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Peter Taylor Poem
An idea
born from darkness
comes into light,
screams like an angel
descending down:
becoming a devil.
Copyright © Peter Taylor | Year Posted 2013
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Peter Taylor Poem
The snowflakes fall,
each one unique and alone,
covering the Earth like returning souls
to mark this winter day.
Quietly I watch Nature perform
Her trick of purity and grace,
grateful for my solitude,
communing with my soul.
The flakes become small,
like dust motes in an old room
with sheets thrown over furniture
and the curtains drawn tightly shut.
I watch the snow fall and tempted, I venture out;
wind stirs branches in the park
and I crunch the soft snow underfoot
as a dog would crunch on a bone.
My footprints leave a mark and I tread backwards,
retracing my steps to the back door,
pondering as I retreat the ying-yang of snow
nestling on the top of a black wheelie-bin.
From an upstairs window I look at the ghost
of the park, covered in white winter's shroud,
the park is empty, devoid of life's bustle.
Downstairs I watch steam rise from a kettle
and take it outside to pour over dead covered leaves,
the evaporation is instant, steam rises from snow:
I marvel at the incongruous sight and step back inside,
Satisfied with my experiment and my silent, pale visitor.
Copyright © Peter Taylor | Year Posted 2013
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Peter Taylor Poem
Surreptitiously sidle,
Stalk the pavement,
Jump up on a wall
And arch your tail
As a dog barks in the night.
This is your feline time,
Shadows cast by the moon's
Radiance, hiding under wheels
Of cars or on walls and rooftops:
You are silent with padded feet.
Overlooking your dark domain,
An intruder comes and challenges,
Stiff fur, a screech and a hiss
Like fat in the frying pan;
A shadowy flurry of movement and claws.
Back in the house you curl up,
Fur soft and yielding to
Eager fingers and hands that stroke
And produce a rhythmic purr with
Always the threat of a vengeful scratch.
Copyright © Peter Taylor | Year Posted 2012
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Peter Taylor Poem
I is a vowel,
I am a man,
Part of the
Human alphabet race;
A powerful letter or word,
Searching for other
Consonants and vowels
To combine with,
And tell an everyday story,
Finding form and meaning:
A letter has potential
To become a spoken word
And bring happiness or despair,
Becoming lost in a breath of air.
Copyright © Peter Taylor | Year Posted 2013
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Peter Taylor Poem
Searching for a notion, an idea
To capture in my butterfly net,
Eluding the hunter
With weightlessness,
Form like smoke
Or haze on a summer’s day.
Like an eel swimming underwater,
Avoiding the rod’s cast and reward
By burrowing into mud,
Obscuring, hiding, disguising
Itself; turning into circles
Within circles, ripples.
But then sunshine overhead
Sharpens my view,
Vision arising, lit with tone
And form and shape:
I write and write
As the salmon leaps from the deep.
Perhaps it is catching insects
Or glorying in exertion,
Afraid I’ll turn again
To the butterfly net
And write about a
Red Admiral instead.
There is envy amongst thoughts:
They compete for space in my mind
As I search for a sentence, a phrase
That is unknowable, immutable;
Like a butterfly in flight,
It will not be pinned to the page.
Copyright © Peter Taylor | Year Posted 2013
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Peter Taylor Poem
Happiness is a very strange beast,
Makes you think of most not least,
Comes upon you unaware
And when you feel it you think beware.
But why be scared of a bit of joy?
Don't throw from your pram your toy,
Smiles move muscles in your face,
Take you to a state close to grace.
Lighten up your bad mood,
Make you appreciate nice food,
Pat you on your back when you need it,
Warm your heart and soul for a little bit.
There's nothing wrong with having a laugh,
Keep following that yellow brick path,
Connecting thoughts and feelings
In the face of life's mis-dealings
Will help you to live and grow,
There's more to life you know,
Don't fall apart when life is blue,
There are other colours too.
Copyright © Peter Taylor | Year Posted 2012
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Peter Taylor Poem
Our eyes meet and we make a connection,
Although sometimes it can be a painful business.
Mirror man lives on the bathroom wall
Thinking that I am indeed the lucky one
As he performs the same dumb show every day.
His tongue was cut out at birth
So it falls to me to write down his story:
I leave the light on for him out of kindness
And sometimes show him photographs;
I see gratitude in his eyes because
He doesn’t have any other friends.
I want to break the mirror and let him out
But I think it would be bad luck:
He would disappear
And I would be left with no reflection;
Like a vampire.
Copyright © Peter Taylor | Year Posted 2013
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Peter Taylor Poem
To take or to give,
To die or to live.
To hold my breath or exhale,
To laugh at life or to wail.
To starve or to eat,
To be cold or have heat.
To swim or to drown,
To smile or to frown.
To be ill and then well,
To see Heaven in Hell.
To be mad and then sane,
To accept love and then pain.
To find comfort in my mind,
To be aware and not blind.
To read every sign,
To write another line.
To be both inside and out,
To know and to doubt.
To be overwhelmed by my fear,
To be tranquil and clear.
Copyright © Peter Taylor | Year Posted 2013
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