by Debi
the fairy chiming comes
tiny wisps of sound
so ethereal, so delicate, so otherworldly
in that dawn chorus one hears
the throb of life itself
Author: Debi
Collage Poem: Postscripts to History
by Debi Text Only: Postscripts to History This is the Place to affix the STAMP. man is a dwarf of himself the cycle of the universal man Every man’s condition to history was a postscript (Click image to see larger … Continue reading
Poem: Muse of Madness
by Debi
wits are fresh
this muse of madness
on fine days
oft hid in coarse obscurity
the beauty of earth and heaven
behind the indelicacy of haze and unhappiness
breezy open spaces
in quiet restricted zones
long hours in the open air
ephemeral wastes beside bankrupt boxes
the direction of the wind
a deviation’s tempest
the blessed air
cursed heavens
the scent of flowers
the stench of rot and weed
the position of the sun
unemployed orb of light
the sun a kindly welcome
invisible moonshine
every feature of the landscapes
no view of fair attributes
hill and dale, pool and brook,
ditch and trench, puddle and sewer
trees and cliffs and walls
lampposts, skyscrapers, graffiti
yonder hillock, brook, hedge, or copse
adjoining the featureless cityscape
boundaries of a given space
indeterminate urban wastelands
a wheat crop on the southwest
a rubbish piled curbside
a hedge on the northeast
a chain-linked schoolyard
bounded by the high road on the south
confined amusements
the relative positions of villages and towns
perceptions limited to a street horizon
smoke of chimneys
plumes from factories
we are an overwrought generation
once people breathed simply
a bent inherited from some unknown ancestor
now we live the spirit of the times
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Ugly Crying
by Debi
I wish I cried gracefully
dabbing tears softly
a quiet sniffle
a gentle sob
tear-stained pillowcases
but not me
I’m an ugly crier
a snot-stained pillowcase
or a pile of soggy Kleenex
is more my style
As ugly and snotty and noisy
as my crying may be
the grief behind it
is no less profound
than the gentlest sob
of a lovelier crier
bent gracefully
over the tear-stained pages
of an unfinished
handwritten
diary entry
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Poem: The Borderline
by Debi
living on the borderline –
he needs you to be crazy for if it isn’t you then who could it be he can’t risk being crazy because blame is easier than self-reflection even while eternally gazing at himself you’d think he’d see the truth but the warped mirror allows only distorted appearances open to myriad interpretations and misinterpretations
existing on the margin –
he requires you to be irrational for if it isn’t you then who could it be he’s unable to chance being out of his mind because denunciation of the other is simpler than personal implications even while ceaselessly contemplating his own reflection you’d expect he’d perceive the reality but the deformed glass sanctions no more than misleading forms accessible to countless views and realities
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Poem: The Leaf’s Glow
A Verbal Photograph by Debi
A single glowing leaf, somehow standing upright amid the other wet leaves on the path, needed to be recorded. And I’d forgotten my camera.
wet leaves turn to darkness underfoot
even the sun can’t bring their colors to life
one leaf alone
standing upright between its darkened comrades
as a low winter sun beam
creates backlit beauty
of this leaf
this single leaf
this single autumn leaf
this single autumn fallen leaf
alive on the path
vibrant glowing radiant
stand tall small leaf
catch the sun and don’t let go
as you stand fearlessly
above the densely trodden crowd
your true nature is revealed
the world needs your beauty
now
in this dark time
on the cusp of winter
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Poem: Where Was God?
Erasure Poem by Debi
Source Text: Lord, Where Are You When Bad Things Happen?
Photo Credit © Debi Taylor-Hough
You wonder
tough questions
You need help
You suffered.
Why?
Why the cruel unjust evil?
You doubted.
You wondered.
Such a question
would seem unholy.
Where is God
in the darkness of fear?
In a trembling voice,
Stop!
They didn’t.
Where was God?
Brutally exterminated.
Where was God?
Oppressive systems
ravage others.
Where was God?
These are the questions
many of us bury.
Where is God?
Are we afraid?
Do we fear the answer
we cannot understand?
The evil in this world
troubled human history.
Where was God?
Where is God?
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May I Not Die in this Battle
I am no soldier
and yet
the battle of life
found me
Here I lie
beaten
stabbed through the heart
my soul bleeding
Death circling silently
I feel its breath
This helmet
which should have been my salvation
brought meager protection
in this unexpected onslaught
My breastplate
in all its righteous glory
surprised me
by offering little protection
from the fire-laden arrows
of my enemies.
The sword in my hand
always so firm and sure
fell heavily to the ground
and lay still
I am too weak to raise it again
My shield
made of stretched hide
now moth-eaten
riddled with holes
its beauty and emblems
faded beyond recognition
These shoes
once rugged and sturdy
have worn through
I feel painfully each rock
each stone
each thistle
each step an agony
Oh, how I wish to walk in peace once again.
Pitifully — under
a great soldier’s helmet
a cricket sings
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You Think You Know Me
You may think you know me
You read my Facebook updates
You see the funny memes I share
The photos of my cats and bunnies
My new guest room
My bookshelves
My new magna cum laude degree
My six blogs and 5,000 followers
You may think you know me
From some blog a decade old
It shined a glimmer of light on my religiosity
of the time
A snapshot
A glimpse
But not true insight
Like looking in a reflection
Did you notice the posts stopped?
My heart moved on
Your glimpse of me was frozen in time
You may think you know me
But if you knew me
If you could see inside my head
Feel the true beat of my heart
The pain of my soul
Then maybe, just maybe
you would know me
You would know
That what once sustained me
what gave meaning
and purpose
and joy
and love to my life
is gone, missing in action
and left a gaping hole
Nothing has filled that emptiness
You may think you know me
You may think I follow organized religion
But the reality is
any religion I have left
is disorganized
Not a title on a name tag
Not the emotional highs
Not the hierarchy
Not the patriarchy
Not the submission to an organization
Or to a man
Or to a creed
You may think you know me
But now what you might see
On Sundays
when I choose to go
which is rare
A small liturgical service
The prayers of the people
Quiet music
Standing for a familiar scripture
The gentle smile of a stranger
Passing peace from hand to hand
A moment for reflection
A word of encouragement
Breaking of bread
A brief and holy communion
with saints and sinners,
with God and broken humankind
You may think you know me
But listen to me when I say
that other part of me is gone
Listen to me when I say
something new is taking its place
Listen to me when I say
you’re not listening to me
Maybe then, finally
I may think you actually may know me
But for now
You may think you know me
But I think you may not
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My Christmas
When no gifts are beneath the tree
When the family table sits empty
When no cards arrive to share
warmest greetings
Then you will know
my Christmas
When no stockings are hanging or filled
When no phone calls are sharing glad tidings
When the people you love
abandon and ignore
Then you will know
my Christmas
When all that you live for is gone
When all you believe in feels empty
When you think you may die
from a broken heart
Then you will know
my Christmas
Debi Taylor-Hough 