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Best Poems Written by John Taylor

Below are the all-time best John Taylor poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | John Taylor Poem

Pulse

One moist patch, like dewy grass,
surrounded by a field of weeds,
emerges first and breathes at last, 
through openings, the air it needs.
Cut off from, and cut off of;
counting on, and counting in;
from down below, to up above - 
A smack on tender, crimson skin.
	There is a pulse.

One spring bud, like seedling stems,
surrounded by a garden wall,
is standing out from all of them, 
despite the fact, they're just as tall.
And though the bud has not yet grown,
the soil and the water see
more than just the seed they've sewn.
They see the flower it will be.
	There is a pulse.

One tall stem, like climbing vines,
surrounded by its petals' plumes,
shares its elegant designs,
and stretches as it blooms.
And when the wind begins to call,
the flower spreads it's pollen 'round.
It falls in love, and loves in fall,
and falling love renews the ground.
	There is a pulse.

Details | John Taylor Poem

Halloween Haiku (For Linda-Marie the Sweetheart of P.S.'s Contest)

Halloween Haiku
(9.7.10)

Suburban parade:
A night to transform yourself,
and beg without shame.

Subsequent morning:
Pillowcases wear make up-
Wrappers and trinkets.

The Thanksgiving porch:
Mouth with one neglected tooth-
The jack-o-lantern.

Details | John Taylor Poem

Young Cronus

YOUNG CRONUS	(5.7.09)

My father decided he wanted his children		
buried, and left for dead.
But my mother, Gaea, both fair and true,
spared her children instead.
So I met with my selfish father,
where, by Gaea, we both were led,
and, holding the sickle she gave me,
this is what I said:

"Hello, dearest father.
I'm glad that you came. After years without you, 		
I know how you feel about us.				
I just hope you know:  We feel the same about you."

"But we are not here to argue.
I came here to say good bye."
He knew farewells were in order,
but he did not yet, know why.
I explained our situation,
as my siblings stood idly by,
saying, "If you don't want to have children,
you cannot be swayed, so I won't even try.
But its too late to go back now.
You cannot erase my family and I.
So that leaves us only one option,
and that's why I'm saying goodbye."

"Goodbye, worthless father.
I'm glad that you came.  Now pay what is due. 			
We know how you feel about us,
and now you know how we feel about you."

He regretted the seeds he had sewn,
so, in charity, I reaped his remorse.
I swung my sickle pure and precise,
with such fervent and furious force;
His blood was late to react to the wound,
and that which was lost by means of divorce,
found it's new home in the deep, dark, blue ocean-
unable to ever return to it's source.

	Together with most of my brothers and sisters,
	there seemed to be no better fit
	than to send him away, as he would have sent us;
	to the bottomless Tartarus pit.

"Goodbye, worthless father.
I'm glad that you came, and you paid what was due.
We knew how you felt about all of us,
so we showed you just how we all feel about you." 	

"Farewell forever, father.
I'm glad that you're gone, and I'll never atone.		
Know that your fear was what you created,
as I take my seat in what once was your throne."

Details | John Taylor Poem

Suburban Spring

Suburban Spring	
(4.15.10)


	Springtime fills the air, 
			like laughing gas.
		(Or maybe more like whiskey.)
The suburbs are drunk on the nectar of it's dawn.
	Middle-class houses 
			are starting to dance.
		(Or maybe they're just wobbling.)
They vomit whole families onto their lawn.

			I watch them the same way dogs watch TV:
				Confused and intrigued, 
		with a slight urge to pee.

	The father cuts grass, 
			like a sleepwalker.
		(Or maybe more like a zombie -
Ravenous for cheap beer, instead of brains.)
	A six pack later, 
			he starts washing his car.
		(Or watering his driveway.)
He's spreading on wax so he's set when it rains.

	The mother kneels in dirt, 
			tending the garden.
		(More like digging in a sandbox.)
Her spade is rusty.  (Figuratively, at least.)
	A sunset later, 
			she cooks family dinner.
		(Or maybe orders some pizza.)
(If every mouth is fed, she can call it a feast.)

			I watch them the same way dogs watch TV.

	The son plays war games, 
			dying for fun.
		(Or maybe more for practice.)
He whines about fruit drinks, as well as the heat.
	A full pitcher later, 
			tweaking on sugar,
		(Or maybe just corn starch.)
the war escalates, 'til its time to go eat.

	The daughter makes a picnic, 
			inviting her toys.
		(Or maybe not.)
(Her plastic spread can only spread so thin!)
	After the tea time, 
			she's off picking flowers.
		(Or maybe weeds.)
(As long as they're pretty, there's a vase that they'll fit in.)

		They gather, as a family, at the table to say grace.
		They hold each others' hands and say, "Amen."  
			(And proceed to stuff their face.)

	The dog sits by the boy - 
			Loyal and true.
		(Or maybe just hungry.)
He drools as he stares from the corners of his eyes.
	After dinner, 
                     he offers to help with the dishes.
		(Or maybe he demands it.)
The boy sneaks him a bite.  The dog is not surprised.

	Bedtime comes soon after.  
			The kids are sent to brush their teeth.
		(Or maybe just to run the sink.)
They put on their jammies, and to bed, they go.
	After tucking them in, 
			the parents watch TV.
		(Or maybe they just dream they do, 
					sleeping in its glow.)

	The dog is changing channels, 
			looking for a better show.
				Confused and intrigued, 
		he pees on the carpet below.

Details | John Taylor Poem

Give Me a Shot

As soon as I walk in, 
you walk right up to me;
And I know what I want, 
but you ask me what I need.
I know you're just doin' your job, 
and I'm just doin' mine,
but I cannot help but wonder if you're open, come closin' time.

There aren't many people, 
with whom, I get along;
And there are even fewer, 
for whom, I'll write a song,
but you like to hear me sing, 
and I like to watch you pour.
I wonder if there's something that we both would like much more.

Hey, bartender.  Would you wait on me?
I guess I'll just have to wait and see. 		
But I don't care if it's last call or not - 
Hey, bartender.  Would you give me a shot?

Let's make a toast:  To making the most of most.
Let us not look to see.  What will be, will be.

So, when you close out my tab,
and I ask for one more thing;
And say, "Could you call me - a cab?" 
'Stead of "Call me in the morning."
'Cause I don't wanna go too far, 
but I don't wanna go without; 
So, if I am where you are, 
please, bartender, don't close me out.

Details | John Taylor Poem

Family

A decade in to
a new millennium,
a woman, nearing
a century on Earth,
braces herself in
a doorway of
the house,
she has lived in since birth.

Her oldest son unfastens his belt, and takes a seat at the end of her table,
where her middle son just fixed the legs of the chair; to make sure it was stable.
Her youngest son brushes the webs off the wall, and scrubs the stains from the floor.
Her only daughter packs up her pictures, and helps her through the door.

A decade in to 
a new millennium,
a life, almost
a century long,
comes flooding back
to the thoughts of a woman
who feels removed 
from where she belongs.

Her daughter tries to lift her spirits, (from the room in which, she slept as a child)
but no one could easily witness their memories, all being sorted, and filed.
Her house is dissected, and put in a truck that waits - like a thief - in the drive.
-The cumbersome stance; the delicate dance; together, they help one another survive.

A decade in to 
a new millennium,
a woman approaches
a century - passed.
A man in the attic
waves from the window -
Assuring her: 
This home will not be her last.

Details | John Taylor Poem

Unexpected Peers (An Acrostic Ode To Poetry Soup and It's Members)

Unexpected Peers (An acrostic ode to Poetry Soup and it's members)	
(9.7.10)

Passion
Overwhelmed
Elementary
Thoughts.
Roaming
Youth
Saw
Out,
Under
Pen.

Prolific
Obsession
Engrossed
Time.
Rhythm
Yielded
Structure;
Observation
Unleashed
Power.

Pride
Offered
Extroversion.
Trajectory
Rose,
Yet
Self-doubt
Occurred.
Undercurrent
Pulled.

Pushed
On;
Expanded
Tools;
Read.
Yesterday
Stopped
Overstaying-
Usurping
Present.

Posted
Online.
Enjoy
The
Rhymes
You 
Share
Openly,
Unexpected
Peers.


            I haven't been on this site long, but many of you have already made me feel
welcome, and, moreover, like I belong.  I'm finding myself as inspired as I have ever been
to keep writing, and to keep growing as a writer, thanks to your support, your contests,
and your own original posts.  This is, truly, a special community.  
            Thanks for allowing me to become a part of it.

Details | John Taylor Poem

The Universal Question (For ^rick Parise's 'The Universe' Contest)

The Universal Question
(9.7.10) 

What is all of this?
When did this happen?
How did I get here?
Where did I come from?
Who am I asking?

What should I do?
When will I know?
How can I tell?
Where do I go?

Who am I?
What are you?
When are we?

Above
all else,

Why?

Details | John Taylor Poem

The Doggone Dog Contest

My Pet

They say that a pet resembles its master,
but I don't believe that it's true.
       When I walk with my dog, 
he always walks faster.
       When I eat a sandwich, 
my dog eats a shoe.
       My dog often scratches his head with his feet,
but, I use my hands, instead.
       I tend to roll in bed when I sleep.
My dog rolls in anything dead.
    I've never pooped in a clearing, or park;
       I've never chewed on a bone;
When a squirrel climbs a tree, I don't stare up and bark -   
			I'd rather just leave it alone.
But I don't get fed, and watered, and rubbed,
	and I don't get treats when I pee.
And I'm not, as quickly, forgiven and loved,
	when someone gets angry with me.
They say that a pet is just like its master,
but I haven't seen any proof yet.
        Personally, I think that would be a disaster.
Instead, I wish I was more like my pet.

Details | John Taylor Poem

The Talk

The Talk

(9.4.10)


"The Talk:",
 He hesitated, 
"Everyone 
 Becomes
 Interested in
 Reproduction
 During different, developmental 
 Stages."
(Assurances are always awkward;
 Nothing new.)
 Dad dodged    
"The Talk" 'til I turned twenty two.
 He honestly
 Expected 
 Bewilderment by
 Education, 
 Even though everybody knows, each infant grows in a secret station
 So its strong enough for the long aviation of being taken, by delivery stork, to it's home.







(This poem was written specifically for Carol Brown's "The Birds and the Bees" poetry
contest.)