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.
Stanza 8 is new. * Dedicated to my beloved husband, Floyd Russell Taylor * Once again, upon a weekend time, we shook off the city. As always, by Friday, it felt like a fur drenched in wet. At first, we motored through the fog, then, across the Golden Gate And into the sun, the fun … More Mary’s Garden/3rd Iteration
I did not succeed in drafting a second, much more succinct version of this poem. But this may be better than the original. Let me highlight the most significant changes: Stanza 2 “It was fitting that we saw the pollinator’s first, The givers, the gifters of gardens.” Stanza 4 I wanted a succinct version of the … More Mary’s Garden/2nd Iteration
Dedicated to my beloved husband, Floyd Russell Taylor Once again, upon a weekend time, we shook off the city.As always, by Friday, it felt like a fur drenched in wet.At first, we motored through the fog, then, across the Golden GateAnd into the sun, the fun of Sonoma.Our rental car conveyed our escapeTo the haven-heaven … More Mary’s Garden
Dedicated to Queen Lili’uokalani And, For Lisa Vihos Nu’uanu Pali was created for another day. Gales of fog gust the lot of us; Unless we fight it, we are almost away. Along the path, from the limbering barks So many drips damping us down. Above, their crowning thrashes bewitched. Achieving the cliff, huddled by … More Beware of BEES During High Wind
Just before dawn, I shut my book midway. Refuse the news from yesterday’s paper. The computer tablet is as black as the TV. Hours ago, I pulled all the cords That can color the world And push it’s face up close, So up into mine. I see my head haunting the dead box Of … More Insomnia
Semi-Abbreviated Version A speck of vivid, I see it follow fitfully in zigs Until it lands on my hand, All quivering color. I am tempted to possess it, Pressing it into a book with my leaves, With a beloved’s leave I weaved into a poem, The final word spoken the first of its … More PSYKHE
Extended Version A speck of vivid, As I bank myself on a bench I see it follow fitfully in zigs Until it lands on my hand. Startled, my fingers wriggle rhythmically, Eager to agitate it upwards Into a hover, if not high flight. But the butterfly remains at rest, All quivering color. I … More PSYKHE
4th Version A speck of vivid, I see it follow fitfully in zigs Until it lands on my hand, All quivering color. When I dare to breathe God’s breath, Reciting as I exhale outwards, A poem quickens and quivers, Mimicking this butterfly. Borne, hovering near, The poem awaits a merciful heart In … More PSYKHE
For L. R. Sitting alone on the sand, The bonfire is lively behind me. Others have gone off To comb along the strand. My thoughts drift Into the diamond tide above, A treasure trove for the soul. Each of the constellations Will tell me a tale, Foretell of a fortune Held in abeyance. … More Midnight
In Memory: Sandi Alva RIP: December 19th, 2014 No matter the exigency, the work goes on. This job, demanding nothing less, Continues to be executed supremely well By the competent and the truly great, alike. Ours is a kaleidoscopic focus; We hear a hundred, fractured voices Simultaneously talk, yell, or gasp Through the … More The Death of a Dispatcher
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