Beauty, Beautious, Beautiful
Beauty is not a superficial form
Each has their own in essential nature
And in the actions they perform
Until the dissolution of their life
To leave beauty’s impressions in our hearts
Yesterdays beauty never leaves or departs.
Beauty is all around
Each and every place it may be found
As you look with open eyes
Upon the forms that nature makes
Then man seeks to imitate
Yearning to match that beauty all around.
Beauty if you cannot find
Beauty must be in mind
Beauty is in purity
Beauty of simplicity
Beauty runs right through and through
Beauty in me, and them, and you.
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poem by David Taylor
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A White Horse Of The Most Magical Kind
She rode a white horse,
rode it for sanity;
galloped and cantered
with rhythmic consistency,
walked for a while
along glistening streams
and trotted through dark woods
with the darkest of dreams.
Bridled with a need to express
she rode east and rode west,
never stopping or ceasing her quest,
until she reached
the most beautiful shore,
of a beach of white sand
with a moon in the sky
that reached with its moonlight
into her heart, that had cried.
She dismounted the horse
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poem by David Taylor
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Discrimination
Racism a nasty word
that conjures thoughts
of oppressive deeds
made by man because
of creed.
Discrimination another one
that binds our minds
and sharpens tongues
because of some elitist thought
that's unjust and plainly wrong.
Fighting wars because of God?
Trampling on the underdog.
But we have legislation
to banish discrimination.
'Equal opportunity'
is the current phrase; our incantation.
The rules and laws
are needed where
some of us would dare
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poem by David Taylor
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Keeping Up Appearances
Darkness appears to be the absence of light
but absence of darkness is not light.
Misery appears to be the absence of happiness
but absence of misery is not happiness.
Isolation appears to be the absence of love
but absence of isolation is not love.
Ignorance appears to be the absence of knowledge
but absence of ignorance is not knowledge.
Being what we are simply means
coming out of what appears to be.
But being what we are cannot be dependant
on coming out of something we are not.
We have always been and will always be
what we are.
So, we are realised but
we don’t realise it yet?
Until we come out of what we are not
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poem by David Taylor
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Just Visiting
She sits there anxious, eyes dark
and sunken, reflecting heart.
Not much to say as the days pass by;
they do not talk that much at home,
his hearing aid often switched on, but low.
After more than one week of visiting hours
three to five then six to eight and not one day
was she late; to say very little,
'what did you have for breakfast,
have they given you your medicine,
what did the doctor say today.
When will you come home'
They discuss the holiday they had planned
in three weeks time but,
she had not really wanted to go
not liking flying and concerned about her health,
and now he lay in the hospital bed.
'Well' he says 'perhaps we could change the date
to September, it shouldn't be too hot in September.'
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poem by David Taylor
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Nothing To Worry About!
I don't fear nothing at all,
but when nothing becomes something
and it growls with sparkling pointed white teeth,
i shake in my shoes and
my legs quake beneath;
and i run and i hide and think darkly inside
and remember (as much as i can) ,
I don't fear nothing at all; and,
nothing becomes something
and that something is tall,
and it casts a great shadow
that blocks out the light,
('cause i'm small) .
Then i run in the shadows
and tremble with fright.
until i remember
(as best as i might)
It's nothing i'm fearing
(nothing, that's all!):
but it's dark in the shadows
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poem by David Taylor
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Looking For Trade Martin's Ferret
From Alaska to Zanzibar the poets are out
They’re searching and hunting and looking about
The hunt is on, the call is being shouted out loud
The poets well versed are searching all round
In cupboards and sheds and holes in the ground
They’ll keep searching until that ferret is found.
They scramble about like mouse hunting cats
Reciting some prose in case ferrets like that
They’ve heard many stories of ferrets abound
And even up legs of trousers are found
Those furry mammals with teeth oh so bright
That when they are bared they give quite a fright.
The poets are hunting high up and low down
And when they have found him they’ll call you around
And while they are waiting they’ll play for a while
With the ferret you’ve lost since the end of last year
And gave herald to a ferretless and lonely new dawn
Since the day TM celebrated that Christ was past born.
poem by David Taylor
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No Moss?
A frog he goes to the bank
His name is Kermit Jagger
The teller at the bank
Her name is Miss Patricia Whack
She welcomes him, that’s a fact
Kermit says “I would like a loan
I need a holiday to get away
From all those tadpoles
In the pond back home, that way”.
Kermit says “it should be OK,
my dad Mick he knows the manager
who thinks he rocks, he’s swell.”
The teller says, tell me
Do you have your ID?
Kermit produces from his pocket
A small porcelain figure of
A pink elephant, most charming.
Perfect in its shape and making
Patricia she is most confused
And finds the manager
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poem by David Taylor
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Memories Of The Beach
We went to the beach to get wind in our hair
to stand on the sand and simply to stare.
To let the surf tickle toes and dampen our clothes
as we played 'run away'
from the wavelets at play.
We went to the beach to climb on the rocks
find cool shallow pools where we'd take of our socks,
and peer in the waters to see what we might find
that the waves of the sea,
had last left behind.
We went to the beach to find coloured shells
the kind that when placed to our ears
make the sound of the ocean appear,
and gathered rocks that we never would find
in the places we walked,
for most of the time.
We went to the beach and all that, we did find
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poem by David Taylor
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Three At The Door
Door bell chimes its discordant tune
ringing in still light, in month of June,
doors open wide, with sight alive
to coloured visions in my mind.
Ears receiving sounds of kinds
children's play and traffic bound
songs birding in birches' branched out hands.
I thought back to days on balmy nights
where we'd danced to disco'd sounds;
three stood at my door
their words as like a trumpet call
with sounds that tinkled, hard to find
amid the drumming in my mind.
Not them again, not them, not them,
them... them....them, them, them.
The beat drowned out the bugled call.
Not hearing words or seeing true
coloured eyes with blinded mind
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poem by David Taylor
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