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.

IN MEMORIAM: JEANIE CARTER, HOT SPRINGS (AR) POET, FRIEND

 

 

THE AMBULANCE -

by Jeanie Carter, from Spendrift, 1977

Wheels spin in dust,
dust whirls in wind,
wind twists his hair,

as Tony follows
the fading siren,
warm familiar dust
squishing between his toes,
then rising to rim
the legs of his jeans.

The sun stripes gold
down his straight brown hair
and waves a long, thin
shadow-boy before him.

His father is at home, alone,
standing on the porch,
staring down the road.
His mother is in the wailing
whirlwind of dust
speeding down the road.

Tony spins, whirls, and twists,
playing the game of losing
the shadow-boy in the dust.

He does not yet know
he knows
his mother will not be back
to mend his clothes,
wash his ears,
and hold him close.

This poem of Jeanie's was published in 1977 when she was 46 years old. Just think of all the ensuing years she had to continue writing.

            At the end of the Garland County Community College literary journal where these poems appear are thoughts by each contributor. Jeanie’s was: “Creativity is often joyous, often painful, but I keep trying.”

            Her life, like her creativity, was often joyous, and in later years, often painful. Now, Jeanie Dolan Carter rests from her efforts. God bless her soul.

--PL