if only for a short while; on Earth, that is, since our love has lasted for the greater part of my life and will endure beyond it.

So where do you meet with your favourite ghosts? [Never shut them out.]

Oh, but I’m being fanciful, did you say? Of course I’m being fanciful. I ask you. What use is a poet without imagination, and what use imagination if it cannot work its magic on anyone? When people tell me they have no imagination, I tell them to get in touch with their feelings (the power source for imagination) and go with the flow...

SEAGULLS OVER BRIGHTON PIER

I met a ghost once on Brighton pier,
greeting me warmly like an old friend,
lightly dismissing my fear;
although its features were blurred,
I recognized a cheeky catch in the voice
and my doubts disappeared

A passer-by wore a queer expression,
shook his head at us, no empathy there
with the poetry of illusion;
an old woman walking with a child
looked nervous and quickened her step;
the child saw us and smiled

Halcyon days rolled determinedly by
like a sure tide taking on Brighton beach
in time’s tearful eye;
I barely felt an embrace, only desire,
and your kisses left my mouth feeling dry,
my whole body on fire

I strained to hear such words of love
making a bonfire of all self-pity and grief,
smoky clouds above
absorbing us into a gull’s cry,
now circling, now swooping, lending us
its wings to fly…

With good grace, let’s soar and share
a lifetime of love as feisty as Brighton pier
in summer, even winter;
no more will halcyon days pass me by
since I know now for sure you’ll stay near
and seagulls don’t lie

[From: On the Battlefields of Love by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2010.]