New Poem -- I, Too

I, Too

I, too, know why the caged bird sings,

But I only know it second hand

Like so many other histories

I can only experience in newsreels

And in books and in podcasts.

I, too, realize my arm's too short

To box with God, but instead of striving,

I concede and step out of the ring.

Where James Weldon Johnson

Chose to stand and fight.

I, too, select my own society,

But I keep it on the down low

Try not to fret about it in verse

As if doing so might legitimize

The act of hiding into saintliness.

I, too, have learned that April

Can indeed be the cruelest month

But I have a front door with a lock

So April has to stay outside

Where it can't come in and harm me.

I, too,  know the explosive power

Of deferring a dream past its sell date,

Of watching good meat spoil

All the while aware that my dream

Is a far different, far more entitled, one.

But, I, too, continue to write

Because of the little bits of all I've read

That remain to live in me,

Even if those remnants mutate

Into something less like the original

And more like me.

Sean Taylor Announces New Poetry Collection, Brunch with the Obelisk

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Atlanta, Ga. — March, 2026 — Sean Taylor Announces New Poetry Collection, Brunch with the Obelisk

Acclaimed fiction writer and poet Sean Taylor unveils his newest poetry collection, Brunch with the Obelisk—a bold, unflinching exploration of the forces that have shaped both his voice and his worldview. With a blend of lyricism, candor, and razor-sharp introspection, this collection pulls readers into the complicated crossroads of personal history, politics, and the American mythos.

In Brunch with the Obelisk, Taylor grapples with the inheritance of a conservative religious upbringing, the illusions of nostalgia, and the widening divide between American ideals and realities. Through this deeply personal and often provocative work, he confronts a world that feels increasingly chaotic—and the role of poetry as a stabilizing, truth-telling force within it.

“Be warned. It’s probably not what you first think,” Taylor says of the collection, which draws inspiration from a strikingly diverse set of influences—ranging from Bob Dylan, Langston Hughes, e.e. cummings, and T.S. Eliot to Annie Dillard, Marilyn Monroe, and Susan B. Anthony. Their presence echoes throughout the book not as imitations, but as threads woven into a distinctive, evolving voice.

“As proud as I was for When We Had No Flag, my first book of poems, I think I’m even happier and prouder of this one," says Taylor. " I feel like my influences are becoming more a part of me rather than something I wear on my sleeve.”

Taylor does not shy away from the tensions at the heart of American life—the sometimes volatile interplay of politics and religion, the selective storytelling of national memory, and the lingering scars they leave behind. If that makes him an angry poet with an axe to grind, the author notes with self-awareness, he owns it completely.

“Poetry comes from a very personal place inside me, even more so than my fiction. I may use a lot of the same narrative-type tools in it, but the poems are often far closer to the surface truth than my stories are allowed to be.”

Currently available at www.taylorversebooks.com and on Amazon:
Kindle: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0GT1G84ZN
Print: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0GT87R1FH

For media inquiries, review copies, or interview requests, please contact:
www.taylorversebooks.com

About Sean Taylor:
Sean Taylor writes short poems, nonfiction, stories, novellas, novels, graphic novels, and comic books. In his writing life, he has directed the “lives” of zombies, superheroes, goddesses, dominatrices, Bad Girls, pulp heroes, for such diverse bosses as IDW Publishing, Gene Simmons, and The Oxygen Network. Visit him online at www.thetaylorverse.com and www.badgirlsgoodguys.com or his video writing tutorials at www.book-talk.us .

About Taylorverse Books:
Taylorverse Books brings readers exciting adventure stories, contemporary and charged poetry, and non-fiction books about writing and reading. For more information, visit www.taylorversebooks.com .

Open Skies (new poem)

From my upcoming second volume of poetry, Brunch with the Obelisk.

New Poetry for the Christmas

 

Far Away in a Manger

Hail Mary, full of grace

Did childbirth hurt on that first Christmas

Or was labor immaculate too

Free of contact

Free of pain?

Blessed art thou among women

If that were truly the case

Pray for us in our hour of death

Because we seem to be racing toward it

O come, O come Emmanuel

To ransom faith from religion

To remind those who claim to follow

That love still covers multitudes of sins

Until the Son of God appears

Not that they’d recognize you today

Because you’re not white, or Protestant,

Or born in the United States

Rejoice! Rejoice! And mourn in lonely exile

Kyrie eleison! Christe eleison!

Oh, the little town of Bethlehem

Seems light-years and centuries away

From our land of the free

Our home of brave believers

Who disregard and disrespect the stranger

Who mock and ignore the poor

Who hide our nation’s sins under a bushel

And tear them from the pages of school textbooks

How far away is that manger now

As we trade no crib for a golden ballroom

And worship a painted calf

Parading in the skin of a bull

The only lowing of cattle

Is the bellowing

From the pulpits of government

The baby is crying

We should all be crying

Blessed is the fruit of thy womb

Of all wombs: red, yellow, black, white

Both foreign and domestic

Created in the image of God

Endowed with inalienable rights

The stars look down where they lay

To see what? —

Hail Mary, full of grace

Remember us in this, the hour of our death

We do not live in the blessings of the immaculate

We live in the world of touch and pain

Where beings from man to woman and back again

Must bump against

The bulk of the other

All day, every day, and I imagine all that bumping

Must be what causes us to hate each other

Enough to put people in cages, enough to bomb innocents

Be near me, I pray, our King of Peace. Amen. Amen.

© 2025 Sean Taylor

Incarnate

 

They say the secret miracle of Christmas

Is Immanuel, God with us,

They say it is the Word becoming flesh

And dwelling among us.

I hear their words,

But I feel they miss the point:

We are already incarnate.

Here from the moment we stood upright,

The day we fashioned clubs,

The year we scribbled pictures onto cave walls.

God has always been with us

Because we were already here.

 

Some say the meaning of Christmas

Is the newborn king,

The Prince of Peace, the son given,

And yet again,

The words fail to reach

Our incarnate ears of flesh.

Lips praise peace, hands and wills abhor it,

A grand idea, but it’ll never work

In the real world of mucous and muscle.

A beautiful notion fluttering too high above the garbage

For us to attempt,

So we sing songs about it instead.

 

© 2025 Sean Taylor

Taylorverse Books releases Sean Taylor's first poetry-only collection -- WHEN WE HAD NO FLAG!

 FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Atlanta, GA -- Taylorverse Books releases Sean Taylor's first poetry-only collection -- WHEN WE HAD NO FLAG!

​While the book contains mostly new poems from 2004 and 2005, it also collects several of his poems going all the way back to 1994. All poetry collected in the book has a certain, specific attitude summed up by the opening quotes from the book:

“The opinion that art should have nothing to do with politics is itself a political attitude.”
—George Orwell

“All poets, all writers are political. They either maintain the status quo, or they say, ‘Something’s wrong, let’s change it for the better.’”
—Sonia Sanchez

“All stories are political; they involve power that has structural underpinnings and material consequences.”
—Judy Rohrer

"Make no mistake," says Taylor, "these are politically charged poems. There's no way around them. While they may contain the language of pop culture and religion, all these poems work together make a statement."

With references as varied as Bob Dylan, Langston Hughes, Rita Hayworth, and Mae West (among others), this collection has been a long time coming. 

"Sometimes you can't help but stop and write because the world forces you to have something to say, something you feel is important. WHEN WE HAD NO FLAG is that something for me," says Taylor.

​

​Sean Taylor writes short stories, novellas, novels, graphic novels, and comic books (yes, Virginia, there is a difference between comic books and graphic novels, just like there's a difference between a short story and a novel). In his writing life, he has directed the “lives” of zombies, superheroes, goddesses, dominatrices, Bad Girls, pulp heroes, and yes, even frogs, for such diverse bosses as IDW Publishing, Gene Simmons, and The Oxygen Network. Visit him online at www.thetaylorverse.com and www.badgirlsgoodguys.com.

# # #

Poetry Corner: I Am

In the hallway today I passed students,
Some afraid, others emboldened,
Once sung precious—In whose sight?—
All distracting themselves with trivialities.
“Did you hear about…?”
“Are you going to…?”
“Do we have practice…?
It kept them from noticing the dreams
Of existence, of acceptance,
Of being a part of the Grand Experiment,
Kicked along the dirty floors
As they scurried to class.

Driving to work today I watched the woman
Standing in the rain,
Holding the sign,
“Out of Work Please Help,” shivering, shimmering.
Mother, sister, daughter, aunt—perhaps
Saint, sinner, harlot, sacrifice,
Prophet, poet, priest, king—
Bosses watch clocks, and we can’t hesitate,
Not in the rain, nor in heavy traffic,
It’s easy to forget after all
When there’s a man with a sign
Two blocks closer to the office.

In my newsfeed today, opinion hurled like daggers,
“Not a woman”
“Biological male”
“Sports and bathrooms”
Rainbows and flags posted support
Allies brought hammers and words to build
A place to be secure, to exist,
To know who she is, was, will be, amen.
But the damage was done,
Hateful words have barbs
And even to pry them out
Leaves scars and bleeding.

I am not them.
But I am them.
I am he, she, they, all the pronouns.
They are always in me.
The him, the her, the them,
Flow like oxygen through my lungs,
Expressed outward in his, hers, theirs,
Collectively exhaled from my open mouth
To the ground below,
Picked up by some, ignored by others,
On the way to class, driving to work,
In the anonymity of virtual life.

I am that I am, one said.
Know that I am, said another.
I am too, I proclaimed.
To be one,
To be one another,
To be.

Sean Taylor © 2024

Visit my poetry.com site.

Poetry Corner: When We Had No Flag

by Sean Taylor

When we had no flag 

There were only white sheets, hanging on clotheslines 

Flapping on windy days, 

Waving greetings like so many neighbors on so many dusty paths

White not for surrender 

But for sleeping, for rest because white was easy 

Easy to bleach our odors away, 

Dirt and sweat from one person's work, one man's labor, one woman's toil

One day we  painted bars deep red

Crimson with the blood of the people who lived here first 

But there wasn't enough

So we added more from the backs of the people we owned

And so we painted what was left blue

Blue with the bruises of our slaves and red with their stripes 

Even if we had to wrench the paint out of the whips after use, 

Twisting leather until our fingers too were as calloused as theirs

We found some white remained

But it was not for sleeping, not anymore; it was for the Virgin Innocent

Our children who would inherit a world 

Built on the paint dripped from the wounds of those we had  conquered

Perhaps it's time again

Wash day for the flag, with fresh bleach to clean away the red and blue

To allow the colors to surrender and fade

And once more flap greetings in the wind

Perhaps you, or me, 

or that woman over there, the one in all the colors of the rainbow

Or that vermin, that enemy, that animal,

Could be the bleach to get the job started

To speak the change we all should hear

Whistling in the wind

That blew when we had no flag

(c) 2024

Visit my poetry.com site.

Poetry Corner: Punk Rock

They busted the windows on Wall Street today
Trash cans filled with garbage and old food made the first crack
And sent all the happy people in nice suits scurrying
For once thinking about something other than the numbers
That make them better at ignoring the rest of us.
They stepped over the banana peels and potato chip bags
The crushed soda cans that should have been recycled instead 
On their way to the exits, the only light they were
Suddenly focused on—But that kind of thing isn’t really my style. 

They’ll gather up a million men and women tomorrow
And put them in matching T-shirts that say “Not Going Back”
With rapidly practiced chants, call-backs to great leaders
Of yesterdays gone by, times we thought we had moved beyond
Times we assumed we had put behind us. I can join them
Of course I can. It’s the least—the very least, if I’m honest—
I can do, right behind merely sending money on my phone
While I stream Agatha All Along on Disney Plus. But
It still doesn’t quite feel like the thing I was created to do at this time.

They dyed their mohawks in rainbows and shoved the middle finger
Into the air while their fans screamed and moshed and bled
Showing camaraderie, empathy, solidarity the only way
They understood fully, with anger, with energy, with activity. 
And it felt amazing to jump, and yell,  and raise my fist, and shout obscenities 
At the powers, and yet… Even when they kissed—tongues and leather 
And lace and fingers and hair—Man on man, woman on woman, 
Man on woman, trans on trans, Trans on straight
Straight on till sunrise… It still was not enough. 

Yesterday I am a writer. Tomorrow I paint in words. Today
I have words or many colors, many spectrums that correspond 
To those that swirl in the sky, dance in the puddles, blur through smoke
“Vandalize” city walls with slogans: Trans rights are human rights.
Abortion is healthcare. Gay and proud. Black lives matter.
I have all these, and my keyboard has been selfish, complacent,
Too satisfied in my place of safety. But no more. 
I cannot break windows. My knees may give out on a march. 
My money can only go so far. My shouting can be drowned out by other music. 

But I can write. And by God, I will. We are not going back. 

(c) 2024 Sean Taylor

Visit my Poetry.com site.

Motivational Monday: The Magical Forces of Poetry

 

Brittany Wilcox: How Fan Fiction Became My Tool for Healing

Editor's Note: Brittany Wilcox is a dear friend of mine. We've been band-mates and co-songwriters, and poetry buddies for quite a few years now. She shared her story recently, and I felt it was so important that I asked if she'd mind if I shared it here with you. Thankfully, she agreed. Y'all need to know this awesome person. Trust me. 

by Brittany Wilcox

Trigger warning for mental health stuff, almost dying, and toxic relationship talk. 

I started writing fan fiction only five years ago. I was trapped in an abusive relationship and desperately needed a writing outlet. Poetry wasn't cutting it anymore 😅. Writing had always been so cathartic to me, and it was like I had this itch that needed to be scratched. When I first started, I wasn't a stellar storyteller. Learning how and when to "show, not tell" was a steep learning curve for me, who is inherently lazy and only wants to write the juicy parts of the story.

Anyway, My ex found my first AO3 account and deleted it while I was hospitalized fighting for my life against a septic brain infection. He alienated me from the friends I had made online. I rebuilt it in secret after I got out of the hospital. He forced me to abandon my second account. At this point, I had met who is now my girlfriend who I live with. At the time, we were just friends. He made me tell her we couldn't be friends anymore and forced me to read her reply to him out loud. I sobbed uncontrollably as I did.

Jokes on him now because we live together now and I've never been happier. So, fuck you, ex.

Anyway, the whole brain infection conundrum made me realize I have a covert mental illness. It didn't make itself known to me until I almost died and *had* to become aware of it in order to survive.

You'll know it as DID (formerly Multiple Personality Disorder for the Boomers 😉). I went into trauma therapy after leaving my ex and was formerly diagnosed during this time. (Anyone who has questions about this, I'm willing to answer. What is widely known about this mental illness to the public is very, very wrong).

Once I started to heal, the compulsion I felt to write these stories (it was all for one particular fandom, by the way. I only wrote for a single fandom 99 percent of the time) lessened, and I realized that I was writing these stories to try and communicate with myself. I was trying to tell myself about my other parts that were separated from me. It became a tool of healing and expression of the abuse I had suffered throughout my life via the use of metaphors and storytelling. It gave me enough emotional and psychological distance from what happened to get it out without spiraling into the throws of a CPTSD episode.

Of course, it couldn't prevent every spiral, and due to both the physical trauma of the infection and the rampant abuse I had suffered at the hands of many for my entire life, I succumbed to the spiral two more times and had to be hospitalized. (I didn't try to unalive myself. My nervous system would just get so out of whack that I would be convinced I was dying and stay awake for days on end until I was in full-blown psychosis. 0/4 stars do not recommend).

Each time I recovered in part because of my escape into fanfiction.

When my service dog passed away from cancer almost two years ago now, I was able to put that grief into one of the most beautiful pieces I've ever written, instead of spiraling. For me, it's been a hell of a tool of self-discovery and healing. No, I don't share it openly with people I know personally. I am afraid of judgment for some of my darkest themes. It's anonymous for a reason (though if someone wants to read it I'll give them a link. I'm not shy. I'm just not out promoting it).

I'm in a healthier place now and have started trying my hand at happier, fluffier fics just for the challenge. Sure, it's made me a better writer, but that's absolutely the least of it.

Thank you for coming to my TED Talk.

S. Rupsha Mitra: Love and Culture in the Smoked Frames

S. Rupsha Mitra from Kolkata, India is an undergraduate Honours student deeply interested in works of spirituality and transcendence. Her favourite writer is Rabindranath Tagore. She loves to learn and write about culture and often experiments with translations and poetry. Her works have been published in London Reader, Mermaids Monthly, Pif Magazine, Birmingham Arts Journal, Muse India, Indian Literature (Sahitya Akademi), Science for the People Magazine, Brown Girl Magazine, The Kali Anthology - Poems by Indian Women Poets, North Dakota Quarterly, Ekstasis Magazine by Christianity Today and South Seattle Emerald. Her work has received honour in the National Lockdown Poetry contest for women held by eShe magazine. She is the winner of the BLACC Poetry Contest. She is a columnist for the magazine, Houghton and Mackay.

Tell us a bit about your latest work.

My latest work is the book, Smoked Frames. It is very close to my heart and it deals with concepts of love, identity, Indian culture and spirituality. The book can be bought from the bookshop of JLRB Press or amazon.com.

What are the themes and subjects you tend to revisit in your work?

Different memories associated with love and school life are subjects that I tend to revisit in my work. I feel I am inclined towards writing on psychological concepts in my work. 

What happened in your life that prompted you to become a writer? 

I don't remember any specific event that happened that prompted me to become a writer but I always wanted to become a writer and have a book published as a child. 

What inspires you to write? 

My grandmother is my greatest inspiration. The passion for poetry and the constant support of my near and dear ones inspire me to write. 

What would be your dream project?

My dream project would be a collaborative art project on dance and poetry. 

If you have any former project to do over to make it better, which one would it be, and what would you do?

I would want to self-edit the poems of my chapbook, Soul God.  

What writers have influenced your style and technique?

Obviously, Tagore is the biggest influence in my writing. 

Where would you rank writing on the "Is it an art or it is a science continuum?" Why?

I would answer this as it is as much art as it is science. This is because it requires both emotion and logic. 

What is the most difficult part of your artistic process? 

To overcome laziness and start afresh when I am unhappy with a project and I want to improve on it. 

How do your writer friends help you become a better writer? Or do they not? 

They are helpful, inspiring, and always encourage me. 

What does literary success look like to you? 

Excellence at its peak. 

Any other upcoming projects you would like to plug?  

I have a psychology-based poetry zin,e forthcoming from Endangered Art Books. 

For more information, visit: 

www.srupshapoetry.com

[Link] 16 Tips From Famous Authors for Writing Better Poetry

by Caitlin Schneider

The elusive art of poetry isn’t so hard to master if you know how to set the stage. In honor of World Poetry Day, here are a few handy rituals from some of history’s greatest poets.

1. MAKE TIME FOR TEATIME.

Samuel Johnson once said of himself: "[I am a] hardened and shameless tea-drinker, who has, for 20 years, diluted his meals with only the infusion of this fascinating plant; whose kettle has scarcely time to cool; who with tea amuses the evening, with tea solaces the midnight, and, with tea, welcomes the morning.” The end result was that he reportedly drank 25 cups in a single sitting.

2. GET REALLY AMPED.

Tea isn’t strong enough for everyone. W.H. Auden took more aggressive stimulants: amphetamines. Auden took a dose of Benzedrine every single morning, though his affinity for the chemicals is likely to blame for his heart failure at age 66.

3. PRACTICE YOUR ETERNAL REST.

Dame Edith Sitwell was known for delivering dramatics, the most notable of which might be her practice of lying in an open coffin to prep for writing.

Read the full article: https://www.mentalfloss.com/article/62431/16-famous-authors-tips-writing-better-poetry

The Dead Speak: Sean Taylor's Corpse Delivers the Eulogy in His New Collection!

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

Atlanta, GA (March 1, 2024) -- Comic and prose writer Sean Taylor introduces his newest collection of essays, short stories, and poems, THE CORPSE DELIVERS THE EULOGY AND OTHER WORKS. 

Designed as an introduction to Taylor's writing for new readers and a re-introduction to current readers, this collection features both old and new creations in a single volume. THE CORPSE DELIVERS THE EULOGY showcases new essays about the art of writing and reading, old and new poetry between 1992 and just last month, and stories that set him on the path to fiction writing, both literary shorts and even a superhero short from the days of Cyber Age Adventures magazine. 

"For those who only know my work from my comic book writing or those who only know me from my pulp adventures and superhero tales, this is the book to let you discover the writer I like to be when I'm writing for myself as the main audience," Taylor says. 

Readers can see in this collection how Taylor, who has written for such properties as Zombies Vs. Robots, The Bad Girls Club, The Black Bat, and the Golden Amazon, along with his own creations Fishnet Angel and private detective Rick Ruby (co-created with Bobby Nash), has grown, changed, and expanded as a writer. 

"I'm so excited to see this released," he says. "These are the words that shaped me as a storyteller and continue to shape me, and it's quite amazing to see them in print."

THE CORPSE DELIVERS THE EULOGY is available as a trade paperback for $9.99 (https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CWR21ZTB/), and already available as a Kindle eBook for $2.99 (https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0CVLH8MS3/), both from Amazon. 

Sean Taylor writes short stories, novellas, novels, graphic novels, and comic books (yes, Virginia, there is a difference between comic books and graphic novels, just like there's a difference between a short story and a novel). In his writing life, he has directed the “lives” of zombies, superheroes, goddesses, dominatrices, Bad Girls, pulp heroes, and yes, even frogs, for such diverse bosses as IDW Publishing, Gene Simmons, and The Oxygen Network. Visit him online at www.thetaylorverse.com and www.badgirlsgoodguys.com.

# # #

Great Poetry and Bob Dylan

There is no great religious poetry that does not raise – as
crucial to its enterprise – the question of whether it is open
to the charge of blasphemy, even as there is no great
erotic art that does not raise the question of whether
it is open to the charge of pornography.

– Christopher Ricks, Bob Dylan’s Vision of Sin

I'm featured in the current issue of Violet Windows!

I've published the first poetry I've written in years, and it appears in this quarter's issue of Violent Windows, the online literary zine published by the "gothic librarian," Kimberly Richardson. Also features lots of other fantastic writers, artists, and photographers.

It's called "A Rock and Roll Story." Check it out: http://violetwindows.weebly.com/sean-taylor.html

New Pulp Writer

By Jim Beard (based on "Paperback Writer" by the Beatles)

With sincere apologies... ;)

New Pulp writer, New Pulp writer…

Dear Ron or Tom, will you read my pulp,
It took me hours to write, all in one big gulp,
It's based on a novel by a man named Dent,
And I need a job, so I want to be a New Pulp back writer,

New Pulp writer!

It's a dirty story with some dirty fights,
And a man slinking `round in the dead of night.
His girl remains clueless without fail,
It's a cliché, I know,
But I want to be a New Pulp writer,

New Pulp writer!

It's 60,000 words, give or take a few,
I'll be writing more in a hour or two,
I can make it rougher if you like the style,
I can change the genre,
And I want to be a New Pulp writer,

New Pulp writer!

Even if you like it, I want to keep the rights,
It could make a few bucks for us overnight,
If you must return it you can send it here,
But I need a break,
And I want to be a New Pulp writer,

New Pulp writer!

Poetry Corner #3 -- Daily News

Yep, more poetry. Not very pulpish or adventuresome, but it is rather dark, and it's another one I'm quite fond of.

My poetry and early short stories are available in Gomer and Other Early Works.

Daily News

Swooning beneath the weight of Utopia
Two girls threw themselves from the overpass last night.
The paper had nothing to say
Of their goals, the desperations, their drives,
Only that one was an honor student
And that they both died before the ambulance arrived.
The older girl died instantly,
Crashing her sacrificial form through
The windshield of a man driving to visit his parents.
They were minors, so
They must remain nameless, faceless
(More palatable for the delicate
Tastes of the civilized world),
A pair of everywomen, no-women.
We are the dirt of this island called humanity;
Each one's death should diminish us, we know,
But it is only dirt, we tell ourselves,
And there's more than enough of that to go around.
Besides, there's a happy story
About a clown and a hospital
On the next page.

Poetry Corner #2 -- Gomer

A more "pulpy" or perhaps more "noir-ish" poem. Another one I'm quite fond of. 

My poetry and early short stories are available in Gomer and Other Early Works.

Gomer

Wiping a tear from her reflection
in the dull light
of a 60 watt bulb in the bathroom
of Room 38-B,
she sighs, and slides her stockings
again over her knees.

Through the clatterous chattering,
the dead blue light
thrown from the TV screen,
Babylon sits,
reaches across the tussled sheets
for another cigarette.

His voice calls with an unearthly clarity,
hiss-like and striking,
"Next Thursday, hon'?"
a regular appointment,
marked in ink.

The blue and yellow blinks
from the neon advertisement
cascade through the closed shades,
flashing one word
dully against the glass:
VACANCY.

Poetry Corner #1 -- More of the Same

Poetry? Yes, poetry. I write it occasionally. Here's one I still particularly like. Deal with it. 

My poetry and early short stories are available in Gomer and Other Early Works.

More of the Same

He loosens the tie clutching his neck,
The extra pounds squeezed into rolls by the net of cheap silk.
He hates this place, these people,
The pettiness, the way they lock him
Into their definitions -- not his, never his.
A shepherd? Ha! More a fool.
And he secretly hates them more as he rises
To the pulpit
And preaches love.

And the same…
And the same…

She glares at the toddler,
His face and clothes strewn with the smudged
Colors of strained carrots and peas.
She sits, turns away, stares at the wall,
Counts to ten backwards, but her anger grows.
She would like nothing more
-- At this moment -- than to add to the red streaks
Across his legs, his back, his buttocks,
But she only sits and wishes.

And the same…
And the same…

He lies alone, watching the circle-once-circle-twice,
Then up-under and pull-tight as his lover dresses for work.
He is a pariah, an evil thing,
Not deserving of such love as his lover gives,
Told worse, much worse, by the ones
Supposed to care, to embrace, to forgive.
And he hates: them, their religion, their hypocritical piety,
Their words that tell him he is less than human.
His solace is his lover's warmth.

And the same…
And the same…

She is a fraud, she tells herself,
And she files the thought away
With the oath she studied, practiced, and abandoned
When the money became more important,
When the people became names and numbers,
When the practices became mundane exercises.
She has killed, she fears, but what can you do?
You can simply obey the rules and tell yourself
You are doing the best you can.

And the same…
And the same…

The same grace blankets them all
If they care or not, if they admit it or not,
Freely offered, freely given, freely wasted.
To the liars, to the regretful, to the unredeemable,
Wrapping itself around the shoulders
Of pariahs and frauds, preachers and role models,
Salving wounds deeper than acknowledged,
Cleaning cuts more jagged than admittable.
Anything less could not be grace.

And the same…
And the same…

© 2004 Sean Taylor