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42.4k · Feb 2016
/For My One True Valentine
Kevin J Taylor Feb 2016
Sunflowers! Crowns golden!
Violets! Sweet petals, blue!
Carnations! Pinks! Whites!
         —And my Love for You!

Dahlias! Such beauty!
Tulips! Who knew!
Orchids! Red roses!
         —And my Love for You!
.
12.9k · Oct 2015
/St. John's Eve
Kevin J Taylor Oct 2015
Smouldering moon over fallen dark embers—
fragments rising in corkscrew red-gold rhythms
.
12.3k · Jun 2016
/THE NEW APARTHEID
Kevin J Taylor Jun 2016
Yes, segregate.
Create a slum for me.
Build walls.
Render us apart.
Hide.
.
The New Apartheid appears in full in Walling In and Walling Out: Why Are We Building New Barriers to Divide Us? by Laura McAtackney (Editor), Randall H. McGuire (Editor), Chapter 11, Conclusion. Available on Amazon.
Kevin J Taylor Oct 2015
Chorus, 3 voices
Icarus

Act 1

Chorus
We/we/we, chorus of three.
& Icarus

Chorus–1st voice
Lived once a father and a son

Chorus–2nd voice
Daedalus, the carpenter

Chorus–3rd voice
Icarus, the son

Chorus–1st voice
Banished, both, for the sin of one, to an island on the sea.

Chorus–1st & 2nd voice
They walked the eastern cliffs. White seabirds wheeling over them.

Chorus–3rd voice
Thus Icarus dreamed.

Chorus–2nd voice
And so four wings were formed of wood and wax and feather.

Chorus–1st voice
Daedalus, the father, to Icarus, his son, said, “If you disobey me and fly too near the sun the wax will melt. The feathers will fall. The wings will fail. And you will tumble like Phaethon into the sea and die.“

Chorus–All
O Icarus!

Chorus–All–silence

Chorus–3rd voice
Hear him!

Icarus
I

Chorus –All
Icarus!

Icarus
Demand! Deny my father’s lies,
Sin-born, sung in fear, of men hidden under darkened skies–

Chorus–3rd voice
Fists clenched, and down

Icarus
Or die!

Chorus–2nd voice
Like flies, wings torn and every eye to heaven

Icarus
Die as Daedalus! Who, having slipped too near this rock to fall but down,
Praised the gods!

Chorus–1st voice, whispering
Care, Icarus!

Icarus
Hell–a lesser man, for having tasted heaven once, he turned,
Chose this Earth and green Aegean sod.

Chorus–one voice
Amend these lies!

Chorus–another voice
And end to night’s deep dark

Chorus–another voice
And oily skin!

Chorus–All–whispering
O Icarus!

Icarus
Command! Ascend!

Chorus–one dancing, arms wide

Icarus
And dance as I
Above the gods and boundless starry winds.

Chorus–All dancing

Icarus–soaring

The End
.

Amend has an old meaning– to put right.
.
11.7k · Oct 2017
/The Hateful Man
Kevin J Taylor Oct 2017
Let each hate, and ours for his,
Be scraped away. Hopefully
He cared for some— At least the few
That may have cared for him.

Allow unchanged what good remains.
At length, with love or hate or both,
We go. In time, some with pause
And some without, return.
.
11.7k · Oct 2017
/Postcard
Kevin J Taylor Oct 2017
Still here, my friend, not much to tell.
Winter came, wearied, went.
Spring—hurried skies, or sun or rain.
Hot summer days, hot sleepless nights.
Fall was fresher, raked what fell.
Another year. Mostly well.
.
11.2k · Aug 2017
/One Cat, Maybe Two
Kevin J Taylor Aug 2017
Raymond shifted his weight forward on the coffee
shop chair and leaned his cheekbone into the heel of
his palm. A childhood verse chided him in his
mother’s voice of over fifty years ago.

“Raymond, Raymond, if you’re able,
get your elbows off the table.
This is not a horse’s stable,
but your mother’s dining table.”


It didn’t immediately connect to any
pictures in his mind but he had heard it enough
to know it was real. An hour ago he had been
at his mother’s side in the palliative care ward.

She had appeared smaller than he liked to think of
her—had looked almost like he was seeing her at
a distance. She hadn’t greeted him, only closed
her eyes and said, “Feed the cats, will you.” It wasn’t

really a question. “Yes,” he answered, but the cats,
whoever they were, must have left or died years ago.
The only living thing she owned, he suspected,
was the small Christmas cactus someone had brought to

cheer her up. He looked at her again, waiting for
her eyes to open. They never did. Her jaw dropped
and that was that. Raymond hadn’t wanted to be
in the room when the nurses and orderly would

come to take her away. He stopped at the reception
desk to say that he’d be in the coffee shop
waiting for his brother and sister-in-law to
arrive. They were late and he was thankful to have

a few minutes to himself. From where he sat he
faced the open entrance of the café. There was
a couple sitting tiredly off to one side.
A man in a shapeless blue hospital gown and

slippers shuffled in pushing an IV pole ahead
of him. Raymond heard steps echo sharply down
the hallway. Here they are, he thought, hurrying
needlessly. Bill and Marijke had been fast asleep

at 2:30 am when Raymond’s first text message
came in. They never saw it until 5:00 when Bill
reached for his cell phone as he did every morning
right after Marijke turned off the alarm. “****,”

he said, “No time.” Bill, “William” on his realtor
business card, and Marijke, were used to demands
on their time from potential home buyers. But they
usually had early mornings to themselves—

breakfast, coffee, catch up on current events. Not
today. The text had said, “ASAP.” They hit the drive-
through at Starbucks on their way to the hospital.
“Hey Bill. Marijke,” Raymond said. Bill nodded. “Hey,”

he replied and paused to look at Raymond, to see
if he’d say something else, “Is she gone?” “Couple of
hours ago,” Raymond said. “Should we see her?” Bill asked.
“Can if you want, I suppose. Maybe later,"

Raymond said, "Did she have a cat? She mentioned cats.
I haven’t seen any for years. Did you take them?”
Mother might have mixed him up with Bill again.
Raymond looked at his brother who didn’t seem to

be listening and then at Marijke. "She used to
feed the neighborhood cats before she broke her hip,”
Marijke said. “That might be it.” It seemed odd that
Marijke knew more about his mother’s life than

her sons did. “Maybe you’re right,” Raymond said. “What’s next?”
“I’ll call her lawyer and get him on it,” Bill answered.
Raymond suddenly realized that his brother
had been listening. Marijke started to cry. 
 
Raymond pulled some napkins from their holder and pressed
them hard against his eyes. Bill looked down and away.
Over the next few days life seemed to stop. Nothing
more than daily routines and only as long as

they didn’t require much effort or attention.
Coffee, whatever was in the fridge—dishes sat in
the sink. Gradually he began to feel alive
again. It was as though he had been wrapped in blankets,

hearing distant, mostly muffled voices, glimpsing
unfamiliar rooms and spaces when he closed his
eyes to sleep. Marijke had startled him this morning
when she called and said to the answering machine that

Bill and she were coming over with something from
the lawyer and hoped he would be in. She didn’t
wait for him to pick up. She’d have known he was at
the kitchen table. They arrived mid-afternoon.

No knock at the door. Bill was the older of the
two and was the most like their dad. And Dad had not
been the knocking sort. Not with Raymond anyway.
Bill and Marijke each carried a bag of groceries

which they placed on the kitchen counter. “Thought you might
need some things,” Marijke said. “Nice to see you, Ray.”
She took a bag of groceries and made room in the
fridge for its contents: milk, BBQ chicken and

eggs. She placed the bananas in a wooden bowl.
“Saw the lawyer yesterday,” Bill started. “He has
the will but it doesn’t amount to much except
for the house,” he paused, “The equity has mostly

been ****** out of it. God knows what for. And there’s this…”
Bill dropped a large manila envelope in front
of Raymond. “I’ve already opened it. There’s an
envelope for each of us in there. Marijke

says we should open them together because we’re
all the family we have now.” He tipped the envelope
on its end and let the two smaller envelopes
slip out. One each for William and Raymond. Bill picked

his up and tore the corner of the flap destroying
most of the envelope in the process and
extracted what appeared to be several sheets of
neat handwriting. “It’s just a letter,” Bill said. He

put it into the inside breast pocket of his
suit jacket. Raymond waited a moment then picked
up the other envelope, turned it over and nodded
almost imperceptibly. He stood, walked to the

shelf between the window and the back door where he
had made room for the Christmas cactus instead of
leaving it behind. Not sure about the light, he
thought, and leaned the unopened letter against the

earthenware ***. “Not you, too?” Marijke shook her
head. “It’ll be like…” Raymond said, he paused, looking
at her, “It’ll be like not hanging up the phone.”
Marijke understood—he’d never open it.

“I get it,” she said in a softer tone. Bill looked
blankly at his brother. And Raymond smiled a little
for the first time in a while. By six the next
morning Raymond was already dressed and brewing

coffee. Usually he would head down to Timmy’s
Donut Shop for his caffeine fix. “Double trouble,”
he’d say, meaning “Double double,” as he always
did at Timmy’s. It amused him and often made

his favorite server smile. “Too much trouble, you mean,”
she’d say. Human contact. Raymond guessed that some of
the guys at the corner table would be wondering
how he was doing. They’d know what had happened, of

course, but they’d ask just the same. He poured his first cup
and walked out onto the back porch. Still a bit cool
out here, he thought as he leaned against the railing,
sipping his coffee as his eyes wandered around

the yard. He’d have another cup in a while but
first he had something he needed to do. Raymond
sat down on the porch steps and slipped his feet into
an old pair of shoes. He tied them and flicked the loops

with his finger to see how the laces fell, to
make sure he had not tied them backwards and would not
work their way loose. Someone had taught him that a long
time ago when they had seen his laces come undone.

He stood up and walked across the yard to the back
lane and the narrow picket fence, missing a picket
here and there and much of its original coat
of white paint. Some boys had probably pulled the missing

pickets off decades ago and with galvanized
garbage can lids for shields spent a Saturday
morning sword fighting. The gate was leaning and half
open, held there by uncut grass, weeds and neglect.

He stepped out and onto the lane that led between
the two rows of houses that backed onto it. Raymond
looked at each fence, each set of stairs and window as
he passed them by. A block later he turned and headed

home satisfied that he had seen at least one cat,
maybe two. Another cup of coffee in hand,
Raymond sat on the top step. On his way out of
the kitchen and onto the porch he had stopped to

turn the cactus in the morning light, stepped outside
placing a saucer of fresh milk by the porch door,
and sat down.

THE END
.
10.6k · Oct 2015
/this-that
Kevin J Taylor Oct 2015
My home is in a sky
where night as clear as day
and only for the stars and us
and where I've met the dawn

I dream
to touch this-that, the sky again
the sweep of stars into the distant
***** of night
..
Kevin J Taylor Dec 2016
The road that lies below rests deep and still.
No moon to light the snow. The sky is clear.
Heads back and arm in arm—eyes wide!
This winter night—This holiness we feel!

So spill the lights of Heaven into sight
Illumined, rising, falling—Shifting grace.
Upon the starry sweep of Christmas night,
In ribbon-folds of light and dark it sways

Above the shepherd pines and hemlock choirs.
There— This night! The sky! The lights!
The stars! The fire!
Above! Across! Dear God—
.
9.5k · Oct 2015
/Hymn of the Fallen Tree
Kevin J Taylor Oct 2015
Let me rest among these giant souls that stand
where trees once stood.

Here, greens break into blacky-blues and dragonflies
and dusts of beetle dung grow old withal.

Let me rest among the salmonberry and the tumblewood
of cotton, ash and hemlock, fir and cedar.

And let the wind stir of pine above the fall reawaken me
in early greens and sapling dress, anon.
.
9.1k · Aug 2017
/Relax
Kevin J Taylor Aug 2017
Keep calm.
What doesn't **** you
Just takes longer.
.
8.8k · Oct 2015
/The Meanings of Trees
Kevin J Taylor Oct 2015
pine is for leaving
oak is for time
willow, for grieving
love left behind
This verse lies in the grave of an Englishman who left for home from a borrowed land.
8.6k · Nov 2015
/Paris, November
Kevin J Taylor Nov 2015
I remember. I remember
The flying leaves and floating leaves
Blazing yellow-orange-red

Until, wind-felled, their final embers
I remember to this day
This wet wool-gray, this end of day

Paris that November
.
Paris attacks, 13 November 2015.
8.5k · May 2016
I would dance among them
Kevin J Taylor May 2016
With trappings of chattel and ownership and slavery
Stain, scarification, of torture and tally
Edification and vainglory of succumb: metal ring, chain & ink—
Inventory:  Declaration of alienable rights: Non-existence

Where are the Free
The Free-to-Live-and-Die-and-Live-Again-at-Will
Where are the Truly Free
For I would dance among them
7.8k · Nov 2017
/I don't care
Kevin J Taylor Nov 2017
I don't care who your god is
        It's alright who your god is
I don't care how you pray
        It's alright
All I care is where my heart is
        Here. Here my heart is
What I do with it today
.
7.6k · Jan 2019
/The Photograph
Kevin J Taylor Jan 2019
The photograph hangs on the wall by the window,
Three judges appear (one carries a folder)—
A tarot card reader, embalmer, engraver,
Without much to say and not much of it said
About the boot in the crib and the tire in the bed
The round faced man and the *** on his head
Painted with flowers and chipped on its edge.
And the cat near the door with its collar and bell
Flailing and airborne and mid caterwaul.
And the three-leggèd dog with her leash on
And sweater, jubilant, leaping— Mon Dieu! Grand jeté!
And the crow— O the crow! In its cage cawing “Fire!”
The crow crowing “Mayhem!” and “****** most foul!”
The dog and the cat and the crow and the tire
The cage and the crib, the *** painted in flowers;
All in a frame with a sign alongside—
“Self portrait. Around the Ides of July.”
A ribbon is clipped and then hung for its owner.
It bears the word “Mention” and then the engraver
Makes a note on a form he hands to the embalmer.
The tarot card reader turns— She and her hat,
And addresses the room, “Ain't no card made for that.”
.
An ekphrastic poem.
Kevin J Taylor Jul 2017
The first poem takes place during the lifetime of Lord Buddha.

The second poem follows in the years soon after Lord Buddha left his body.

The third poem is the mind of the boy (the spirit of the boy in the first poem) in restless meditation. He has yet to attain full enlightenment. There are multiple voices suggested by parentheses and which are whispered words. If you prefer linear thought or literal interpretation this poem may not communicate to you. Just as a painting may be abstract, this poem is wide open to your own connections, thoughts and emotions. If you like, you can skip to the fourth poem.

The fourth poem, in three lines, lies within this portion of eternity that is forever present time.


Boy runner (the first poem)
"""""""""""""
Approaching Siddhartha where he sat a
boy examined him politely (this-that?)
Siddhartha spoke and there the unnamed boy
who sitting a while with him that day thought
and over the days ahead returned and
leaving only for food, drink and service
that Siddhartha would not be distracted
from his goal until upon returning
he saw him glowing in the morning light
and so began to dance with him beneath
the tree. A leaf was shed, was gathered then
and the boy, who while tucking it away,
Siddhartha asked if he would run for him
to village, crossroads, field, grove, wherever
Siddhartha wished to speak. And so he ran,
and soon arriving, announcing thus his
coming, holding high the leaf he carried
and which had never died, living— living
green until Lord Buddha left his body.


Depths of Green (the second poem)
""""""""""""""""""""
Depths of green—from canopy to forest floor
In streams of raucous livingness
And there, and where about, a sanctuary
Falls in heaps, in stone walls run aground.

And with, nearby, afar, by ins and outs
Through every place (perceived)
Wherever listened for—vibration.

A single voice in Pali—a single voice
Leaping, leading, dancing, sweeping.

Hello. You greet me.


And if I split myself and stand (the third poem)
""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""
And if I split myself and stand
At every corner of said universe
On any selfsame summer day
With any selfsame afternoon rain
Will this, though thought, slip
Where densities of interest fail
(Or by failures to perceive )

This leaf-boy-runner
Eight portions of beingness
The full and fill of prime creation
(Perhaps where life has paused
Or slowed enough to perceive
At any speed

The speed of perception
The true speed of light
The wavelengths of laughter
And of any thing )

While density shifts
Where inertia has failed

(The density of my interest
The shift of my affinity )

There is no doubt
It has velocity
It gives back light
It bends the universe
It has location
From which expands
All space
Not already filled
With the logic of otherness
And even there it bends— It wills

As (my breadth of vision )
A torrent
An avalanche
A fissure in nothingness
A co-creation of All
This theatre
Our audience
Of stelae
Beacons of lostness
In search of wavelengths
Of affinity
Where you might
Where I have
The curves beneath our frequencies
The pitch and roll of their design
Their width

(We have
Each other )

In all that vastness
An ordinary leaf
From this
For that
(I am )

The breathless
Runner


Cool in the shade (the fourth poem)
"""""""""""""""""""""
Cool in the shade
(still) dancing
with Lord Buddha
.
Kevin J Taylor Dec 2015
The mathematics of the shattered soul:
Faux theorems born of arithmetic (adj.) chance
Associations purged of higher goals
Dreams of psych (and pharma) courtesans

Whilst mystery lies in algebraic shoals
False purposed ranks of prophets blindly dance
And madmen peddle poisons from their towers
Thus Man is kept in ignorance of Man
.
6.1k · Feb 2019
/LOGIC STICKS
Kevin J Taylor Feb 2019
Don't beat me with your logic sticks
It ain't that I can't take the licks
My skin is thick, as thick as bricks
It's just I've had my fill of it

Chorus
          We'll beat you when you're up
          No, we'll beat you when you're down
          No, we'll beat you when you're up again
          And beat you when you're down

René Descartes rests headless in his tomb
Cogito ergo—ergo whom?
Don't beat me with your logic sticks
Fidem! ergo sum

Chorus

Don't care what makes your logic tick
It ain't that I can't take the licks
Don't know where your logic's been
Logic gets around

Chorus

Don't beat me with your logic sticks
My skin is thick, as thick as bricks
It ain’t that I can’t take the licks
IT'S JUST I'VE HAD MY FILL OF IT
.
This is a song lyric.
Kevin J Taylor Oct 2015
Dogtor of Psychiatry (That's Me. EMM. DEE.)
The accent's on the silent P
I read it in a book, you see,
the Holy DSM (now V).

But did I hear you say you're SANE?
Well, have you met your reptile brain?
Here... Plug this in…
Now bite down hard...
While I explain...

OOooohhhh! (Psych) Drugs that ****!
OOooohhhh! Lies & hate!
Electroshock! Lobotomate!
AAAaaaaahhh!

Hmmm, what to do? My day's half done...
Let's educate! With Ritalin!
Oh Glory Me! Not vita-mines!!
We can't have that you filthy swine.
Can't you just work on drooling fine?
Now, back to work... No time to waste...
My kickbacks must be earned posthaste!

OOooohhhh! (Psych) Drugs that ****!
OOooohhhh! Lies & hate!
Electroshock! Lobotomate!
AAAaaaaahhh!

Survivors? Schmeguyvors!
It’s time for lunch!  I'll have some brain!
Served with sides of *** and pain!
Again, again, again, AGAIN!!
You're drooling from your ears again...
I thought you said that you were sane.
Quick! Swallow this — I’ve kids to *****!
Did I say that? IT ISN'T TRUE!

(They must read minds — I’LL **** THEM TOO!)

OOooohhhh! (Psych) Drugs that ****!
OOooohhhh! Lies & hate!
Electroshock! Lobotomate!
AAAaaaaahhh!

I love to ****! O what a day!
In fact, I'm GOD, I'm proud to say.

I'm-hearing-what-you're-telling-me
Blah blah blah blah
Blah blah blah blah...
You say some words?
Listen! They don't even rhyme!
So just make sure you're dead on time.
Take these... What? Did I say DEAD?
(That Prozac's gone straight to your head.)
Of course I did! Cuz DEATH’s such fun!
THE ONLY CURE FOR EVERYONE!

(insane laughter)
.
5.5k · Sep 2015
/ I am Freedom
Kevin J Taylor Sep 2015
I am the fulcrum, the base and the lever.
I am the space and the form and the game.

I am the maker, the vessel, the dreamer,
the teller, the namer—though naming, un-named.

I am the vision, the vista, the seer.
I am the lintel, the door and the frame.

I am the lock, the key and the knocker,
the handle, the pause and the knocker again.

I am the palm and the fist and the shoulder.
I am the sole and the road and the stride.

I am the still—all that echo, and echoes.
I am freedom, my counsel, my guide.
.
5.3k · Sep 2015
/White Seabirds Wheeling
Kevin J Taylor Sep 2015
Shoulders rolling, rising
as icebergs from their glacier calf to sea—
as men, we fend the rimless wilds

With force, flung, withheld,
intelligence, ancestral songs of origin,
of prophesy, returning avatars

Overhead
white seabirds
wheeling
.
I guess you’re on your own with this poem. I can tell you where it begins. The scene is set in ancient times, and as near as I remember— a northern, coastal region following the spring equinox. A few of us had embarked upon a quest to find The One.
.
The One: Everyone knows what "The One" means for themselves, whether they love or hate or are indifferent. Of course, "The One" was not what we called such a Being but it serves to communicate. The name does not matter for the purpose of this poem. Most of Earth have heard it anyway, in one incarnation or another.
Calf: The offspring of various large mammals, such as cows (cattle), elephants and whales. Also, a piece of an iceberg or a glacier that breaks away or the action of this happening.
Fend: (figurative) To defend or attack with skill, make one’s way.
Avatar: The manifestation of a deity or released soul in ****** form.
.
5.1k · Sep 2015
/The Marking of Lives
Kevin J Taylor Sep 2015
This—  This is the closest we have been in forty-seven years. Graveside, I close my eyes. See again, her lips smeared, her head turned, as she had lain unconscious. Whispers of Other Men—   Immoral—   Immoral living—  Declared unfit for motherhood and I am only days from four.  

Before that, in white shift sitting at the foot of her bed and singing quietly to herself. Singing, brushing and lifting her hair. Letting it fall. She is lovely to me. Later that night, weeping, anger, fists and cries.  

At fifty-one I look like him. Fist-Man. Father. He wept in Irish taverns filled with weeping, singing drunks. She had danced the Sunrise on Hastings, whatever that meant.  

She was gone when I was taken. I was gone if she returned.  

A Child Welfare office filled with nervous women, children dressed in Sunday-best and a faint wash of fear—   these memories, all memories, discomfit and jar.  

A metal cup with orange juice. Warm, sweet and slightly bitter. The far end of the room. A bed made in a wooden trunk. Eyes slipping. Box lid closing. Sleep—  

Bewildered, pushing, opened, the room lies stark, white and empty. No mothers. No children. No one waiting here. The lump that rises to my throat is the same one— the same one that rises in spasms from my chest on that dark-boxed, white-roomed and room-filled afternoon.  

In forty-seven years I would stand above her on that overlooking hill. No words to mark her place, a plot numbered between other unmarked and numbered graves. Maybe she was gone again.  

Gone before I could tell her what had happened, that I was sorry, that I would be a good boy, beg her— find me.  

Eyes opened, I have waited long enough. The sun is hot. White lines trail across the sky. Paper from one pocket. Pen from another. I write. Roll tight and push as far in as this ground will allow.  

White paper, ink. Graveside for her. Wayside for me.  
A mark was kept. A mark was left.  

A deep breath in, not held and out.
The Sunrise was a low-end hotel on Hastings Street in Vancouver. The bed-in-a-trunk sequence was as described. The orange juice had a sleeping drug in it and the trunk-bed was used to separate children from parents or guardians without a fuss. '61. Alberta.
Kevin J Taylor Dec 2015
Prayer and Glory! [a single voice, calling]

Jesus! [more voices, tumultuous, joyful]

Leading each of us to heaven
He with neither sin nor hating
Christians everywhere sing joyful
Loving each of God's creations
Praise Him! Praise Him! Every nation!
Praise the King this Christmas morning!
Prayer and Glory!
Christ, Our Savior, Christmas born!

Christians everywhere sing joyful!
Prophesy has come to pass
Jesus sent for our salvation
God, Our Father, gathers us
Praise Him! Praise Him! Every nation!
Praise the King this Christmas morning!
Prayer and Glory!
Christ, Our Savior, Christmas born!
.
The message of Christ is valuable and I celebrate the life and lives of those who seek, and may have found their way. Merry Christmas!
.
4.2k · Oct 2015
/A Gentle Scent
Kevin J Taylor Oct 2015
A gentle scent surrounds me.  It eddies,
flows, reminds me.  I dream.  Look long
and away until just so and seeing you
and having only to say—  I seize upon
some flower, something I love, you see,
and say—  This is where I begin.  This is
where I am.  This is where I am re-awoken.
And in that span you hold me with interest,
with affinity.  You who can never end,
whose beginning was before mine—
From non-existence you rekindle me.
.
4.0k · Jun 2017
/Razzmatazz
Kevin J Taylor Jun 2017
A poet's breast within me beats
Beats heart and something I call soul that leaps
Charges, races, racing, finds its feet
Drags me, joyful, joy-filled, from my seat!

Elevating common prose
For pleasures sake, each poet knows,
Gains by use of tools as those
He would at length, I’m sure, disclose

If payment were perhaps an ear
Just for a moment lent to hear
Keenly offered verse— or beer,
Loved by poets too, I fear.

Most often those who are unwise
Negate the poet’s enterprise
Out of their need to criticize
(Perhaps within their misery lies)

Quite certain they must find a fault
Regardless of the somersaults
Some poets do to try and halt
Those, who in the name of help, assault.

Unless you’ve written words as these—  
Verses made and meant to please
With just a little work to tease
Xenia* coaxed from a’s and z’s

Your day lacks all that razzmatazz—as
Zest for verse—and all that jazz.
.

*Xenia—gifts given to a guest or stranger. Xenia is the plural form of xenium.
This is an Abecedarian. First letter of each line follows the alphabet. Fun to do.

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4.0k · Feb 2017
/God's smile
Kevin J Taylor Feb 2017
A pool of light, a flight of stars across a sky,
dawn from night, curtains part or rise or fall—Look!
And with God's smile upon this place—LIFE IS!
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3.9k · Jan 2019
/Sally
Kevin J Taylor Jan 2019
"Don't be silly, Dad, I'm your only daughter."

"Yes. But you'd still be my favorite even if you had a dozen sisters and as many brothers."

"And your mother is my favorite wife."

"Oh Dad, you only have one."

"... At a time. And anyway, she would still be my favorite even if those other wives were favorites too, if I loved them all as much as you."
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3.8k · Jan 2016
/Snowflakes
Kevin J Taylor Jan 2016
I see snowflakes in my headlights
Just one or two—and now a few.

They come dancing from the darkness.
They fly twirling out of view.
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Driving to work before dawn, along the Trans Canada towards Chilliwack. Perfect.
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3.8k · Apr 2018
/As ye love
Kevin J Taylor Apr 2018
Do not the mothers and the fathers
of Islam love their daughters, love
their sons, love the children as ye love?
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3.7k · Feb 2019
/Vox Rhianna
Kevin J Taylor Feb 2019
Beauty without increment
(Instrument, implement)

A single breath
(Principled)

In spiritum unum
(Indivisibilis, invictus)
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In spiritum unum = In one breath
Indivisibilis, invictus = indivisible, undefeated
Kevin J Taylor Jul 2017
I was walking down the road
Just as happy as can be
And all the leaves upon the trees
Were waving back at me

I saw a curly snail
As he stretched to greet his day
Then headed down the road with me
Then stopped to stretch again

I saw a pretty sparrow
She was perched upon a wire
She sang a song—I sang along
We made a lovely choir

The snail conducted from a twig—
Just so, our song began
“Happy Birthday to You!”
Did you hear us as we sang?

We had a happy party
As we danced around—We three!
And we wished you Happy Birthday!
Just as HAPPY as can be!
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3.6k · Sep 2015
/Dismal Mountain
Kevin J Taylor Sep 2015
Summon Me! From Dismal Mountain
Where fallen prayers drift slowly down
Where ash of fallen prayer lies mounting
From the privy of the Beast!

Take Me!  Shake each gilded Logic
From dreaded Death!  From dung deposits!
From the liars' breath of thieves!
From Serpentes, friend of Eve!

Spill Me!  Spill my ancient grief!
My faith that God once had in beasts!
Spill the essence of my clay
Across the Day!  Across the Day!

O Hear!  Echoic from this ashen fell
Where idols leant and fallen dwell—
My Lords-in-waiting!  Seneschals!
Summon Me!
A few words:  Serpentes (sir-pent-eze), a name in biology for the snakes— used here as the given name of the serpent in the Garden of Eden.

Fell, a hill or highland.

Leant is leaned.  Rhymes with lent.

Seneschal, an office in a medieval noble household, in charge of servants and their duties, ceremonies and administration of justice.  Reminds me of a lieutenant in an old crime family.  I think that any Beast worth his salt would have had them.

This poem is about the premise that The Beast has NO power of his own. He is begging to be called forth.
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3.5k · Jun 2016
/Boy runner
Kevin J Taylor Jun 2016
Approaching Siddhartha where he sat a
boy examined him politely (this-that?)
Siddhartha spoke and there the unnamed boy
who sitting a while with him that day thought
and over the days ahead returned and
leaving only for food, drink and service
that Siddhartha would not be distracted
from his goal until upon returning
he saw him glowing in the morning light
and so began to dance with him beneath
the tree. A leaf was shed, was gathered then
and the boy, who while tucking it away,
Siddhartha asked if he would run for him:
to village, crossroads, field, grove, wherever
Siddhartha wished to speak. And so he ran,
and soon arriving, announcing thus his
coming, holding high the leaf he carried
and which had never died, living, always
green, until Lord Buddha left his body.
.
.
cool in the shade
still dancing
with Lord Buddha
3.5k · Oct 2015
/Butterfly
Kevin J Taylor Oct 2015
Oh—Butterfly!
Unfolding folding—Away!
Up up down up—Ha!
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3.5k · Oct 2015
/Second thought
Kevin J Taylor Oct 2015
Gun shot
Cherry blossom
Second thought
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Kevin J Taylor Jun 2016
Well, now– It was in the spring of ‘49 just ‘round Memorial Day in the Land O’ Freedom... or so they call it. Anyways, I was sittin’ up behind them hills... Y’know, nexta where God ‘n’ Hell musta had some sorta fuss or ‘nother. Sorta desert. Sorta not. And I was pannin’ fer rhymes– I kept comin’ up dry– when alluvasudden straight outta the ground there’s this tinklin’, twinklin’ musical sound. So I grabbed me a panful and gave it a twitch. Some verbs and an adjective peppered the dish. Good stuff, I s’pose. Fer a yarn they’d bin fine, but not fer perfessional-lookers-fer-rhymes. I swished ‘em a little and shook ‘em again to see if that tinklin’ mightn’t be kin to the one that I found in the gully that night. It’d had to be good, or it wouldn’t fit right. Them poets won’t shell-out fer less than a pair cuz one by itself leaves ‘em pullin’ their hair. So ya gotta find more than a couple that fit or poets ‘ll fake it and some ‘ll just quit and some ‘ll just hope no one says that it’s..... Y’ know..... Call ‘emselves "nou-veau" and claim it’s legit. ‘Nuffa that, I s’pose.

I looks fer them twinklin’ musical words that rhymes like the first time they’s ever been heard. I sure ain’t the first one that’s panned in them hills. My pappy before me turned up a few thrills and somewhere or ‘nother done found a whole line. But me, I ain’t happy unless it’ll rhyme. They’re there, I can hear them– they tickle the breeze! I’ll stick it out long as there’s poets to please. If y’ expected a yarn, or to hear miners cuss– I’s pannin’ fer rhymes and not dirt in the dust!

Hmph, what’s that ya got there?
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3.4k · Sep 2015
/Depths of Green
Kevin J Taylor Sep 2015
Depths of green—from canopy to forest floor
In streams of raucous livingness
And there, and where about, a sanctuary
Falls in heaps, in stone walls run aground.

And with, nearby, afar, by ins and outs
Through every place (perceived)
Wherever listened for—vibration.

A single voice in Pali—a single voice
Leaping, leading, dancing, sweeping.

Hello. You greet me.
.
.
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3.0k · Oct 2015
/Sweet Home
Kevin J Taylor Oct 2015
When I am (or you are or we are) done with being right
And you are (or we are or I am) done with being wronged

Perhaps then we can speak of something small and bright
That we can all agree upon.
.
Original verse goes like this...

When I am done with being right
And you are done with being wronged

Perhaps then we can speak of something small and bright
That we can both agree upon.
2.7k · Sep 2017
/Thirsty lips...
Kevin J Taylor Sep 2017
Thirsty lips
Oasis
Hips
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2.6k · Nov 2015
/Them Birds That Cat
Kevin J Taylor Nov 2015
Yellow blue green white black—
they sit upon their perch
above the cat.

Cool cat—
she curls her tail and counts
and curls her tail,
she counts—
them birds.

That cat.
..
2.6k · Oct 2015
/Afternoon
Kevin J Taylor Oct 2015
It was the early afternoon of Infinity when we met.
I had called into being the forever of time
to anticipate your arrival in finite rhythms—
Knowing they must be the whitest of lies.

The preparation, the perception, the recognition,
the intertwining and engagement of spaces,
their separations—all in the span of hello
and the impossibility of absolute goodbye.
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2.6k · Oct 2015
/Come What May
Kevin J Taylor Oct 2015
Holding, come what may, each other
until unseen time folds us under

And if, and though by plan or chance, we pass
from out this life into another, yet another—
Two parts within this Great Adventure,

For us, for now, an hour more, a day, a breath,
no matter, come what may.
2.5k · Nov 2016
/Space
Kevin J Taylor Nov 2016
Stumbling, tumbling, jumbling space
Riffles and ripples in ecstatic grace
Yet barely persists
To mark where we've been

(We leaping!
We laughing
We lunging unseen!)

And roosters behind us
Galactacious spray
That glistens and glitters
The whole Milky Way!
.

Roosters means the action of forming a rooster-tail like the spray of water behind a speed boat.

Galactacious is a ***** word. Made from Galaxy and lact- meaning milk.
2.5k · Sep 2015
Open Hands
Kevin J Taylor Sep 2015
Here, Dark recedes
Its mantle fallen
Curtains part
And Heaven spills into my hands
2.5k · Nov 2017
/main street underworld
Kevin J Taylor Nov 2017
belts hung with trampled halos
trammeled  souls
t-shirts taunting— PROPERTY OF HIM
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2.3k · Nov 2015
/Northern Night
Kevin J Taylor Nov 2015
The road that lies below lies deep, lies still.
No moon to light the snow.  The sky is clear.
Alone, heads back and arm in arm—We're here!
In disbelief—We hardly breathe—But here!

So spills the light of Heaven into sight—
Illumined, rising, falling, shifting trace.
Upon the starry sweep of northern night,
In ribbon-folds of light and dark it sways

Above the shepherd pine and hemlock choir.
There—  This night!  The sky!  The lights!
The stars!  The fire!
Above!  Across!  My God—
.
I recall having seen the northern lights only twice in this lifetime.  The last was while driving east on an early winter evening.  I turned my head to look north where the mountains above Vancouver are lit along the ski run down Grouse.  There, and above darker more distant silhouettes, the northern lights hung in unexpected splendor.
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You'll also find this poem altered slightly as a Christmas version.
Kevin J Taylor Nov 2015
Are we beggars now? We beg—
We beg for peace. From whom?
The War-Men have no peace to give.
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2.1k · Sep 2015
/The Golden Age
Kevin J Taylor Sep 2015
From beneath the bottom of the bottomless abyss, below even that, to the firm cliff's edge above where light shines without shadow, so the Basic Books soar above the darkness, the lostness and the nightmares of yore.

From beneath the bottom of the bottomless abyss, below even that, to the firm cliff's edge above where light shines without shadow.  Further, to the waving flags at the peaks of the highest mountain tops and the voices of those who have climbed cheering and calling from above, so rise the Lectures with their Basic Books.

From beneath the bottom of the bottomless abyss, below even that, to the firm cliff's edge above where light shines without shadow.  Further, to the waving flags at the peaks of Highest Mountain and the voices of those who have climbed cheering and calling from above. Still further and unbelievably beyond, where infinity begins to stretch into constellations of your own creation, where hyperbole will remain forever an understatement, so ascends The Golden Age of Knowledge—The words, the voice and the visions of Ron.
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Kevin J Taylor Nov 2015
If a man whispers peace in a field for the dead
will he be heard or will it be said
that the voice of one man is a lie?

If a man calls out peace from a box in a park
will he be heard or left lost in the dark
with the murmur of madmen and lies?

If a man cries for peace and names Allah or Christ
will he be heard or were they sacrificed
under flag / under bomb / under fire?

If a man offers peace with peace in his heart
will he be heard? Is that how it starts?
Someone— Anyone— with peace in their heart!

Will they be heard? Is THIS where it starts?
If we fail, my dear friend, who will live?
          The War-Men have no peace to give.
'
This song could as easily be the voice, and more likely is, of a woman. "Man" in the poem is the dictionary definition: a human being of either ***: a person: an individual. If the language fails, the intent does not.
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