A Poet's Blog: Roger N.Taber shares his thoughts & poems...

Thoughts and observations by English poet Roger N. Taber, a retired librarian and poet-novelist.- "Ethnicity, Religion, Gender, Sexuality ... these are but parts of a whole. It is the whole that counts." RNT [NB While I have no wish to create a social network, I will always reply to critical emails about my poetry. Contact: rogertab@aol.com].

Name:
Location: London, United Kingdom

Sadly, a bad fall in 2012 has left me with a mobility problem, and being diagnosed with prostate cancer the same year hasn't helped, but I get out and about with my trusty walking stick as much as I can, take each day as it comes and try to keep looking on the bright(er) side of life. Many of my poems reflect the need to nurture a positive-thinking mindset whatever life throws at us.

Monday 7 September 2020

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.]

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Friday 4 March 2016

Victims


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.]

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Sunday 13 December 2015

Christmas, the Great Pretender


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

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Tuesday 8 September 2015

L-i-f-e, Beachcomber Tales


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

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Saturday 29 August 2015

Home Truths, Martyrs to Love


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



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Tuesday 17 March 2015

National Curriculum OR Connecting with Wannabe Heroes


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.]


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Friday 30 January 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












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Sunday 21 December 2014

Christmas Revisited


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





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Friday 7 November 2014

Christmas, Glossing Over Missed Opportunities


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.]

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Saturday 12 July 2014

Anatomy of Illusion


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

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Thursday 3 April 2014

Lines on a Carthorse


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.]





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Thursday 28 November 2013

Looking out for Christmas, Anyone?


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]

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Saturday 24 August 2013

Real-Life Heroes and Popcorn Soldiers


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


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Thursday 14 March 2013

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]

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Thursday 12 January 2012

Some Days Smack Of Burning Rubber


[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.]

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