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Kathy Tauber Poem
The surf, ferocious in the distance
white caps and roller coaster waves
nose-dives into the shore
sand rearranged; sea life takes cover-
the hermit crab –boroughs;
the gulls greedy, hungry - grab
remnants of human litter- their meal for the day-
and flee.
Homeward bound.
Rain-
torrents or drizzle feed flora, fauna, man
all given a pardon: one more day to live.
Mother Nature in a cathartic mood sends
the wind, chaotic, blasted, twisted;
or patronizing - to clean and clear.
Then returns the earth to serenity
and life.
Homeward bound.
Geese choreographed in flight
synchronized to fly as one
north to south in the winter
and intuitively reverse when
it’s time to breed and feed.
Homeward bound.
Lovers- finish
the evening’s repartee with a
nightcap of Bailey’s or Port
conjoined as they coo their way.
Homeward bound.
The warrior-committed to peace-
combative, defensive, protective, vigilant,
conflicted- kill or be killed.
The good soldier returns-decorated for bravery- in the box
covered in the coveted colors of the employer.
Some maimed –without limbs, eyes, mind.
The whole- return- many missing-their soul.
Homeward bound.
The dying- incontinent, incoherent, incompetent, in pain
wishes for a reprieve. Moans.
More morphine.
The death rattle gurgling through lungs
ravaged but determined
to discharge the last hooray of life.
Then, so it goes, homeward bound.
Kathy Tauber-2015
Copyright © Kathy Tauber | Year Posted 2015
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Kathy Tauber Poem
**Disclaimer: This is strictly satire-tongue-in-cheek-written before I became a poet- sort of. An opportunity to laugh at myself but poets, rock!
Poetry Defined
Poetry is tedious
with its
silly syntax and similes and symbolism
and analogies and allegories and…alliterations.
Stein said, “a rose is a rose is a rose” until it isn’t, claims Magritte.
Why does it have to be
so…
abstract?
It isn’t a game show-
Don’t make me guess;
what has velvety concentric circles when dried creates
mind numbing potpourri?
Poetry is bouffant.
Marie Antoinette pompous and full of itself.
Rhythm and rimes- iambic pentameters or haiku
just tell me the story.
It’s laborious and lengthy-
ever read a short poem that said anything?
Poetry is frivolous –
all the skipping throughs and dashing off to sunsets
and crossing ponds.
It short circuits the brain and takes liberty with
punctuation and lack of paragraphs
with its stops and starts
and no periods or commas
to know when you can breathe again
or drift off or get a snack.
Never put an exclamation point in poetry! (exclamation point noted)
That’s excitement;
poetry is nonchalant; like a lazy tabby reposed on a tattered couch.
“ I’d rather not be analyzed,” declares the poet.
“I have a shrink.”
For me a simple story will do
like,
My “once upon time”
won’t really rhyme
and at the end
you will see
they can still say
“I love you”
without sitting under a tree.
Copyright © Kathy Tauber | Year Posted 2015
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Kathy Tauber Poem
Demise
The mansion anchored seaside
erosion
from the wrath of the tide
impelled now reposes
haunted on the rise.
The ocean floor raw,
uninhabitable,
like a barren womb,
surrounds the symbol of
the über wealthy 1%
alienated
when the world collapsed.
Copyright © Kathy Tauber | Year Posted 2015
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Kathy Tauber Poem
Kathleen
My name
is hers.
Sort of.
Similar yet different
because I am.
Altered,
this strong Irish name for a
weak Sicilian nonna.
Heart it was.
Children’s laughter killed her,
roared his grief.
They grew with guilt.
I, inherited the heart
but I am not weak with
this strong Irish name.
Laughter is medicinal.
I live past her years.
Copyright © Kathy Tauber | Year Posted 2015
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Kathy Tauber Poem
The End
Death is simple.
It’s the dying to get there
that's complicated.
Copyright © Kathy Tauber | Year Posted 2015
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