Purity
In the dark tabernacle,
a shaft of sunlight
illumines the heart
and shines through
a million years of dust.
Clouds and clouds of swirling
dust
spiralling
through the light
which spills in a golden pool
on damp, grey stone and iron rust.
When the light moves
it does not take the dust there to it.
When the dust slides into darkness,
the light does not pursue it.
Why then does the heart invent
heart bruising burdens to shoulder?
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poem by Brian Taylor
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April
April was hot and dry.
The red earth responded
by blowing as dust in the wind.
The green earth responded
by smothering itself with flowers of a thousand colours.
The Water Board responded
by banning hosepipes
and promising to charge more
for redistributing the rain
(if it comes) .
Butterflies appeared early.
A full moon hung above the ocean like a portent.
A comet lit up the north-western skies for two weeks.
And
in truth
absolutely nothing
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poem by Brian Taylor
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Up To Date And Ready To Go
It may not be the bearded man
who smiles at you and explodes.
It may not be the errant tyre
that slides on the icy roads.
It may not be the scaffolding plank
that bounces on your head.
It may not be pneumonia
that smothers you in bed.
It may not be the fever
that creeps through blood and vein.
Or the quiet worm in the sole of your foot
that climbs up to your brain.
It may be that the breath leaks out
in a mist of expiring pain
and nothing can make it turn about
and slide back in again.
Ready?
poem by Brian Taylor
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Building A House
Of building houses there is no end
with bricks and feelings thoughts and mind,
using the universal glue
that clings and sticks and binds.
Lovers spin webs for castles,
conquerors ancestral halls,
angels their heavenly mansions,
demons their prison walls.
Actors that tread the boards
and actors on the street
have studied how to speak their lines
and where to put their feet.
Each is his own creator
and jostles with the crowd,
entangled with his own conceits
by turns both arrogant and cowed.
poem by Brian Taylor
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Siva
Foothills of the Himalayas.
How vast and towering, Mount Meru!
From that icy, lifeless peak
behold the plains
and pains
of men!
Frozen, jagged jewels
merely compound his charms
and devotees still jostle
to be martyred in his arms.
One defines oneself by others,
cannot be big or small alone
and, but for the one that we outgrew,
how would we know that we have grown?
If my tadpole
turns into a frog,
how should I complain?
And if my soul
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poem by Brian Taylor
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Winter
Winter comes
with A Winter’s Tale
of all that has gone before.
Ulysses toasts his feet before an Ithacan fire
dreaming of Ilium.
Letting go.
Letting go gain and loss.
A winter’s tale –
words upon a page,
ripples upon a mind
like ripples upon a sea.
The wind drops
sea becomes calm.
Where are the ripples then?
Mind lets go.
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poem by Brian Taylor
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Yes
Meanwhile I have been:
cutting back brambles
where they clutch at the passing skin;
watching a golden sun
failing to find a cloud to hide within;
seeing your face
forgetting to be tired
and shining out across the decades
then hesitating,
(a tight-rope walker above Niagara):
walking in the Druids’ Grove
among ancient oaks in the cool of the day;
sitting in the French Gardens
as evening fades into mothlight
and the magnolia shines
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poem by Brian Taylor
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Returning To The Root
The fretful Tiger in a rage
prowls the confines of his cage.
Do not feed him. Pass him by.
And, of himself, he'll surely die.
The Gypsy, with her crystal ball,
promises to tell you all.
Do not cross her palm with gold.
Leave your future woes untold.
The wave that towers above the sea
and rubs its chin against the sky,
subsided where it will ever be.
(Not being born, how can it die?)
Delve into your heart divine
(discarding thoughts of yours and mine) .
Permeate the stillness there
and of its Silence be aware.
poem by Brian Taylor
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Making Merit
'There's nothing either good or bad
but thinking makes it so.'
And riding on that apophthegm,
to lower worlds they go
until the pain compresses them
and makes them scream out, 'No! '
There is some truth in points of view,
that what seems good to me
might not seem so to you;
but can you say that how you see
affects the way a thing may be?
'Good' actions do not depend
on the viewpoint you happen to select,
but on what you intend
and whether it produces good effect.
No matter what the label may be,
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poem by Brian Taylor
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Shanghai Jar
Standing in a Shanghai Jar
water trickles down my nose
debris falls upon my head
mud builds up around my toes.
My clothes are sodden, caked with mould,
water splashes round my knees.
The air is misty damp and cold,
I cough and splutter, wheeze and sneeze.
What am I doing in this zone
holed up in this dreadful pot?
This is my own my very own
though why or how I have forgot.
Outside, the sun spins through the heavens.
The stars, like gold dust, fill up space.
The cosmic wind slides through the void.
Somewhere, out there, my own true face?
poem by Brian Taylor
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