[with 4 poems by Richard Allen Taylor]
I need one of those little fountains that floats in your birdbath. I need more gravel for the driveway. I need a sharper macro lens. I need to check my investment strategy.
I need to clean the hummingbird feeders. I need to sit down with my life insurance agent. I need to pull the crabgrass between the lilies. I need to empty the dehumidifier. I need an empty inbox.
I need to listen to my sister. I need to reassure Linda. I need to tell Amelia a story. I need to thank Jill and Sue and Josh and Allison . . . I need to thank a whole lot of people. I need a cool morning on the porch with birdsong and poems by my friend Richard. I need the forgiveness I didn’t know I needed.
. . . . . . .
The Train to Redemption
I almost miss it, but catch the last car,
find a window seat next to a woman
who opens her bag of sewing –
needles, pins, fabric spilling over
her knees – and what she’s sewing,
I don’t know. She says nothing
as I lean my head against the sad
window, and watch the land scroll,
trees waving like sword-grass
in a rush of green infantry, charging
the horizon until the sun sinks
and pulls the sky down with it.
After an hour of darkness, the lights
of Redemption appear and the woman
hems while she hums, a tune I won’t name
because it’s one of those that sticks
in your head and drives you crazy for hours
once you hear it. As the train approaches
the station, the air in the car smells
like apples and rain, and this woman
who has not spoken to me, but has
the gift of threading her eyes
with whatever the moment requires,
stitches me with a look of forgiveness
I didn’t know I needed.
Richard Allen Taylor
. . . . . . .
Maybe 2014? A good while back Richard Allen Taylor set himself the challenge of writing poems about angels; they make a marvelous collection. A marvelous concatenation. Conceptualization. Conciliation. Oh sure, Gabriel has a cameo, but these are Richard’s angels, your and my angels: the Angel of Bureaucracy; Angel of Minor Disputes; Angel of Pain. And the Angels of Hope.
What do I really need? How about you? Redemption, can that actually mean anything more than cashing in the winning lottery ticket? Richard in Armed and Luminous offers poems with humor, imagination, and gentle compassion that have redeemed my morning. Yes, there are angels here, more than you may have expected, but I wasn’t hoping for any glowing personage with wings. What I have discovered instead is a spirit that wells up in two persons’ hearts and allows them to truly touch.
. . . . . . .
Angel of Hope
As she grows invisible, her confidence blooms,
a moonflower in darkness, buoyed by terrestrial air
that gives lightness to her presence.
To the man drowning in despair, the garden feels heavy.
Nothing grows as planned. Renegade vines pull down
the rusted trellis, fruit fallen and rotted.
She watches his waning moon fade somber
in the box-like night of a four-walled sky.
In one corner, a shadow thickens, crosses
from stone to path and pulses against
light promised but not yet come.
The man, still unaware of the angel
who waits at the edge of his surrender,
senses a ripple in the darkness and draws closer
to speak, but seeing nothing, keeps his peace
and bows his head – in prayer or resignation
who can say? The angel’s cloak, opaque,
wide-winged and flutter-flapped – hides her completely.
He has shuttered himself, but she sees what he needs
is hers to give. She unwraps, offers her spirit light
like a lover’s body, but only for a heartbeat.
She closes her cloak, knowing hope is a drug
best administered in small doses. She gives him enough
to swim, rise to the surface, breathe again.
Richard Allen Taylor
. . . . . . .
Blue Ridge Mountains
The possibilities were infinite.
When God made this place
He could have made it flat
or barren or covered with ice
or submerged in a hot soup
of gases, but he chose this
contemporary design, mountains
sprigged with tallest pine,
oak, maple, and poplar,
cloud-catching peaks and spines
that radiate into folds. He
let there be light, and the bright
afternoon reflected green
from the nearest slopes,
now blue-gray from a distant arc,
Mt. Mitchell under siege
from a flotilla of clouds,
gray-hulled, white-sailed.
It was quiet here when God created
the vacuum, before He created air
and water to carry sound.
He threw stones and ice,
enough to squeeze the earth
into a ball. Before this windy
breath in the trees, before
the voices in the meadow
or the click of heels
against flagstone walks,
before dry leaves scratched
across the porch, God
did his best work in silence.
He assigned Mother Nature
to manage construction.
She pushed to get the work done,
pitting one continent against another,
subcontracting certain details
to volcanism and erosion, giving the piece
a mixed-media look. I stand on rock
born deep in the earth, spewed
to the surface, sparkled with mica.
the dinosaurs have left, and our turn
at the controls has just begun, our time
a thin sheet in the layers of time,
but already, we have begun the undoing.
Richard Allen Taylor
. . . . . . .
Cello in Moonlight
The strings pull me
to a darkened house,
through a door left open
to a room, empty
except for a wicker chair,
where a woman
in a shawl of moonlight
sits weeping, a private ritual,
her voice the cello,
the cello her voice.
An intruder, I turn to leave.
She asks me to stay.
Richard Allen Taylor
. . . . . . .
all poems from Armed and Luminous, Richard Allen Taylor, Main Street Rag Publishing, © 2016
Header art by Linda French Griffin
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V E R S E ❦ I M A G E 