A reading of terrific poetry by myself and fellow poet Robyn Livingstone took place the evening of May 5th, 2009 at the Russian Hall in Vancouver, BC

The Mexicans overcame their enemies on this day, and we overcame the fact of a low turnout, but those who came enjoyed it.

join the facebook group: Riding the High Horse of Poetry

I read with the writers of Poetry Around The World on Thursday, the 28nd of May, 2009.

The poets met early at Starbuck’s Coffee, in the store for a chat.

Chapters/Indigo sells a book in which I have published one of my poems:

http://www.chapters.indigo.ca/books/Heart-Community-Best-Carnegie-Newsletter-Paul-Taylor/9780921586944-item.html?ref=Search+Books%3a+%2527new+star+press+carnegie+newsletter%2527

I see a crooked $ sign in the distance
waiting for my arrival
from working those MARKETING PLANS,
helping others
and wasting the past
weathering the death storms
tired of keeping these eyes open
Hating paranoid Users
– looting the helpful poor.

There it looms, not green, but dusky brown
reddish in parts, like the blood poured over it to keep it safe
a worn sign made of diseased wood
gray actually – pretty faded,
pretty jaded
I seen jade in Lonsdale Quay today
and it was more preciouse
than any dollars I’ve ever seen

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There will always be resistance
and people trying for change, For
The Strong are always building their houses of Power
to maintain exclusive use of the world’s Resources

It’s easy to imagine yourself a millionaire
and nobody in the world to help
The Weak are always mumbling and
fumbling up their cards
the mountain is for the exclusive use
of those that love Muhammed

Those who work will always remember
those who don’t
And it seems they are paving the way
for the feeble to steal
a try at the wheel of life
and why should they?

There has always been laughter
in the hereverafter
fumbling with coats that should’ve been
checked at the door
like a tip that won’t fit in the pocket of a dress

Caught in the death throes of bumble bees
only a few kinds left
killer bees say some – not workers anymore
the mountain has come to Mohammed!

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photo by Jim Blair

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Welcome to my poetry site. Here is a selection

from my writings. Please contact me

about the Rest. Check out my

Category: Explanations: Philosophies of Poetry

to find out how and why I write.

Someone playing Riders on the Storm
on the jukebox with my breakfast.
The early piano run tinkling right into my brain
filling my soul with meadows
and thinking of some guy named Andrew Beddows
I could’ve taken toast off numerous tables
or 1/2-deserted eggs
the place is full in such a way;
like tables full of mostly-finished food
and other tables with people
sitting there, mostly waiting for food
and one or two unhurriedly at the jukebox.
Their breakfast comes and they stay with the box
married to the tunes
It’s a day where people are
flush with money
ready to spend. Pit stop, and then
the everlasting energy to shop for a day

Great Big Swan eating grass
Lost Lagoon is where he’s seen
never seen him up this close
walking through for one last swim
I am, at Sunset pool
dear Water: ride me
Ride me till I float
That orange bill on whiteswan head
is like an advertisement
Contrast the green grass he’s chewing
feel the hard gravel walk man has made
around his man-made lake
only a few feet deep
One last swim, but I’m going deep
Deeper to hear the last Rays of Summer
breathe on me from the West
Here an’ there a lazy child. not in school will swim by.

50,000 jobs lost this summer
the radio announcer says
in his best, politiest voice
– he knows what he’s told to speak
“The Canadian economy’s doing well”
he adds, “15,000 jobs were added this summer”
Well I guess they don’t do simple
arithmetic in radio
but I can, I took it in
elementary school, and to me it seems there is a problem
Mr. Radio said it was good news
but I find it very sad
that my favourite record store
has left town, that is it used
to be a record store before
CDs came in
But it is no wonder the news
is not all it’s trumped up to be –
when all our work has to be
done out of the country
in countries where there
are no rules about pollution
and human labor
And when our newscasters
are forced to tell us
mind-altering “facts”
that don’t make sense at all
because if they don’t
they will soon join the 60,000
and so far as I can tell, it’s only September 5th,
Summer’s not nearly over

Please scroll down a ways on Pensieve’s page to: “Comments” and  “Upon the old table”

My poems are a way of working through issues, discussing with myself and others the nature of life experience. Some ways of being force us to really stretch, and here my poems take twists and turns into abstract escapism. Finding images to release the individual from tension is not always easy. Others may relate and give their own interpretations to my poetry, just as they do to others’.

This is all part and parcel of the game and art of poetry. What a reader or listener finds in words is for their own benefit. Sometimes they’ll be unable to find common ground at all. Then they can either just appreciate the rhythmic flows and patterns, the occasional rhyme, the concocted verbs verbatim, the shining, glimmery phrases and stanzas or depart vehemently to the race of human humdrum.

A general feeling may be all that one can get from a poem. This is great. Go ahead, live in that vision of an alternate reality. It may take the place of a sorrow or a pain. It may help in gaining distance from a crazy experience. All these ways of appreciating or dialoguing with someone else’s wordforms are fine. There is no right way to read a poem.

Feel free to comment if you wish, or be inspired to write some verse of your own, and share it with others, or hide it in your attic.