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Theresa T Poem
I’ve got a little secret, on which I would like to let you in,
But first, please promise me you won’t think I’m full of mortal sin.
I’ve always had a slight dislike for poems that rhyme,
I scoff when I read them, saying their simplicity is a crime.
But now I must let you in on another little tidbit,
Something I’ve been scared to ever admit.
The dirty, nasty, naked truth about myself and poems that rhyme,
Is that I scoff only because I have yet to master their art in my lifetime.
I’m rhyme challenged perhaps, struggling with each word,
Coming up with combinations and phrases that are absurd.
One day, my pen and I hope to master the rhyming art,
But for now, I’ll just let free verse flow from my pen, mind, and heart.
Copyright © Theresa T | Year Posted 2011
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Theresa T Poem
As I watch the rows of houses become smaller and smaller
I say goodbye to the place of my birth.
I say goodbye to the familiar.
To the coffee shops,
and the university where I was held captive for six years.
To the lake front,
and to the home of my mother.
To my faithful dog and cat.
Also, my hair straightener—
and even my marriage.
As I say goodbye to it all,
I watch through the window
perched on the edge of seat 8F.
And wonder
whether I should be up in the aisles dancing,
or crying on the shoulder of the kind stranger beside me.
Copyright © Theresa T | Year Posted 2011
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Theresa T Poem
There have not been very many days in my life
well in fact, this is the only one,
on which I could say “I rode on a donkey cart today.”
Sitting quietly on the porch of my mother-in-law’s home,
typing away on my laptop, a knock came at the gate
and my name was hollered over the fence, an invitation for a ride.
I don’t think there is anything quite like the dirt flying in your face with the wind blowing in your hair,
and the way the world—(mainly your poems and your laptop)—
is being swiftly left behind you, with the methodical whack of a donkey’s back with a big heavy stick.
Copyright © Theresa T | Year Posted 2012
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Theresa T Poem
I have taught many subjects to many people in my career.
Whether I was teaching first year engineers to write an essay,
or bored sixth-graders the difference between composite and prime,
I never once doubted my abilities as a teacher.
I was passionate, caring, easy to understand, and always got my point across.
Or so I thought—
I learned otherwise one quiet afternoon in a village in Morocco.
I silently watched as my husband’s sister, to whom I had been teaching English,
repeatedly chanted “good night” to my dog, while waiting expectantly for her to “sit”.
My dog cocked her head to the side, in that way that only dogs can, with a sly grin on her face,
and if she could speak, I’m sure she would make a quip about not being sleepy.
I continued to watch without a word, I was speechless really,
and hoped for the sake of my career that my dog would get tired and sit.
Copyright © Theresa T | Year Posted 2012
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Theresa T Poem
I hate being deep, being philosophical and contemplative.
I much prefer to be analytical, judgemental, and cynical.
However, I am feeling much more the former than the latter.
I am pondering the concept of money.
I feel philosophical—money has the power to break up marriages,
cause deep depressions, even the power to create a stomach ulcer.
Yet it is only a few grams of metal, or even worse, a stingy piece of paper,
which has probably been through the wash a few times by now.
While I contemplate, ruminate with these thoughts,
I come to a deep realization,
the cynic within me cannot even hide for a moment,
while I pretend to be philosophical.
Copyright © Theresa T | Year Posted 2011
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Theresa T Poem
I will never forget
when Mama Lillian said:
In Tanzania we feel joy
to share everything with one another,
even if what we are sharing
is simply our poverty.
Copyright © Theresa T | Year Posted 2011
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Theresa T Poem
Biting your tongue until it bleeds
not saying a word.
The taste of blood
is the punishment for your silence.
Copyright © Theresa T | Year Posted 2011
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Theresa T Poem
“Shadorma”
~Carnival~
A glimmer
of turquoise catches
my eyes’ gaze
from sequins
which adorn a mask set on
a picturesque face.
Instantly
I am drawn to her.
Streets alive,
carnival.
But I see only her face
beauty not masked.
Written by Theresa Taylor
For Nette Onclaud’s “Share a Shadorma” contest with topic: carnival.
Copyright © Theresa T | Year Posted 2011
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Theresa T Poem
It is incredible
how time has the power
to fade from your memory
the name
of someone you thought you would never forget;
how it can blur the sounds you thought you had memorized,
removing any distinct melody from memory;
how it can purify your nostrils and prevent you
from savouring the sweet scents of the past.
It is incredible
how time has the power
to make you feel as though the best days of your life
are actually only a distant dream
that someone else,
not yourself,
lived.
Copyright © Theresa T | Year Posted 2011
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