Echoes of a Season Past

 

ROGER TABER - POETRY READING
21 March 2017 – Part 2

From Roger’s friend, Graham

Greetings from autumnal Essex, UK,

I’m sharing the second part of Roger’s poetry reading. Again, I’ve embellished the recording with imagery (including the occasional cheeky pun). I’m grateful to the photographers who’ve shared their work (public domain license) on the Pixabay, Pexels and Unsplash websites. Wikimedia has also proven really helpful.

Here’s the link: https://youtu.be/hs3aTILOdtU. Or find it by searching ‘roger taber poetry’ in YouTube if you prefer.

I was reflecting on my previous comments about performance poetry being more expressive than printed form. How it reveals the intensity, passion and human frailty of the poet. And yet, conversely, a soundtrack could be interpreted as the author’s impressing of a particular perspective on his work. I wonder if poetry, art or music is really more about multiple viewpoints…? And written verse, perhaps, remains more accessible to those differing interpretations. Either way, I still think the recording adds an interesting facet to Roger’s published work.

The selection contains some personal favourites – ‘Suggestions’ and ‘The Poet’s Song’ among them. I read the latter at Roger’s funeral as part of a eulogy. Although it’s not sombre - rather a celebration of the artform. After all, ‘look on the bright side’ was his mantra. Even on his poetic postcards from the abyss.

Inevitably, the project has left me with a sense of retrospection. Roger died back in March last year although, for me at least, his presence lingers. His connection to the world endures somehow in a continuum of past-present-future. Like a pebble cast into water, his life-force resonates through a sea of time…

Memory’s warming embers ever glimmer in the shadow of grief.

Thanks for reading/listening.

G x

 

*  *  *

 

‘I am hopelessly in love with a memory. An echo from another time, another place.’
Michel Foucault

‘No one is actually dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away.’
Terry Pratchett

‘As long as there are memories, yesterday remains. As long as there is hope, tomorrow awaits. As long as there is friendship, today is beautiful.’
Billy Joel

 

*  *  *

 

ROGER TABER - POETRY READING
Tuesday, 21 March 2017

PART 2

The Master Baiter
W-A-R, Crucible Of Remembrance
Spring Magic
Logging On To Life
Imagination, Painter Of Dreams or Masochist
National Trust Outing
Suggestions
Shades Of Comic Genius
Engaging With Nature or Living With Prostate Cancer
Patchwork
Ode To Apollo or Profile Of A Life-force
Heartbeat or Waking Up To The Power of Positive Thinking
Poems By Passing Clouds
The Poet’s Song
In Good Company

(CC) R. N. Taber 2017

Postscript from Yesterday (and a National Trust Outing)

 

From Roger’s friend, Graham

 

Good morning,

I intended to include an extra poem yesterday for this, Roger’s LGBT+ focused blog. It ties in with the art theme. Sorry, it slipped my mind so herewith, below. (You may be aware that there’s a general interest blog in parallel and I’ve been duplicating postings. Although I hope to include additional, more bespoke content for this blog if time permits.)

This blog address uses the unspaced words ‘aspects-of-a-gay-mans-life-in-verse’. And I know Rog used to share candid thoughts about day-to-day life. On health and mobility difficulties and other various opinions, frustrations, hopes and fears, etc. So I’ll try to continue along that thread. (I’m not a poet but I have an appreciation for poetry, so hopefully that will suffice.)

Looking outside, a pair of wood pigeons sway in a nearby treetop. The wind breathes life into a row of conifers like a puppeteer. Yellow lichen dusts a rooftop like flecks of peeling gold leaf. Beyond, a brackish river of intermingling muddy blues and greys. Along the arc of the riverside, distant warehouses strewn like discarded toys. An armada of clouds sail gracefully east. I wish I could hitch a ride; stow myself away. A sense of incompleteness runs through my quietude like a flaw in the sapphire sky; a striation of cloud stretched out to the horizon by winds of time. I make coffee, gather papers, read notes, go to the bathroom... An automaton almost; performing routines without knowing why. Empty, refill, repeat… It must be time to feed the birds; bring myself to life once more…

For this next gay-interest poem I should explain that in the UK there’s a wonderful charity called The National Trust (https://www.nationaltrust.org.uk/). They preserve stately homes, places of historic or cultural significance, and much more. In fact I filmed some of Roger’s videos at one of the country estates which they maintain, see: ‘Stourhead, a Hymn to Nature & Live Art (Two poems)’ (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qQlJAu8Rwuc&t=17s). Or ‘Ode to Apollo’  (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TMIb7ysvJwU&t=65s). There’s other vids too. Apologies for the low picture quality – it was old technology!

Bye for now, Gx

 

*  *  *  *

 

A NATIONAL TRUST OUTING

On my way downstairs, I paused
to look at a portrait on the wall
and it winked at me, opened
its mouth and said (laughingly),
“Yes, I too was gay in my day
although the word not invented
nor times quite ready to receive
the unseemly likes of a common
painter and his patron lover – so we
had to lie, indulge in subterfuge
No one had the faintest idea,
certainly not the family (wife and
children included) or that ogre
Establishment whose inner circle
I was free enough to tread, so long
as I dared not bring it into disrepute
by word or deed. Oh, I loved them
well enough, indeed. But it’s not for
love of those I pose – radiating,
I suspect, an inner happiness?
Ah, yes, you understand. It is my
lover’s brush, exploring mind
and soul, touching what makes life
real (no trappings and trimmings
comprising Society’s notion – of
propriety or political expediency,
nor even an image of home fires
burning) – but Love, in all its
rampant glory, telling my story
here and now, for whomsoever might
care to consider, critically, a glow
in the cheek, lift of the eyebrow,
crook of the knee, hands pointedly
showing off slender fingers, touches
invariably missed in critique, put down
to art’s mystique, few appreciating
the intimacy between lover and lover,
bouncing off each other, long after
the oil runs dry, spoils of eternity”

In my own time I descended,
feeling befriended

 

Copyright R. N Taber 2004, 2006. From the poetry collection ‘The Third Eye’.

Painted Dreams

 

From Roger’s friend, Graham.

 

Greetings from a cloudy Essex riverside, and welcome.

Life can be a bittersweet symphony, as the song by British indie band, Verve, suggests. A shifting interplay of light and shade; smiles, tears, triumph and tragedy. How the individual makes sense of it is, like art, a studied interpretation.

Whether poet, artist, or none of the above, the human sees beyond the innate existence or istigkeit of their subject to reveal deeper truths. Capturing aspects of its meaning, its purpose, or even its cultural symbolism. Though a painting or poem merely occupy a veneer, their expositions delve deep. They’re so much more than just visual facsimiles or mechanical recordings.

Although constrained in his early years by familial and societal expectations, Roger, I think, blossomed in later life. He discovered his métier and befriended his muses. He embraced his passion for poetry, daring to rise above naysayers and the sniffy literati. (Just as any self-respecting Impressionist would disregard the strictures of Académie.) In the period that I knew him, he lived a bold, liberated and authentic life. ‘I’m past caring what people think about me’ he might say. Or sometimes (after a vino or two) he was rather more forthright: ‘Ah boll*cks to ‘em!’ he’d proclaim with a wry bardic grin.

I know Roger loved the paintings of British artist William Turner (or J. M. W. Turner). I sense that influence in his impressionistic wordscapes. His mind’s eye conjuring glittering pools of reflection, rolling pastures of rampant joy, and brooding skies of depression. Edges diffused, flowing and pulsing, in a vivid palette of words. A tree centre stage, feverishly worked into a hazy summer meadow. Figurative renderings; intertwining in storms of passion, making love, coalescing into a single entity. Fleeting beauty, captured in all its fragile and poignant intensity. Grotesque demons of blind hatred and heartless sanctimony exposed in their naked form; their monstrosity and absurdity revealed. Intense outpourings of a soul in ecstasy or agony; becalmed or in the tumult of a raging existential tempest. Unvarnished truths… swirling interplays… bold strokes. Lines of time tracing the vigour of youth to the frailty of old age. A life within and without; captured in all its delicate and gaudy hues.

Though Roger’s passions are now spent, his palette dry and his mind’s eye sleeping, his impressions endure. Open to interpretation and fresh perspectives. But most of all – to be enjoyed in that wondrous communion between artwork and observer.

And like his wordscapes, Rog blazed brightly in life too. Illuminating darkness and filling days with colour. Always there for me when I needed sage counsel, shelter, or reassurance. Likewise, I did my best to help him in his times of need. More than that though, he was great fun to be around. We enjoyed many uproarious days out*; consuming far too much ale and jokingly posturing around town as a pair of swaggering Bohemians. I recall our hilarious drunken antics involving spectacles falling into toilet pans, ales inadvertently slopped over crotch areas, and trousers accidentally slipping to half-mast on tube platforms. (Possibly not the sort of exposure an artist craves?) Plus a whole litany of other indecorous displays. It’s a wonder we weren’t arrested! Ah, dear ‘ole Rogie - feet of clay, but his head in the stars. It was a joy and a privilege…

I feel that Roger left this world slightly more picturesque than he found it. His legacy; a gallery of living, breathing landscapes of the imagination. I’ll leave you with one of my favourite poems. (Please forgive this self-indulgence, but I’m hopeful you’ll enjoy it.) It’s raw creative dynamism still paints my daydreams.

Cheers, Gx

* Reference to the period prior to Roger’s nasty fall and subsequent mobility impairment.

 

*  *  *  *

 

THE POET’S SONG

I am a Painter of Dreams,
my brush, a pen – words
all the paint available, tackling
the unassailable to bring within reach
of unquiet heart, restless soul,
images of life and love,
vision of a goal beyond perimeters
of time, space - humanity’s crude
conception of grace

I am a Painter of Dreams,
bringing you mine, intruding
on yours, winging heaven’s
elusive towers that flicker in a mist
of aspiration, inviting inspiration,
daring us to home in, defy
the rude mentality of a classroom
morality - humanity’s crude
conception of spirituality

See-Hear-Taste-Touch-Smell,
I am a Painter of Dreams, who
means well but often offends
who dare suggest I speak for all
that seek gold where the rainbow ends
for, like Pandora’s Box, our secrets
once let fly - each to their own;
Painter, dreamer, shades of light
or ships in a cruel night

Senses, falling apart at the seams
for a Painter of Dreams

 

Copyright R. N. Taber. From the collection: First Person Plural, 2002.

Breaking Cover OR Making Sense of Sensibility

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

This poem has appeared on he blob before but was removed and revised after receiving few visitors.

There are various ways of breaking cover. What nicer way for two gay people to come out to each other than with a kiss under the stars ... whatever their sex, sexuality or socio-cultural-religious background? As for letting everyone else know, it is rarely if ever easy, but worth every heartbeat as well as any tears along the way...

In some countries and home environments, gay people just have to seize the day and trust that a time will come that everyone recognises and accepts that the heart is a free country, and our difference don't make us different, only human.

Neither love nor life itself is rarely anywhere near as simple as we would wish, if only because we human beings insist on making everything so complicated with reference to various socio-cultural-religious dogma written in tablets of stone rather than engaging with contemporaneity, and trying to understand human nature, less rushing to judgement and / or  seeing its complexities as an excuse for hate crime, and worse ...

BREAKING COVER or MAKING SENSE OF SENSIBILITY

We lay on the ground,

barely touching, the only sound,

owls hooting;

your piano hands as if playing

the stars as we debate

women from Venus, men

from Mars

One toe brushing mine,

letting me share your body heat;

your eyes, winking like stars

as I clutch at your every word

like a man drowning;

you edge closer, thigh nestling

against mine

I'm stroking your shirt

while you're talking, unaware

of my being tossed about

on waves of desire, longing

to shut your mouth

with my lips, explore your body

implore your love

All the sounds of night

a serenade for lovers, caressing

each secret part of us

as I can but cling to every timbre

of your voice like straws

in a summer breeze, Cassiopeia

blinking back tears

Eventually, you wearied

of words, seemed to count stars

while I continued

to chase pipe dreams till the owls

broke cover, flew over us

as if at Earth Mother bidding,

a blessing of sorts

Enchanted, we shared

the owls' graceful flight across

silvery meadows

of night into a heart of darkness

that struck us both,

as lonelier than our lying there

needing each other

Slowly, tearfully, you turned to me,

kissed me, and we made love ...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2004, rev. 2011

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title 'Breaking Cover' in The Third Eye by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2004.]

Pièce de résistance

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Today's poem first appeared on the blog in 2015.

A reader once emailed me and asked the nature of my thoughts. For example, he wanted to know, am OK with being gay? Do I have regrets for being in my 70's now? He might as well have just asked if I am OK with being myself.

Yes, there is a part of me that is not happy with all I have achieved and not achieved. Who doesn't’ have regrets? I have more than my fair share, but being gay is not one of them. Coming out openly as a gay man, albeit waiting until my 30's to do so, is one of the relatively few aspects of my life of which I will always be proud.

PIÈCE DE RÉSISTANCE

Body, seeking love,

where doors closed to me

or slammed in my face,

warning I must know my place,

given an open sexuality

scorning all prejudice

and bigotry, daring to stake

my claim to co-exist

among the best (and worst)

humanity has to offer

Mind, anxious love

close not its open doors to me

or slam them in my face,

reaffirming that I have a place,

given an open sexuality

trusting prejudice and bigotry

will (eventually) accept

nature’s everlasting legacy

to history of the best (and worst)

humanity has to offer

Spirit, conspiring with love

to engage a kinder humanity

with the likes of me,

urge a smile on the face

of adversity, keeping it in place,

for taking pride in sexuality,

tasking prejudice and bigotry

with (finally) accepting

all the integrity of human nature

demands, that our differences

but make us human

Body, mind and spirit, steering us

through good and bad patches...

Copyright R. N. Taber 2015; 2020

[Note: This poem has been slightly but significantly revised since it first appeared on the blog in 2015.} RNT

G-A-Y, Charging Up for Change

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Today's poem first appeared on the blog a few years ago under a title I have only recently revised. (Regular readers will know that I struggle with titles and often revise them at a later date, hopefully for the better; it is, after all, a reader's lead into the poem and I have little time for poets who settle for 'Untitled' unless it directly relates to whatever sentiments the poem expresses.)

Among other themes the poem tries to convey is how positive thinking can overcome even our gravest reservations, especially, perhaps, when it concerns self-awareness. Coming out to ourselves can be as hard, as if not harder, than looking the world in the eye as an openly gay person. Besides, rarely can there have been a time in many of our lives when positive thinking was tougher or more essential as in seeing us through the Covid-19 coronavirus pandemic right now.

 Readers sometimes ask me how I cope with being gay and growing old on my own without a partner. (What has being gay got to do with growing old?)

Well, I have some good friends so I don’t feel so alone, and my Muse may be fickle but she can be inspiring when she likes. Besides, I live near Hampstead Heath so there’s always plenty of trees and bird life to sustain me whenever I feel the need, whether or not any human company on hand.

Some years ago, I met a couple of macho-looking guys whom I had been watching surfing earlier in the day. Later, we got chatting back at the hotel; it turned out they were gay and had been partners for several years. Another guest joined us and mentioned that he would soon be retiring from a job that had been his whole life and how he was dreading it. How, he wanted to know, does a person cope with all that time on their hands? One of my surfer friends commented, "You fill your life with all the things you love, I guess. Take us, we live for each other, surfing, and our jobs,' he told us,"so retirement won't be a problem as we'll still have each other and surfing. If a time comes we can't surf, we'll still have each other so no problem." The other guest was sceptical while I was filled with even more admiration (and a hint of jealousy) than I had been for their surfing skills.

Now, it may well be too late for me to find love again, but maybe not. I will be 75 on the next winter solstice, but earlier this year, before the Covid-19 pandemic struck, I met a couple about my own age in a gay bar celebrating their anniversary. When I asked just how long they had been together, both grinned from ear to ear and told me how they had met in that same bar just two weeks to the day. They were so happy, their years falling away even as we chatted. I might have been in the company of lovers in the first flush of youth. My surfer friends came to mind ...

As with many of my poems written in the first person, the poet-storyteller is Everyman with whom the reader may or may not choose to identify to the extent I do as I let imagined experiences take me wherever …

Whatever, never, but never, say "never".. 

G-A-Y, CHARGING UP FOR CHANGE

Friendly fingers ruffling my hair,
Apollo’s belated kisses

bringing blushes to my cheeks
as I slumped by the sea, let your tears

drip rainbows on my heart

if low, grey clouds all but refusing

to be titillated

I’d thought your feelings for me

were as mine for you,

but your, stunned expression

when I took a leaf out of Apollo’s book

had me pinioned to a crab’s back,

scuttling over sand pebbles mocking

all human despair

Sea horses prancing all around,

daring me choose one,

head for lost horizons shrouded

in a shadowy mist harbouring pirate ships

and slavers crewed by ghosts

last seen flailing among sharks’ fins

alerted by bad blood

Friendly fingers ruffling my hair,

your belated kisses

bringing blushes to my cheeks

after you caught up with me, let your tears

drip rainbows on my heart,

low, grey clouds capitulating to Apollo’s

surprise breakthrough

Two gay men, couplet for heroic verses,

charging up for change on white horses

Copyright R. N. Taber 2001; 2020

Nothing Ventured, Nothing Gained OR Mind-Body-Spirit, Up for It

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Today's poem first appeared on the blog in 2008 under a different title, and I have since revised it,  slightly but significantly.

Several readers have asked how I am progressing with the new poetry collection and if I have found a potential publisher. Well, progress is slow but sure, and I haven't given much thought to finding a publisher as I will probably self-publish again. As I have said before on the blogs, the majority of publishers here in the UK have never shown any interest in my previous collections; indeed, it would seem that poetry publishers in general are inclined to shy away from a volume that includes both general and gay-interest poems. I am toying the the idea of only making it available as an e-book, but may have just a few hundred copies printed as they have always sold. As always, time will tell if and hoe opportunity knocks. wry bardic chuckle

Meanwhile ...

Now, there's a lot to be said for letting  Waves of Wishful Thinking sweep us off our feet and having their way with us on tides of Here-and-Now. Oh, and there's no need to wait for Valentine’s Day to come around again either. wry bardic grin

'Practise is the best of all instructors.' - Pubilius Syrus (fl. 85-43 BC)

Have fun ... but be careful out there.

NOTHING VENTURED, NOTHING GAINED or MIND-BODY-SPIRIT, UP FOR IT

I slumped in a bar, drinking moodily,

in a tug-of-war with my heart,

longing to kiss the guy opposite me,

a target, if ever, for Cupid's dart

I contemplated chatting him casually

(be subtle while making a pass)

but fear kept getting the better of me

as I looked soulfully into my glass

Now and then I’d let my eyes devour

pecs pricking at a tight white tee,

felt myself blushing for sheer horror

at catching him observing me

Did I like what I saw, he softly asked?

(making my every nerve tingle);

I felt like a thief caught out, unmasked,

could but silently pray he was single

I could barely mumble something inane

(his laughter made me look away);

he still had a smile when I looked again,

one that seemed to want me to stay

He came over and sat right next to me

I took heart and we chatted a while,

mind-body-spirit engaging anxiously

in a mad tug-of-war with his smile

During that (half-hearted) tug-of-war,

fear began to drop away from me,

till sex such as I’d but dreamed of before

affirmed a new, gay-spiritual identity

We had a safe, sensual, delightful affair,

practising the finer arts of sexuality

for such a time as such sympathies care

to give love a free rein on its humanity

Copyright R. N. Taber 2008; 2020

"Humanity, Come on Down!" OR L-I-F-E, Make-or-Break Connections

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

More than once, readers have written in to ask why I don’t post more ‘nature’ poems instead of (often, it’s true) composing what has been called ‘so-called’ poetry that - in the words of one reader only recently - “…is just social comment.” I confess I take exception to the word ‘just’; besides, the arts are littered with social comment so why should I not join the fray?

Literature, music, art, ballet, sculpture … whatever … if anyone thinks it’s all entertainment, and nothing else, they are missing out on the whole of what any art form is about; there are parts to many if not most things - including human nature – and it is standing back to see-hear it as a whole that really counts.

Demonstrations here in the UK and the U.S protesting about the needless death of George Floyd, an unarmed African-American while being forcefully restrained by a police officer in Minnesota, have caused pain and anger beyond description; nor has either been appeased by precious little attempt at government level to pour oil on troubled waters. As for building bridges, well, hope springs eternal …

HUMANITY, “COME ON DOWN” or L-I-F-E-, MAKE-OR-BREAK CONNECTIONS

No matter the colour

of a person’s skin, their gender

or sexuality,

we all deserve no more (or less)

than to be treated

fairly if not equally at (and by) all levels

of human society

All mind-body-spirit

asks of the world is that it play fair,

be kind,

not impose such grim rites of passage

as racism, sexism,

hate crime against same sex relationships,

all stereotypes

Humanity is diverse

and that is how it needs to be or we

would want to know

how to make it (far) more interesting;

a common humanity

needs to respect such differences as it asks

to make us human

Take away respect

and we but give the worst of human nature

both nod and wink

to kill as well as give birth, ley anarchy loose

on streets that understand

any protesters would rather march in peace,

and be heard

The arts call on us

to pull together, be kind, give understanding

a chance to pave

the way for good intentions instead

of leaving them blocked

by socio-cultural-religious taboos, made to fear

recriminations

Human history

tells many a sorry tale of its wars and injustices,

but love, too,

reconciliation, grounds for hoping

that certain leading “Betters”

may yet touch base with those expected to settle

for the status quo

Any Here-and-Now

needs to be, open to change, and all its peoples

will never always agree,

but that’s where human nature comes

into its own, the jewel

in its crown, its capacity to hear and listen, look

and see

Human nature, get off your throne, earn your crown,

“Come on Down”

Copyright R. N. Taber 2020

[Note: For any readers who may not be aware, "Come on Down" is a catchphrase from the television game show The Price Is Right; this poem also appears on my general poetry blog today..]

L-I-F-E, Seasons in Time and (Personal) Space

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Several LGBT readers have emailed to ask why I did not post the poem below on both blogs when it appeared on my general poetry blog yesterday.  Well, in the past, feedback has strongly suggested that many if not most LGBT readers only visit the gay poetry blog because they can directly relate to it.. In the past, I have published gay-interest poems on my general blog, but this has not proven very popular with anyone. A poem is a poem is a poems, of course just as a person is a person is a person .... whatever their socio-cultural-religious or sexual persuasion so ... hope you enjoy the poem.

Another  reader writes, how can you write poetry when the world is being devastated and left bereft by COVID-19? I am not sure if this is meant as criticism or compliment so will take it as both. Well, it isn’t easy, even at the best of times, to compose a poem that attempts to strike a balance between a celebration of nature and human nature while also acknowledging their flaws. 

Given that the Here-and-Now in the shape of COVID-19 is probably among the worst of times ever for many of us, the task has felt all but Herculean; it has taken several days of writing and rewriting to arrive at the poem below. Hopefully, most readers will get a sense of the spirit of optimism in which it was written, but as we all know, you can please some of the people some of the time but never all the people all the time …

Whatever, fingers crossed …

Yet another reader comments, “… it feels like we are heading for Armageddon.”  Well, I take his or her point, but beg to differ. I have had my fair share of ups and downs in life, and if the experience has taught me nothing else, it has shown me the power of positive thinking.

Never underestimate the human spirit, neither its natural resourcefulness nor its compassion; we may well find ourselves at the edge of some transcendental abyss from time to time, but the human spirit will always lend us the strength to resist diving into it if we can but touch base. Never easy, and sometimes we fail; it has worked, for me - albeit more subconsciously than consciously - more than once, but especially when I had a bad nervous breakdown in my early 30’s and attempted suicide.  (I will be 75 later this year.)

To date, I know of only one friend who has died of a COVID-19 related illness; we played together as children, lost touch for years and found each other again online a few years ago. Every death is a tragedy for family and friends left behind.  At the same time, I am reminded of something a teacher at my old school back in the 1950’s told the class: “Love and friendship never dies, not only for remaining a part of us all our lives, but also for that part of them in us being passed on in ways and to people we may never know … and so it goes on. A university lecturer would later refer to it as a posthumous consciousness to which, as regular readers will know, I often make reference in my blogs and poems.

Remembrance is no compensation for loss, but I have always found it a great comfort to sense that no one’s life has ever been in vain; we all make a positive contribution even if we don’t always realise it. [Some readers may get a greater sense of my mindset from my reading of my poem,  ‘The Enchanted Wood’ @ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lGCv54LM4yo  - among other videos/ readings on my You Tube channel.  

I am not a religious person, and consider myself a pantheist; nor do I believe that religion has a monopoly on spirituality. In the sense that I try to give the human spirit a voice in my poems, hopefully they express something of a sense of spirituality with which I invariably engage as I write them.

Wishing you all love and peace, whoever and wherever you are in the world,

Hugs,

Roger

L-I-F-E, SEASONS IN TIME AND PERSONAL SPACE

Spring comes, offering all nature

and human nature a time to nurture

and flower, making such promises

as it craves will see our lives spread joy

on our graves

Summer comes, offering all nature

and human nature a time to give senses

their head, deck humanity with love

and peace, see any living nemeses left

for dead

Autumn comes, reworking all nature

by winds and rain enough to blow away

its debris, imploring mind-body-spirit

remain free before winter dares impose

captivity

Winter comes, nature, so eerily quiet

but for redbreast, forever making the best

of the worst, coaxing the human heart

into the Spirit of Stoicism, living metaphor

for its heroism 

Nature and human nature, deserving

a time to come, go, rest, and come again

in light and dark, each in its turn,

a measure of life and death, come ultimate

Harvest Home

Copyright R N. Taber, 2020

L-I-F-E, Lessons for the Learning

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

There can be no greater gift parents can give their children than encourage them to develop a strong sense of personal identity, including sexual identity, and love them all the more for it. (There is no reason for personal/sexual identity to be at odds with any socio-cultural-religious concerns if only the latter were inclined to be less intransigent.)

No parent should expect to live the life they may have missed out on through their children. While this may be understandable in the sense that some parents want more for their children than they had when they were young, I have seen too many parents overstep the mark in their misplaced enthusiasm to recapture lost opportunities. Children and young people need guidance, of course, but there is a big difference between guidance and manipulation. We all need to  develop a sense of discernment that encourages us to make our own choices. Yes, mistakes will be made, that's par for the course from birth to grave.

My father was often heard to comment  about many things that ‘It’s all a game of bluff.’As I have grown old, I often finding myself saying much the same. As for who is bluffing whom, now that's the million dollar question to which many if not most of us can expect to spend a lifetime trying to decide.

Life is, indeed, the making of us, from the first steps we take to our last; full of opportunities taken, rejected or missed altogether, no one to praise or blame for how we turn out but the inner self that sees all, no place to hide.

Whatever our socio-cultural-religious background, we need to respect each other's differences; above all, we need to learn that those same differences do not make us different, only human. The latter, especially is a lesson that's never too early or too late for the learning.

L-I-F-E, LESSONS FOR THE LEARNING

A child is born

who needs must learn about life,

and signs pointing

to survival in a game that goes
by many names,
among them chance and bluff
where skill sidelined

A child is born

who needs must learn about trust,

and how to discern

where hypocrisy dares infiltrate

a humankind as likely to sail
under false colours as it is to play
honest broker

A child is born

who needs must learn that giving

is a finer art

than receiving, compassion

no sign of weakness,
but demonstrating true strength
of character

A child is born

who needs must learn how to lean

on others besides
lending a helping hand
from time to time,
no shame in asking, but sure proof
of maturity

A child is born

who needs must learn how lying

costs more than honesty,
more often than not leaving

a human heart
near bankrupt if forced to keep up
appearances

A child is born

who needs must learn how neither

our stars nor betters

are ultimately responsible for us,

only ourselves,

as we, in turn, needs must look out

for each other

A child is born

who needs must discover that love

comes in all shapes

and forms, and to recognise them

for mind-body-spirit
intent upon a heart to heart with us,
and listen

A child is born

who needs must learn one lesson

above all else,
that we are as we are, with minds
and hearts of our own,
no winner or loser in someone else's
life games

Copyright R. N. Taber 2010; 2020

[Note: This poem first appeared on the blog some years ago under the title 'A Child is Born.']