AOL HOMETOWN IS GOING AWAY
Well, not that it matters but AOL is canceling the "Hometown" program, which was a way for folks to yak incessantly about themselves and link the page to their profiles. I did not yak incessantly about myself, but I did post a few wee things, and I figured I'd post them here, where I also do not yak incessantly about myself.
Here is a series of poems, all old. The best of the bunch is a "gift" poem, written by a dear lass who experienced some of the bitter, agonizing moments in my life.
Love is hard, and often ends in bitterness, especially when foolishly given...but I can't be who I am not, so life goes on...
The Snowflake
A man prayed,
" Lord, make of me a star in high heavens,
that I might revel, for eternity,
in the awed gaze of countless billions."
The Lord replied, " Little one,
would I punish you so,
to hang you in frigid darkness,
eternally untouchable
in sterile beauty?
No, you shall be a snowflake,
a fleeting beauty
reflected in the shine
of two bright eyes uplifted.
And to her final day,
she will weep to remember
the joy of that split-second love
as you died
on the warmth
of her lips."
At this the man smiled
and was content.
Philip K Taggart
7-24-00
A TRUE STORY
A Ration Of Mercy (for Alan)
"Suffer the little children to come to me, and do not hinder them, for to such belong the kingdom of Heaven."
.
So it is written,
but how many were pushed aside so others could touch His knee?
.
It is busy in the ICU, this aged Friday night.
.
An old woman quivers close by.
She is eighty, perhaps; too weary to worry about her blood--
her body shrinks into the voice whispering into a cell phone, odd in ancient fingers:
"..the bullet went through his skull, down through his jaw... thank God it did not hit his spine."
and over there... perhaps thirty young ones clustered together, petals of an unbloomed flower, swaying lilies leaning into a whirlwind praying voice, words fast and passionate--
.
"and even though you took him Lord Jesus we know you are good and wonderful and your power and mercy are infinite..."
.
on and on, the voice afraid to stop for a comma or a breath--
I cannot escape the voice, nor the tears.
on and on, until a helpless "amen."
The circle spins outward: a bloom of thirty lonely souls
facing away from each other, fingers fly through the outlines of the cross,
then thirty self embraces, desolate in weeping silence.
.
Do they believe?
Do I?
What is today's ration of mercy?
:
and me... me... my brother with no leg, a desperate surgery, lingering hours--
my own hopeless salvation, a single brief prayer, and shame.
Oh God
Oh God,
will you condemn me that I prayed to sacrifice them for my brother?
.
philip taggart
7-31-2004
And now, a good poem...not by me.
For you,Philip, my kitten lover
Kittens and Other Orphans -
and anything that fell into his sleeve,
dropped from a tiny wilderness. He found
the hole in them compatible: a place
to rest his avid battle-drained desires.
Grief. In seeds and pearls it flooded down
invariably, spilling like a sea
across the rugged landscape of the hands
which trembled on the sweetness of wet fur,
departing, for the lost ones always go
to wilderness again. It is their home.
I told him that this awful letting go
was love: the only love that we, who die,
can glory in, that even what we say
is just a pause in passage - we are all
lean nomads carting rubies in our skins
with heaven on our minds. He said that love
is bitter in that case, but even so
his empty sleeve began to watch the sky
for rain.
Shannon...dated about 2004
Here is a series of poems, all old. The best of the bunch is a "gift" poem, written by a dear lass who experienced some of the bitter, agonizing moments in my life.
Love is hard, and often ends in bitterness, especially when foolishly given...but I can't be who I am not, so life goes on...
The Snowflake
A man prayed,
" Lord, make of me a star in high heavens,
that I might revel, for eternity,
in the awed gaze of countless billions."
The Lord replied, " Little one,
would I punish you so,
to hang you in frigid darkness,
eternally untouchable
in sterile beauty?
No, you shall be a snowflake,
a fleeting beauty
reflected in the shine
of two bright eyes uplifted.
And to her final day,
she will weep to remember
the joy of that split-second love
as you died
on the warmth
of her lips."
At this the man smiled
and was content.
Philip K Taggart
7-24-00
A TRUE STORY
A Ration Of Mercy (for Alan)
"Suffer the little children to come to me, and do not hinder them, for to such belong the kingdom of Heaven."
.
So it is written,
but how many were pushed aside so others could touch His knee?
.
It is busy in the ICU, this aged Friday night.
.
An old woman quivers close by.
She is eighty, perhaps; too weary to worry about her blood--
her body shrinks into the voice whispering into a cell phone, odd in ancient fingers:
"..the bullet went through his skull, down through his jaw... thank God it did not hit his spine."
and over there... perhaps thirty young ones clustered together, petals of an unbloomed flower, swaying lilies leaning into a whirlwind praying voice, words fast and passionate--
.
"and even though you took him Lord Jesus we know you are good and wonderful and your power and mercy are infinite..."
.
on and on, the voice afraid to stop for a comma or a breath--
I cannot escape the voice, nor the tears.
on and on, until a helpless "amen."
The circle spins outward: a bloom of thirty lonely souls
facing away from each other, fingers fly through the outlines of the cross,
then thirty self embraces, desolate in weeping silence.
.
Do they believe?
Do I?
What is today's ration of mercy?
:
and me... me... my brother with no leg, a desperate surgery, lingering hours--
my own hopeless salvation, a single brief prayer, and shame.
Oh God
Oh God,
will you condemn me that I prayed to sacrifice them for my brother?
.
philip taggart
7-31-2004
And now, a good poem...not by me.
For you,Philip, my kitten lover
Kittens and Other Orphans -
and anything that fell into his sleeve,
dropped from a tiny wilderness. He found
the hole in them compatible: a place
to rest his avid battle-drained desires.
Grief. In seeds and pearls it flooded down
invariably, spilling like a sea
across the rugged landscape of the hands
which trembled on the sweetness of wet fur,
departing, for the lost ones always go
to wilderness again. It is their home.
I told him that this awful letting go
was love: the only love that we, who die,
can glory in, that even what we say
is just a pause in passage - we are all
lean nomads carting rubies in our skins
with heaven on our minds. He said that love
is bitter in that case, but even so
his empty sleeve began to watch the sky
for rain.
Shannon...dated about 2004