IN MEMORY OF LEW TAYLOR - POET AND FRIEND

LEWIS BUTLER TAYLOR - 1925 - 2014

 

My writing drips from off my pen,

or, on rare occasions, pours,

as case may be.

While either betides I hardly sleep,

but hold my pail to catch such drippings as I can.

 

I do not turn the spigot on,

I do not know who mans the tap,

but since each drop may be the last,

I try to save whatever I can

before the tap runs dry.

 

LT- from "Author's Preface" to Leaked From the Pail, 2003, edited/ published by Lovepat Press, Benton Arkansas

 

~~

 

PET BURIAL

 

This little grave I dig will hold

the dachshund form of my shadow

for the last fourteen years.

Each spade of earth rekindles another memory

. . . .

I dig to rock.

His place dug here

is like the hole left in my life.

I ponder whether my going to join him

will leave as large a hole in any life.

 

I wrap him in his blanket

and bid a teary goodbye,

each of my tears mourning loss,

but also my own mortality.

 

LT - Ibid, p. 8.

 

LIFE TREE

 

Autumn

years are golden?

Autumn leaves are golden

just before they sere, to fall from

the tree.

 

LT - Ibid, p. 28.

 

PASSAGE

 

Autumn

spreads sere brown leaves

on pasture, field and lawn.

Fall moves from then to then. Thus, too,

we go.

 

LT - Ibid, p. 39.

 

 

Rest in Peace, my dear friend Lew.