Thomas Lowe Taylor


landscape one

blank in the forest even darkness absent
a vertical blind necessity without direction
movement aimless and silent preparation for
circular paths in maze-like deconstruction

no luck with windows which see out on flat
empty blank, ‘it is written’ addendum clarity
no clue either, may be voices nearby a hum
the character of a standoff reminds one again

these lands occupied or not by forces at play
in the mind of time as has ’no return’ marked
illegible scrawl upside down so strangers not
permit what others are there now but us them


lingo wars

hinge of fate in mirror swinging in or out
reversal is the mode of incremental shifts
of increasing levels of words from the arm-
chair murderers in comfort zone inhabits

hinge of history unhinged by wordage lofts
the attic claim the veritable flame of cities
sites remained undestructed not for long at
cluster bombs falling radio falling the end

hinge of nations in retreat from all that’s not
saved from the open sores of tales told around
the remaining fires from the remaining cities
shrinkage of time’s warp into instaneity here


landscape two

twelve mile slip of sand unbroken no rocks
no estuary, rivulet or pile seaweed, empty of
people, occasional car with lights in the fog
empty houses usually few signs of life here

holidays people fill the streets make ‘the wave’
surf breaks low rollers around small surf birds
occasional pelican or dead seal or big tree root
wood gleaners with chainsaw and pickup truck

in exile. days you could slice the boredom thick
thoughts run parallel to the coast, occasional doubts
fill your being then relapse to sunsets and slow signs
flags on the foredune to locate the way back home



Thomas Lowe Taylor has retired to the extreme west coast of Washington state.

 
 
 
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