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Archive for September 25th, 2026

Geography of One – Richard Allen Taylor

Posted in family, poetry, tagged , , , , , , , on September 25, 2026| Leave a Comment »

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[ 3 poems by Richard Allen Taylor ]
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Continental Divide
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When I drop the word cry on the spine
of a mountain ridge, weep flows down
one side, shout down the other, one word
split into different-meaning halves,
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then face will follow, turning toward
the Eastern slope while becoming the front side
on the West, and
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check will hesitate at first, not sure whether
to inspect for defects or stop a moving object,
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but before I drop the word orange,
I have to decide whether to eat it or wear it,
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and I discover the word colonizing, when released
from high altitude, might burst into colon and zing
like a couple divorced for irreconcilable differences,
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and knowing that rivers seldom head straight for
the sea, but wander sometimes in great bends
and curves before they reach home, one must
be careful when dropping a grenade like love.
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Richard Allen Taylor
from The Geography of One, Main Street Rag Enterprises, Edinboro, PA; © 2026
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❀    ❀    ❀
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Blessed Are
 .  .     after “Ode on Inheritance” by Kate Partridge
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Perhaps there is no inheritance worth having
that does not include a narrative of water—
a river, a lake, an ocean
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pounding on the beach below the open windows.
My father bought a farm
with a white house on a hill, a pond
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at the bottom. My mother inherited. She later sold.
All of it was, shall we say, liquidated.
Gone, the tiny lake
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fed by a stream tumbling over my father’s modest
ambitions. Just as well. My brothers and I sought
neither the view nor the serenity.
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We were reaching elsewhere, for something
less pastoral, more hopeful,
something more highway
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than country road. But even a cave can elicit hope.
The torch goes out, we thrust our hands
forward, grope walls,
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feet following our blindness. As if a hole could lean
against its sides. All it takes is the will
to swap adjectives.
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Trade wet for slick. Choose briny over soaked.
Here we go again with that
narrative of water. Snow, hail,
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ice melting in your palm. Later, when drought
squeezes the pond dry, a spark catches,
and fire climbs the hill—
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everything promised burns. The difference between
bold and meek becomes a matter of timing.
Bold when we rush forward
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to extinguish the blaze. Meek when the flames
force us back to a place
where faces do not melt.
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When rain finally comes, we inherit the memory
of blackened hills, even if no lawyers or signatures
attend. When grief follows, we console ourselves.
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We say the trees bury their seeds under layers of ash.
We say the trees dream of resurrection..
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Richard Allen Taylor
from The Geography of One, Main Street Rag Enterprises, Edinboro, PA; © 2026
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❀    ❀    ❀
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Song for a Wind with No One Left to Talk To
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Now that you’re alone, wind,
where will you go?
north, sough, high, low
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Now that you sleep, wind,
what will you know?
peace, love, war, snow
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Now that you’re empty, wind,
how will you fill?
zephyr, gust, sail, chill
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Not that you’re free, wind,
what else will you be?
home, afar, aloft, alee
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Now that you die, wind,
how will you rise?
cloud, star, spirit, sky
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Richard Allen Taylor
from The Geography of One, Main Street Rag Enterprises, Edinboro, PA; © 2026
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❀    ❀    ❀    ❀    ❀
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About a month shy of 60 years ago, DuPont transferred my Dad (again) and we moved from Michigan to Aurora, Ohio. The first of November was my first day of eighth grade in my new school, and my first class was German with Fräulein Appenzeller. I shuffled my feet while she introduced me, then declared that they already had a Wilhelm in the class and therefore christened me Fritz. For the next five years most of the kids in Aurora thought my real name was Fritz.
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I sat down and looked around the classroom. I don’t remember much from that morning, but I do recall that there was one girl with long dark hair and very red cheeks. I mean really red, like silver dollar sized lipstick circles. Was this an arcane German class ritual? Turns out it was lipstick, from Halloween the night before. Turns out she had tried really hard but hadn’t been able to wash it off. Turns out her name was Linda. Turns out eight years later, in 1974, we would get married.
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Turns out we still are. During those almost 60 years now the proportion of time we have driven each other completely nuts has been far less than the proportion of time we have made each other laugh. Or at least smile. Smiling — I love that.
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Smiling is what these little paragraphs are about. Richard Allen Taylor’s poetry always, always makes me smile. His new book of poetry is crammed to bursting with smiles. Not just the poems that are funny – slyly, wickedly, innocently, unexpectedly funny. Also and even more so I am smiling with Richard and with his poems about these last few years he has lived alone, and about the three decades he and Julie were married before her death from leukemia. Smiling because love remembered and relived in such a pure, tender, and honest way lights up the world. Smiling because it is a gift to discover a poet willing to give so much of himself or herself.
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Turns out, Richard, that you are the world’s biggest mensch, and I love you. Keep smiling.
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❀
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Order Geography of One from Main Street Rag Enterprises.
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❀    ❀    ❀    ❀    ❀
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Thanks again for joining the conversation.
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– Bill
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Doughton Park Tree 2020-11-22
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