Peace

Where did you go?

I could not find you so I sat to wait

patiently beside the garden's gate,

obviously not far enough from freedom's stake,

as the blood from your perfect body escaped,

turning the soil red with hate.

I screamed with loss - of you and faith,

you lying there, blood covering your face -

your eyes seeing nothing of this disgrace.

Thank God you're no longer part of this maddening place

that has only contempt for peace, truth or grace.

I cannot bear the sense of it.

I found you, and ever so joyfully,

I let you go.

- Ann Taylor (c) 2009

Missed

Missed like a warm spring
rain in the throes of winter,
the lone daffodil stretching
into the light before me.
I am the earth.

Missed like a summer garden
that beckons me to stay among
its sweet aromas, intoxicating,
forbidding my departure.
I am the root and the cause.

Missed like the morning
dew that glistens atop the
blades of grass, the sun
shimmering and pure.
I am the glistening.

Missed like the winding path
where we walked above the seals
who basked below, their young
close by, the tide cleansing.
I am the ocean's roar.

Missed like the waves biting
at our toes, two souls dancing
beneath the sun, our bodies
converging into one.
I am the light.

Missed like the moon
glow shining through the
clouds, the sky a brilliant
darkness full of light.
I am the moon and the stars.

Missed like a childhood
full of ageless wonder,
running through puddles,
splashing and laughing.
I am the rain.

Everything before me now
shines pure and white,
my thoughts clear, my
memories intact.
I am enlightened.

Nothing is lost.
I am here now, my true
self ignited, and my
path before me.
I am.

- Ann Taylor (c) 2009

Moon Glow

The light of day
now buried in the night
refuses to let go,
creating a special glow
that swirls upon
the water.

The glow in turn
refracts and reflects
its true self to me
as I gaze steadily
into the darkness
of light.

Dolphins leaping
high above the waves,
oblivious to time, or
space, or dark of night
appear fully aware of
their purpose.

Terrestrial and free,
the ocean comforts
them, the moon their
guiding light as they
ebb and flow with
the tides. 

The moon obscured
for just a moment,
my universal eyes
however clouded,
remain focused on
the distant past.

And the moon glows
upon the water, and
settles upon the shore,
and with very little
effort, still finds
time for me.

- Ann Taylor (c) 2009

Now

I am lost
in the craziness
surrounding me.
People running about,
always with a purpose,
but it surprises me,
if they ever
find their way.

I remove myself
from the pathos
and find me.
I am here, now,
in the space between
the black and white,
where nothing is
and is not.

I feel the world
sizzling, churning
within me. I hear
laughter without sound,
tears without crying,
words never spoken,
yet never
forgotten.

My heart is beating
inside and
outside of me.
A mind, all-knowing,
open and free, a spark
glowing inside
of you,
and even me.

I am the world,
a universe of one.
I am the wind
and the rain, the
stars and the sun.
Always and forever
me, yet never
without you.

Not then, and not now.

- Ann Taylor (c) 2009

Love of Writing

From the first pages of "The Artist's Way" by Julia Cameron, and forward through the entire trilogy, I was hooked on writing. Finally, my eyes were open! Yes, I can! And to this day, I keep trying. No, I am not published, nor am I well-known, and never have I had a writing course other than a college English class where my creativity was horribly lacking. But, genetics carry us a long way.

My mother was a published writer. She started her career in the newspaper business and eventually published a book in the 1960's about the Civil War. Her book remains in circulation to this day, and she was able to follow it through its glory until her death this past year. When she autographed my personal copy of her book, she wrote, “To Ann who helped me by being good while I wrote.”

I “helped her” by following her voice as I scanned the manuscript, my task to find errors on the pages, which became a great learning tool and a very big part of my high-tech profession. Obviously, I also helped her by staying out of her way while she wrote. I was only nine, and even then, a free spirit who wanted to go, go, go. But, it’s true that our best writing occurs when our surroundings are exactly the way we need it.

I like my writing space to be quiet, usually occurring at the break of day, always with some music playing in the background, but definitely quiet. Words just seem to sing to me. They find their way into my mind like a melody that I can’t stop humming. I follow the notes perfectly through the score – the inflections, the screaming, the laughter, the sadness and the joy – always sweet music to my ears. At times I must jolt myself to remain fully aware and remember to capture every word on paper, assuming they are worth the effort. But truly, all words are worth the effort. They may not make any sense at the moment, but they will always find their way into a paragraph at some point in time. And then there is flow.

All of us have it. Time just seems to disappear when I write, and it is only when it’s over that I realize my masterpiece. Start the presses! And then, without warning, there it is. A misspelled word, an incomplete sentence, or a word without context - now where the heck did that come from? And, how did my software editor miss such a blunder! We tend to forget that we are not perfect.

We all know that life is not perfect. Isn’t that why we write? Without imperfection, how can one strive for perfection? Without errors, where is correctness? Without failing, how can one succeed? Without writing, how can my voice be heard? And, without the written word, how boring life would be! That’s why I write, mainly for my own peace and happiness, possibly to be noticed some day, but truly, I just enjoy sharing my thoughts. So, if one person reads my words, I’m happy. Even if it’s just me!

- Ann Taylor (c) 2009

Facing Death

ICU is cold and constant,
no rest for the wanting, only
poking and prodding, and
interrogations and discussions,
no choices,
no hope.

What about hospice -
isn’t that an alternative?
An alternative
to what, I think,
it’s still
death.

But without tubes
and monitors and constant
interruptions. Please,
let me die
in peace and
quiet.

The trees sway, the curtains
move rhythmically,
refreshing and
comforting
in her
waiting.

I want to lie beside her,
my arms wrapped around
her, like we did when
I was young, and scared,
afraid,
needing her.

Mom, it’s December 31st!
We will buy party hats
and blowers, a bottle
of wine for us,
a high-ball
for you.

A great idea! But
we must be quiet,
there are
people trying
to die
here!

Moments of sadness,
frustration perhaps, a touch
of anger. I can only imagine
her thoughts as my
own heart
breaks.

I will be back in about
100 years you know. Just as
a tree falls and
releases its seeds,
so shall I
live again.

I will find you,
you will be my mother
again, and I,
a better daughter,
now that I truly
see you.

The nurses carry their
faith with them like
a rock, solid
and permanent,
warm and
unyielding.

Come here, it is time.
I am not afraid, just lay
here with me. Remember
this feeling, carry it
with you,
forever.

Her body, now a great
machine, achieving its
last and most perfect
performance, she the master
of ceremony who watches
from above.

The pavilion comforting
beneath the stars.
I feel her freedom, her
energy pulsating
through my veins. I must
dance, dance, dance.

She is gone, free to float
among the clouds, and walk
through heaven's gate,
where she is now, and
everywhere
with me.

My heart is joyful, my fear
dispersed, my love
enhanced, my faith
grounded and oh,
so proud
am I.

Genetic strands that bind
us, memories engraved
upon my soul
that lives forever
bound
to her.

I carry her torch.
Its light reflects
her. She is the colors
of the rainbow, a great
arc surrounding me, always
with me.

Rest, sweet lady, rest.
A toast to you - until we
meet again! On Pleiades
perhaps, where mothers
and daughters go.
Sleep, my lady, sleep.

- Ann Taylor (c) 2009

- An excerpt from Mom's diary

Ego is the creator and the defender, and always the great pretender.

- Ann Taylor (c) 2008

Eulogy to Mom...

My mother was of the earth to which she will now return.

She was a constant gardener, toiling and unraveling this life that she found so enchanting.

Her will to live, and her will to die, were equally strong, firm and immovable, like sterling silver. 

Her soul, so easily visible, was as precious as gold.  

Her tears, which rarely appeared, fell gently upon the earth like a raindrop upon a rose petal after an early morning rain.

Her smile was as bright as the morning sun rise and the blazing colors of sunset.

Her vision was clear and aware, a shining star in the nighttime sky. 

Her voice, thunderous and mighty, rumbled with pure truth sent from the heavens above.

Her compassion ran as deep as the deepest river, far-reaching and consistent.

Her mind was a constant ebb and flow, an ocean of thoughts that never ceased to find their way to shore. 

Her feet tread lightly upon our mother earth and always moved in the right direction. 

Her footsteps were bold yet easily followed by anyone who chose to walk beside her.   

Her body was tall and lean, a giant among us, stately and deep-rooted.

Her family tree full, blossoming and eternal, evident with the new sprouts that continue to bud, ready to take their place among us.

Her physical life has returned to the earth, but now, in her death, she will be everywhere with me. 

Today, as the sun dips behind our beloved West Virginia Mountains, I will find her in the sunset. 

Upon awakening, I will find her in the rising sun. 

I will feel her kiss in the gentle wind that blows across my cheek. 

I will hear her voice in the bird songs. 

I will find her beside me as I walk within the natural world.   

I will see her in the faces of my children and grandchildren, my brothers, my aunt, my nieces and nephews, and my cousins. 

I will find her in the faces of all of you who walked beside her through her journey and are now here with us.

I will find her EVERYWHERE because she will be everywhere with me.

And, you too can find her, because all you have to do is look and she will be everywhere with you.

Late Lament

Breathe deep the gathering gloom
Watch lights fade from every room
Bedsitter people look back and lament
Another day's useless energy spent.

Impassioned lovers wrestle as one,
Lonely man cries for love and has none.
New mother picks up and suckles her son,
Senior citizens wish they were young.

Cold hearted orb that rules the night,
Removes the colors from our sight.
Red is grey and yellow white,
But we decide which is right.
And which is an illusion?

- Moody Blues

Rain

Rain, baptismal,
cleansing,
finding its way
into my soul
dripping and drowning
yet comforting,
running warm
through my veins
pulsating and overflowing,
unbounded
like the moon
moving in and out
of the clouds
breaking
through the night,
night vision,
clear and peaceful,
full and light.   

- Ann Taylor (c) 2009

"A human being is part of a whole, called by us the 'universe', a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings, as something separate from the rest - a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affectation for a few people near us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circles of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty."

- Albert Eienstein

The Road Not Taken

by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

New Morning

by Bob Dylan

Can't you hear that rooster crowing ?
Rabbit running down across the road
Underneath the bridge where
the water flows through
So happy just to see you smile
Underneath the sky of blue
On this new morning, new morning
On this new morning with you.

Can't you hear that motor turning
Automobile coming into style
Coming down the road for a country mile or two ?
So happy just to see you smile
Underneath the sky of blue
On this new morning, new morning
On this new morning with you.

The night passed away so quickly
It always does when you're with me.

So happy just to be alive
Underneath the sky of blue
On this new morning, new morning
On this new morning with you
New morning ...

09/09/08 - The Preacher, the Philosopher and the Poet

Three children born into a world that most times
made them feel good yet sometimes made them
feel that they had fallen from grace,
yet comforted in the family that always
surrounded them.

The eldest, now the preacher
his words echoing the strength of the mountain
and the flow of the rivers below them,
where he walked, head high, sword swift, path forged,
ready for others to follow.  

The second one, now the philosopher
who wondered with awe and respect at all around him,
even when he already knew the answers
that he sought,  their truths blowing in the wind
that released him.

The young one, now a woman of words
that she shares as she dances across the earth
and within it, in tune to the vibrations of the world,
hopeful and trusting, oblivious and laughing,
sometimes lost but always found.

The preacher, the philosopher and the poet
find themselves returning to the place
that is older than life itself, where
there is nothing to hide and nothing to fear,
where it all began, and where it all ends.

Their eyes wet with sadness and joy,
respect and honor for what came before
and all that is yet to come, because
they know that you will always be
surrounding us. 

And that is good.

And that is forever.

- Ann Taylor (c) 2008

"Not Dark Yet" by Bob Dylan

Shadows are falling and I've been here all day
It's too hot to sleep time is running away
Feel like my soul has turned into steel
I've still got the scars that the sun didn't heal
There's not even room enough to be anywhere
It's not dark yet, but it's getting there

Well my sense of humanity has gone down the drain
Behind every beautiful thing there's been some kind of pain
She wrote me a letter and she wrote it so kind
She put down in writing what was in her mind
I just don't see why I should even care
It's not dark yet, but it's getting there

Well, I've been to London and I've been to gay Paree
I've followed the river and I got to the sea
I've been down on the bottom of a world full of lies
I ain't looking for nothing in anyone's eyes
Sometimes my burden seems more than I can bear
It's not dark yet, but it's getting there

I was born here and I'll die here against my will
I know it looks like I'm moving, but I'm standing still
Every nerve in my body is so vacant and numb
I can't even remember what it was I came here to get away from
Don't even hear a murmur of a prayer It's not dark yet, but it's getting there.

06/10/08

A song from the past fills my mind as I hum the words written by CSN&Y in 1970 to supplement the song "Ohio," also created in reaction to the Kent State massacre: "Find the Cost of Freedom, Buried in the Ground. Mother Earth Will Swallow You, Lay Your Body Down."

I see the cost of freedom as a line long drawn and blurred within the sands of time; nothing changed yet everything so different.

I see the cost of freedom in the text of our constitution, within the cathedral walls and the ancient graves of the past.

I see the cost of freedom in the castle ruins and in the crosses of white planted across our lands in memory of those who died trying.

I see the cost of freedom in the blood upon the sword and in the scars upon the backs of those whose lives were spent in slavery.

I see the cost of freedom in the weeping eyes of a mother and father whose chests heave from the incredible force of sorrow.

I see the cost of freedom in the raping of the world and in the pockets of those who profit as others lose everything they own.

I see the cost of freedom in the struggles of those who hold true to their convictions within a country where prosperity is the driving force.

I see the cost of freedom in the starving mouths of babes and in the crowded streets where famine, hunger and illness have become the norm.

I see the cost of freedom in the eyes of women who see so much but cannot show their faces or their smiles also hidden from view.

I see the cost of freedom in the voices of our youth who only ask us to listen to the words they speak ever so clearly.

I see the cost of freedom in the eyes of our children who warm our hearts with a loving smile just because it feels right.

I see the cost of freedom in the pain and the tears and the joy as I walk the paths of those who forged the way before me.

How full my heart is as I feel the cost of freedom, its ebb and flow tugging at the deepest depths of my soul.

Oh yes, I truly see, but never can we see too much.

your submissions

HOMELIFE – LITTLE MOTHER ANN
March 9, 1962

She is a study in contrast. She’s happier in one of her brother’s sweat shirts and a pair of clamdiggers than in crinolines. But, she loves Barbie, Shirley, Nancy, Betsy, Queenie (all dolls) and to scrub, sweep, mop, dust and rearrange furniture in the playhouse.

She can climb a tree higher and faster and hang by her heels longer than any kid in the neighborhood but she insists on a frilly nightgown and hair in curlers every night.

She tolerates showers but hates baths, has holes in her socks, runs in her leotards, buttons off her coat and soles off her shoes but insists that a pearly necklace must be worn with sweaters.

She talks all of the time, when she isn’t reading or fighting, and uses the best head-lock in the entire third grade class to subdue her victims.

“Little Mother” will scold her brothers but cries if they reciprocate. She’ll track across the new carpet with muddy shoes but makes up her bed in fine fashion and is a terror at dishwashing.

She worries about her weight and talks about her diet but at the same time shovels in the starches – strictly, a meat and potato gal, is she.

She has four close friends with whom she spends hours on the telephone. The conversation usually runs from the color of the sweater for school next day to what’s for cold lunch and if it’s peanut butter sandwiches, what kind of jelly!

She dawdles, doodles and dangles the minutes away when it comes to bedtime and exasperates me beyond description, but for a nine year old she can be the most womanly, babyish, overbearing, cooperative, unreasonable, strong-minded, generous, selfish, lovable child I know – that’s my Ann.

Betty - 1962

We lie side by side now

Breathing a rhythm

I inhale your exhale

And you inhale mine

Your tiny feet kept me awake at nights

Rattling on the walls of your internal home

Now they lull me to sleep

Thumping me like a metronome

Internal is now external

Yet two are still one

I wake before you cry

I let down before you are hungry

Our thoughts connected like a cord to a womb

I love being your warmth

I love being your nourishment

I love being your protector

- Angie Cope

miscellaneous links

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