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Brenden Taylor Poem
They were the warm tears that cool down
when they touch the pillow,
making a miniature puddle of memories
that can only be described as that.
They can’t be described as events
that could lead into something else
because you’re leaving,
and without you, there’s nothing else.
Nothing else to say, do, make, or plan,
just memories.
All happy memories, no doubt,
but what’s a happy memory
compared to a heartbroken now?
It doesn’t matter that it’s ending,
because everything eventually ends,
but it matters, no, it hurts,
because we can’t do anything about it.
It’s out of our control.
We were building up so strongly, only to be shaken down
by the seismic force of different lives,
you in Virginia, and I in Tennessee.
But the vile moon rises all the same,
and shines on me,
as I lie in a puddle of memories.
Copyright © Brenden Taylor | Year Posted 2010
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Brenden Taylor Poem
Outside, the moon is alone in the sky
and floats bright white in the ocean
of the great black-blue on high.
It illuminates slightly my surroundings,
giving everything the soft pallid hue
that makes everything something familiar,
though some things I have never seen.
All things being equal,
under the bright white moon,
I see the waves of grass
in neighboring lawns that I’ve never trod,
and I see the soft waves of the moon
dancing off the rooftops of houses
that I’ve never been welcomed in,
that contain neighbors that I’ve never met.
It’s cold out…
if the sun gives off heat in the day,
does the moon radiate chills at night?
The moon sheds its cold, emotionally bankrupt light
on everything I see.
Is this how I should be?
If this is how all emotional attachment ends up,
should I even bother?
Or better yet, should I wait for the moon,
that reopens my wounds just by shining on me?
Every time it comes into sight,
I can’t help but think of all the times
it left me dark and cold.
Should I wait for it to change,
or should I move on?
I can’t see why I should waste my time,
when there are other things that
can radiate a brighter and warmer light than this.
If I see it shining its light on others;
what light does it have for me?
Copyright © Brenden Taylor | Year Posted 2010
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Brenden Taylor Poem
“One day, I’ll fin’lly align
This horrible, putrid design;
I’ll start at the crown,
And work my way down,”
Said the sheep at the end of the line.
Copyright © Brenden Taylor | Year Posted 2010
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Brenden Taylor Poem
To never letting voting be enough,
And not abuse the priv’lege of convenience;
To stop excess and live within yourself,
Denying all your loved luxuriance;
To not await for change that must become
In revolution-based expedience;
To hearken for the age that is to come,
To live in Civil Disobedience.
Copyright © Brenden Taylor | Year Posted 2011
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Brenden Taylor Poem
I used to march without a sense of pride
And never held myself with high esteem.
Appeasing everybody else’s dream,
I’d lose the battle fighting for their side.
I was a soldier, blank and hazy-eyed.
My heart would stop and start and wait and scream
Because the fight would not ignite a beam
And leave me dark – a fight with strength denied.
But now, I’ll bid that weak design adieu.
Remove the shield that reaches from the past
And let my heart be stabbed with Wisdom’s dagger.
I now must run with strength in every shoe
And fight so that my will is not the last.
I’ll redefine what it means to have “swagger.”
Copyright © Brenden Taylor | Year Posted 2009
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Brenden Taylor Poem
Fulfilling desire can toll
A sense of relief for the soul;
But death will begin
With the meaning of sin:
Desire that’s out of control.
Copyright © Brenden Taylor | Year Posted 2010
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Brenden Taylor Poem
Pianos are falling apart,
The ivory keys at the start;
From there to the panel,
It’s too much to handle;
It’s breaking the strings of my heart.
Copyright © Brenden Taylor | Year Posted 2010
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Brenden Taylor Poem
Run, you savages! Columbia the Combine is coming!
She harvests the fruits of nature too dark and ripe.
Her pale, white skin juxtaposed against her dark intent
Will show you what she really wants:
“Surrender, demons!” she cries.
Her minions follow suit, those wild-white settlers.
Behold, even the sun rises in the east and forces you west,
Getting rid of the darker clouds and darker people.
Although your bison is strong, her locomotive wins.
The landscape is golden, as if transitioning from
The transparent nature to an opaque shroud.
Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a return to nature,
Unadulterated, unblemished, uncorrupted,
No Columbia.
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This is about the 1872 painting "American Progress" by John Gast.
Copyright © Brenden Taylor | Year Posted 2009
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Brenden Taylor Poem
A spider will crawl on the floor
And often will stop at a door;
I think that he's waiting
And maybe debating
On whether he wants something more.
Copyright © Brenden Taylor | Year Posted 2011
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Brenden Taylor Poem
Sick, sedated, sloth
Feel the breeze of insect wings
Fatal stagnation
Copyright © Brenden Taylor | Year Posted 2011
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