Category Archives: Poetry

Whether Ebb Or Flow

I pay attention to the clouds
the way that one would sit with sages,
silent as discrimination,
unattached to statements.
I understand that information
gathers with a walk along the beach,
warms or cools, clings and oozes
like the sand that fills
the Universe between my toes
then rinses off the way a dream
just comes and goes.

Whether ebb or flow
it tells me what I see
is never all there is.
Another front,
a new formation
waits behind each wind,
beneath the hat the sun is wearing,
behind the turquoise poet’s eyes
that never blurt their observations.

I can find myself
in their reflection
but I don’t ask for likenesses,
no interpretations
that I can’t or won’t release.
I accept the failure of predictions,
untie all my expectations
and stand ready for the rain,
the clearing,
any clarity that hits the rocks,
the short surprise of time
that carries me
as slowly or as swiftly,
as gently or as grudgingly
as I allow myself to go.

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Granny’s Gift

(In memory of my grandmother, Carrie Marie Moorefield Taylor, who passed away on June 21, 2011.  She was greatly loved and will be greatly missed.)

Memories of you
light the morning of my life,
the oversized rocking chair,
that creaked a lullaby,
the special, worn out place where
you lulled me to sleep,
the homemade biscuits
and sweet potato pie
that melted in my mouth,
molded by intuitive hands
in the kitchen where you spent
the better part of your days
in the presence of a perfectly
content little boy.

Pictures of you
bring back the simpler times,
the summer breaks
and Christmas holidays,
the birthday cards
with dollar bills inside
and Kennedy halves saved
for a grubby, eager palm . . .
the “just-between-you-and-me” talks
that make any boy feel like a man,
the sharer of a secret
even when it’s one
he doesn’t fully understand—
the ageless love
between the old and young.

Images of you
appear in a quiet room
like a letter from home
on a rainy afternoon,
or an “everything-will-work-out” hug
on a not-so-confident night.
you come and hold my hand,
traversing any distance,
convincing me the world is mine
and staying with me
until sweet dreams
replace all trace of fear.

Thoughts of you
surface more and more it seems
when I stand before the glass
or gaze up at the stars,
trying to see myself
or what’s ahead.
I stare into the crystal ball
to see how far I’ve come
or where to go
and there you are . . . 
a part of me that laughs and cries
and occasionally hurts,
but that refuses to give up
and never dies.

In such moments
the unmistakable sound of your voice,
honey sweet and heavy
with Virginia drawl,
reminds me who I am
and who I’ll always be.
And the smile I recognize
is every reason I could need
for feeling proud,
and foundation firm enough
for any dream.

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