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Kate  Jun 2019
Kate Jun 2019
Where are my guardians?
Have they all discussed amongst themselves
to leave me in this dark room
To find my own way out
Are you watching me?
Who's there?

There is a fly on your yellow roses
It won't move
The truth
sharpens me like a knife
gliding through glass rain
in a deep breath

you kept a wave
under wraps
and away from shore

Behind the shroud
I wait
And watch with untold tolerance
My heart is under strain
Kevin J Taylor Oct 2015
All that rest are spaces (space)
space of drums
("Come" they told him)

Nitre, cannon, horns, pipes
(echoed, calling)
vertebrae, rope-fray

Sinew (pink, foam-flecked)
flailing, fallen, gathered, apart
upon itself, weltered
Nitre: saltpeter or potassium nitrate, a component of gunpowder.
Welter: lie soaked in blood.
Who do we actually think has laid down their lives for the freedoms of today? A wellspring of greater beings who have sacrificed everything for us in some past, performing a duty we attempt to honor for a moment, for a day or on a postage stamp? No no no. They are us, one life to the next as we live and die and live—live yet again. We might take a dimmer view of those running roughshod over our hard-won victories if we realized the personal price we’ve paid and how many times. This poem is a death remembered in parts—one day of many from that perspective. Remembered, because that awareness has gone on to live again. I remember past lives (and this is the death of one of them), and so these memories are sometimes disconnected and hard to look at. I don’t much care whether this preamble seems strange or utterly fantastic.
Make room. This is the Death of a Patriot.

Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry from common things.)
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