I am a 71 year old, retired, police and fire dispatcher for the city of San Francisco. I have known from adolescence that I am a poet, but I largely put off writing poetry until I felt compelled by circumstances This moment of recognition was a terrible way to fall awake. I started writing seriously, if sporadically, in 2007. The purpose of building a web site for the poetry is not to promote it, but to acknowledge it by preserving it.
* I realized that I could not expect anyone to read a 66 line poem commemorating Russ, except those few who are disposed to rendering me a very great kindness. So I tried again. I’ll post this poem on my Facebook page on February 17th. * February 17th, 2023 3rd Iteration Loosely, after a poem … More February 17th, 2023/3rd Iteration
! February 17, 2023 In Memory of my Beloved Husband, Floyd Russell Taylor ! As the day dawned, my husband lay in twilight, A room with a curtain drawn against both dawn, And the intrusion of a dark matter dawning, the ides of his death. Was he dying in this fade, or being born into … More February 17th, 2023/2nd Iteration
(December 16, 2022) * That violent, violating jolt.The shudder diminished too fast,As if a hand cupped the car to stifle it deadly still.The lighted interior went pitch in an instant.The Christmas carol was instantly obliterated by a tinkling of the glassThat was dropping away, our protection now projectiles.It was accompanied by a smash, as if … More CRASH
I surprised myself with this poem. It is not my usual subject matter. * The woman sits in the dirt Digging into her pots, Planting bulbs. Momentarily, a shadow looms, Moving to block her light. She does not need to raise her head To sense this is some foreigner With a question: * “Why are you … More Planting In Mariupol, 2nd Iteration, Definitive
I do not consider this version definitive. I began with this on my way to the definitive, 2nd iteration. * The woman sits in the dirt, Digging away in her pots Planting bulbs. Others, older, sit on benches Within the confines of the courtyard. They are oblivious to her presence. Each one stares at something Solely inside of themselves. The ghost … More Planting In Mariupol, Iteration 1
This is a poem about the human condition. It channels the ghost of Emily Dickinson. Unfortunately, this may well be my greatest poem, the one that lives on after I have passed. * Woeful be the misbegotten who have loved us in vain. Wherever can they go? There is no time to ever think of … More Woe
While I am primarily a narrative poet, I wanted a version of this poem that was lyric poetry. I might well be able to publish this version. * Dedicated to Dr. Stephen Gould And For Alla Gallagher * * The violin case open in front of him is empty of alms. Unlike others here in the station, … More The Violinist, 2nd Iteration
I encountered two poems in college that have haunted me my entire life. Years ago, I wrote “Pax Aeterna,” my response to Sylvia Plath’s masterpiece, “Mystic.” I have finally written my response to the masterpiece by Rainer Maria Rilke, “Going Blind.” * The violinist was a young black man I continually encountered at Civic Center … More The Violinist, 1st Iteration
I wanted to write a response to the masterpiece by Yeats, “The Wild Swans at Coole.” Nonetheless, my style owes more to Gerard Manley Hopkins. This is one of my best poems. * Dedicated to William Butler Yeats And For Alla Gallagher * My fourth retreat is a nest of old memories. I search for … More The Missing Peace
* As I started writing this poem, I did not believe it was any good. In fact, I thought it was one of the worst things to come from my pen. It certainly is unusual. But as I persisted, I gradually discerned this piece was the opposite of what I perceived initially. I now think … More The Missing Piece: Beginning, Finale and Codas
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