Plus Ca Change
The world still piles
storm on storm,
(though happiness remains the norm.)
The spider mind spins
thought on thought
(and in its own web still is caught.)
The sun (still)
shines
in a bucket of water
(and doesn’t
get
wet) .
poem by Brian Taylor
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There Are Silences
There are silences
born of stillness;
others that are discovered
when something snaps:
a cloud,
a stick,
a thought.
(A life) .
Some voluntary.
Some enforced.
That boat
on the horizon
makes no sound
though it cuts the sea
in two.
poem by Brian Taylor
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City Of Angels
Shafting sunbeams. misty eddies,
towering, sculpted, shining chedis,
thundering traffic, six lane highways,
swampy, shabby, back-street by-ways,
mangoes, sticky rice, dom yams,
squeezed into the Mother of all Traffic Jams…..
www.bamboo-leaves.com
poem by Brian Taylor
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Ashram Melody
The best way of enough is all gone,
for that there is no arguement upon.
While ther is still something in the dish
there is, in Mind, propensity to wish.
Wishing is a film that spreads itself like jam
and turns the dullest pebble to a fragment of 'I AM'.
poem by Brian Taylor
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Completing Cycles
The Juggler throws
his batons at the sun.
The sky throws them back again
like rain,
each and every one.
Surely by now he knows
what it is he’s gaining?
Come Mr. Juggler,
look at it from your point of view,
just how long has it been raining?
On you?
poem by Brian Taylor
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The Happiest Old
The happiest old
have nothing and don't mind.
The happiest young
are old before their time.
Few these.
The others are behind their years,
suffer thirteen-year-olds' fears
into their twenties,
and in their forties
have appetite
for sins of twenty.
But not the bite.
poem by Brian Taylor
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Perseverance
Racing along and full of zeal
from A to B, how does it feel?
No obstacle can block his way
he forges on by night and day.
No doubt the race is to the strongest
to him who struggles on the longest.
But what, if, after all, the goal
is six by two in a fresh dug hole?
poem by Brian Taylor
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You Are At Peace
You are at peace
and someone comes,
thoughtless not unkind,
and jogs you with his moment;
demands your recognition,
your admission,
your consent
to his place in your mind.
What do you do?
What harm has he done
to you?
What calm had you won
and no room for him inside?
poem by Brian Taylor
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Blondin Walking The Tightrope
Everyman is Blondin,
Every lifetime a rope,
finer than a spider's thread,
sharper than a sword,
stretched between birth and death
(breath and breath)
across Niagara.
(Charles Blondin, a French acrobat, was the first man ever to cross Niagara Falls by tightrope in 1859.)
poem by Brian Taylor
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Living Waters
All drink from the same pond,
Pride is out of place
(there is no owner)
Humility is out of place
(it is inverted Pride)
Enough that drinkers drink freely
and do not erect fences facing.
Set out to fence in a small pond,
you end up in a small cage
(which has no owner)
Wet
poem by Brian Taylor
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