Old Friends

Copyright © 2010 by B.B. Taylor

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ISBN: 978-1-4502-7037-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4502-7038-0 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010916501

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 1/11/2011

Contents

POEMS

Your Love

Memories

Her

A Greeting

A Poem/Just You

Love in Friendship

Hey, Old Man

Mickey and Cain

Us

Devils Tune

Live Righteously

Ugly Autumnal Earthly Night

Happy Birthday Hiroshima

The Child / Wizard’s Child

Sea of Grass

Do the gods dream?

Mankind

Mother’s Day

Your Hands, My Hands

Two Roads

La Dolce Dolore

A Down Day

Nequaquan Vactum

(The Void Does Not Exist)

Set Me Free

(Sammy’s Song)

The Deciduous Tree

Shrew

To A Japanese Cherry Tree

The Passing Feet

To A July Child

The Victorian

Memories

Reflections of Anytime in My Maturity

The Bank

Council on the Bluffs

Just God

On the Destruction of New York City

Computer in the Day

In A Hospital Garden

Ms. Who and the TV

Reflecting Mirror

Fat Little Man

SHORT STORIES

Lost and Found

Was My Dad Proud of Me

Nanny

The Wake

Thanksgiving at Aunt Ida’s

Puppers: I’ve Gone to the Dogs

A Christmas Birthday Story

Death Wishes

The Bookie

A Failure of Five

The Sale

The Spirit

The Light

The Beach Party

Tropical Sun

To Walk and to Wait

The Tree

The Interview

Silence in the Wood

The Old Woman and the Fly

On The Dissertations Of Gods And Men

or

The Savage is Dead

Through a Phonebook Darkly

Prejudice

Lies

Wherever You Go, There You Are

A Repeat Performance

A Repeat Performance – Part 2

The White Blonde

In Birmingham Airport

Snowflakes

Days of the Violin

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

The Hitchhiker I

The Hitchhiker II

Red Suns

Why?

Happy Gay Days

Part 1

Part 2

An Afternoon in The Melting Pot

A Trusting Soul

The Bus Boy

Fifteen Minutes in a Day of Life

or

Crispy Titters

Lessons

ESSAYS

A Short Essay to a Hummingbird

A Few Thoughts on Death

(only a few thoughts as I couldn’t dwell on the subject too long)

A View of A View of Toledo: A Painting by El Greco

An Untitled Saga

There Are Tears in Heaven

Does The Messenger Matter?

To Sacrifice a Criminal:

Public Execution in Medieval and Renaissance Societies

By Jared William Taylor

End Notes

In Loving Memory

of

William Henry Taylor

and

Jean Mabel Pickles Lojik

A special thank you to my sons Jason, Jared, and Jordan for their contributions to this book; for each is very unique and their work is quite remarkable. I am filled with warmth, love, and pride for each of them.

Thank you to Ray Davies and The Kinks for the inspiration they’ve given me over the years.

I also wish to thank my transcriptionists: Valerie Brown, Kate Botner, Estella Soto , Yvonne Navarro,, and my wife Sonia Taylor.

And to my wife Sonia, thank you not only for your assistance, but for putting up with me and forgiving my occasional unwarranted outbursts.

POEMS

Your Love

I am needful

of your love.

It tells me

who I am, defines me.

It fills me, fulfills,

feels ethereal, full.

At times

it’s a yearning dew,

addiction to adulterous words.

I love you,

I must hear it,

re-affirm my own disbelief.

How could one as you,

love this needful me?

Yet you do, from a seed

there is a bloom, burning sun,

blinded, baked, blown about.

Yet you do,

and I feel whole,

universal, unified, united.

I am needful.

Memories

Tis strange how things

run around the head,

Even just sitting

or lying in bed.

Things that were buried

from long ago.

like soft gentle rains

or beautiful, deep snow.

There are many things

that quicken the mind;

A color, a touch, or a

scent of some kind.

Thoughts of a moment

just passing through,

things from the past,

delicious and new.

Memories of little things

like walks or a kiss,

like ballgames and Christmas,

or concerts of Liszt.

Just tiny things

brought out of time,

sweet little moments,

I am glad to have mine.

 Her

Radiant light waves danced from the mirror to her solid eyes

Two perfect spheres of sapphire chipped and layered near the center

Uniformly pieced around the black holes that pierce the rigid gems

Her thick and curled hair is a cluster of nautilus shells glued together in a pageboy style

Her face is a soft wood piece carved with dizzying symmetrical contours

Her thin nasal shaft leads to a flat tip; like a small mushroom hanging upside down from her brow

The soft nectarine skin surrounding her full lips conforms and discolors to lights’ touch

Behind the soft pink saucer gate is two rows of purified smooth white marble

That a rose petal tongue gently glides over

She takes steps backward and side to side, effortlessly, as a water strider across a pond

Her V-shaped torso is topped by steal beam shoulders

Her lightly beating wings push down the silk bell dress that flows from her waist

Running her pulp paper Mache fingers down her face and neck

She’s grooming; massaging herself sensually like a cat

Her aura radiates stillness and weight like the calm ocean hiding its depths

Like and angel, her curvy bosom reaches out – away form her

- Jordan Bruce Taylor

A Greeting

Who are you?

Perhaps, I

can tell you

who is me.

I’d like to walk

the night with thee,

and in the dew

of the morning,

go our way.

Perhaps not?

You could stay.

I need shelter,

succor, and you?

Your need?

Soul, self,

a mind to feed?

Who are you?

Perhaps, I

can tell you

who is me

and share

a moment of comfort

I and thee.

A Poem/Just You

A poem you say,

something upbeat

kind of light,

in a quiet sort of way.

But, I’m tired, down,

really quite lonely today.

Wishing you were here,

walking the ocean spray,

or looking at downtown,

the lights reflected in the bay.

Interested? Or too much

baggage in the fray?

The clouds are gathering,

they are dull, dark and gray.

Perhaps for a moment,

we could join and soar to the Milky Way.

Love in Friendship

The scent of flowers on a summer’s eve,

fore-with emotions not unknown.

The touching of minds and hearts,

as with Plato, a love is sown.

Based on a friendship,

with passions held firm,

Wading in sweet knowledge,

tis not only fire that burns.

As old Syphisis must feel,

alas so do I.

Not caged or unmoved,

just forlorn, I cry.

So hoary Venus has struck,

a dulcet cord again.

With adoration and passion,

oh love, you’re my friend.

Hey, Old Man

Hey old man,

you can’t understand?

You love two women,

not allowed, it’s banned.

They both love you,

in their own way.

Want you, need you and

not about to let you stray.

Singing, you must choose

death, independence, in its way,

so much to lose.

Hey, old man,

you can’t understand?

Their hurt, their growth,

their lives, their love, and

their torn, twisted selves,

caught in the sand?

What is the future?

Wait to behold,

the triangular love,

or three lost souls,

and harness unto

the right time to unfold.

Hey, old man,

might yet understand,

how this old man

has come to this stand.

He claims himself

open and honest, not in stealth,

and perhaps can do both.

Love and an oath,

in fulfilling, in gift,

learning to just be.

Nurture that love

stand by itself one day

Mickey and Cain

Black and tan are they,

though separated by time’s long span,

they were both the best friends among man.

Long and well built,

black and tan were they,

loving and protective.

I miss my Cain,

and my Mick.

Big wet noses

and dark shiny eyes,

Full of love and heart,

they hold no lies.

Mischievous at times,

honorable at others,

they watch over the house,

and also the others within.

There are few others

who are loved as much,

except maybe my wives and kids,

a few other people as such.

Sublime to have their love,

and bring me friendship and warmth,

like a white feathered dove.

For after all,

what is dog,

but God spelled backwards.

Us

I do not pretend,

to understand right now,

what one should do.

Which way to go,

whether one or the few.

Perhaps we should part,

at least for a while,

feeling of pain,

a new you,

and one day beyond,

a new day, a new us,

til this is anew,

after we learn,

learn, grow, fall through,

then upon us,

all that we knew,

was really profitable.

Eternal, me and you,

You want to be?

Devils Tune

Let your darkness

shine through.

Give those you love,

the bleakest view.

Show the hell,

that layers all through,

the smiling shell,

inner turmoil, witches brew.

You make day night,

wallow in selfish fright,

celebrating moral error.

And when it's over,

manipulated right.

You'll join me in,

eternal damn night!

Live Righteously

Look in the mirror.

Do you like

what you see?

If not,

Choose the Right,

make it a fight,

live righteously!

Look in the mirror.

Live, like,

what you see?

If not,

raise the height,

of your sight,

live righteously!

Look in the mirror.

Like what you see?

Remember to ask,

who is the real me?

Is there discomfort,

when you ask who

you want to be?

The reflection of Thee,

then change what you need

to be whole and free.

So once again you can say,

Hey, I like me!

In the likeness of my Father

I am coming to be.

Ugly Autumnal Earthly Night

The earth is an ugly place,

especially in the autumn.

The piles of dead leaves,

the bare boned twisted trees,

grey dark unproud clouds,

gloomy whistling winds wordlessly,

whispering their song of death.

Not even cold or crisp enough

for white fluffy snow, only

wet sooty sleet, falling slow.

And the leaves decaying colors

trampled under foot, beneath

whirling spheres and ground

into black asphalt soil.

Restless, purposeless energies spent,

the low sun’s rays morosely bent,

unable to warm the fall environment.

Weak and whimpering life relents.

Ugly, ugly are these days,

like some sadistic morality play,

and awaiting winters long night,

its shroud to cover that

from which there is no flight.

And all upon are entombed,

silently mocked by morbid blight,

the eyes of earth forever close.

And all alone lose their sight,

in the ugly, ugly autumnal night.

Happy Birthday Hiroshima

A day of unprecedented woe,

of burning flesh

and radiation rapes.

Eyes held to the skies,

and corneas fried

to a golden brown.

Bakers, bankers, butchers, businessmen,

priests, politicians, housewives, all

frozen on their spots

by firery balls of hell.

All men cremated equal.

Little children torn and scorched,

clothed in flame

and beheld in horrid fascination.

Suckling babes,

welded, to their mother’s

melted breasts.

Generations of beings born,

already mangled, ravaged,

begotten limbless, sexless, sightless, mindless:

hugged by bald, blind mothers,

kissed by mushroom clouds.

Smiling youthful boys,

tender maturing girls,

flowering slowly together

in their sterility.

Men and women working,

in factories;

fathers with daughters,

mothers with sons,

all blended together

with their machines, their walls, their windows, their roof;

A melting pot.

What splendid graves.

Flowers of glowing uranium,

as their wreaths.

Split and blackened willows

as their stones.

Happy birthday Hiroshima,

Happy birthday.

The Child / Wizard’s Child

She bore a son.

her son, our son, my son.

I reviled

I deified

In part

I donned my

monks cloak,

and bore the burden

of our child

out, to the booming

alighted dark grey sky.

I layed him grounded

at my feet, and

raised my hands

above our crowns

and called aloud…

The name of saint and beast.

The thunderings,

the lightenings,

quickened, swirling,

crescendo, above me…

I lifted him aloft,

the blessed burden boy,

and commanded

the elementals,

[within and without]

The light struck down

he and I to the ground,

to the sky bound,

forever one, and immortal,

he, not me.

The aura surround

around his being,

blue, yellow and

bright white…

My gift, my essence.

I laid him down

unfaltered, I crumpled.

She’d born a son,

a son, her son, Esson.

He deified

and I reviled.

Sea of Grass

An endless savannah of gold and blue

Sit above a watery surface of lilies in bloom

Sweet heavy air carries pungent scents

Of boggy meadows and muddy banks

Each blade of grass and piece of soil

Crawl with life

Though unobserved

The fuchsia sunset an unknown delight

Can make one forget about the mosquitoes bite

No sounds are to be heard but alligators and turtles splash

During sunset in the sea of grass

- Jordan Bruce Taylor

Do the gods dream?

I thrust myself up.

Shaking soaked sheets and body.

In my throat stuck.

A fear filled, frightful scream.

Rushing in my mind

do the gods dream?

Do they have terror in the night?

Or sleep at all, in a beam of light?

Do they repose in peaceful bright light?

Or awake in a scream heard far aflight?

I am calming now,

the terror receding.

I've sent the night’s closeness to fleeing!

How I did this, I do not know,

perhaps the gods helped me so.

I am okay again. Perhaps the gods are too.

For I am ready.

And may all of us return.

To peaceful dreamless bliss.

Mankind

Always bear in mind,

that the fate

of all mankind…

is uncertainty, choice, change,

to walk about blind

and chastisement

to others so unkind.

Merely perceived perceptions.

Only shadows, reflection,

putrid, biased preconceptions,

abstaining, avoiding, absolution,

searching for connections, and

finding false perfections.

Reaching for self redemption!

Always bear in mind,

that the fate

of all mankind,

is ignorance, dust, grave,

humbled, forgotten, chagrined,

and remorse for what

might or could have been!

Mother’s Day

Ah, Mother’s Day.

One gave me away,

another could not stay,

another, a wife, I lost along the way,

also an in-law we bury today.

Ah, Mother’s Day.

A time to keep at bay,

I did not have

the unlocking key

that keeps them for today.

Your Hands, My Hands

Your hands, my hands

What will they do?

Help, heal, hurt?

Hunker down? Handle

Handel’s hallelujiah?

or handily humiliate

or highlight hilarity?

What of the hues

of humanoid hands?

Will they humble?

Will they hune,

human kind horrible

or perhaps hinder hope,

Like a huge hangover

or the hovering howls

of heinous wolfhounds?

Yet, hidden and hampered

In your hands, my hands

is the happiness

housed in humility

of heaven’s hosts.

Two Roads

I sat betwixt,

and sighed.

Which way to go?

Wondered I

Unable to choose.

What to lose?

A piece of self,

so little left,

and I not deft,

to choose,

fear or die?

Betwixt two roads,

I sit,

wondering… Am I fit,

to choose and stick,

with my choice?

Forever?

Hell, I don't know!

La Dolce Dolore

Pain, pain, it’s not the same,

comes alone, it comes with fame.

Comes to each man’s name,

it comes with reason and with shame.

It comes with war; it cripples and maims,

it comes to you no matter your aim.

It comes in contests no matter the game,

it comes to gender both men and dame.

It comes in life unable to tame,

it comes quickly, it’s gone, came,

and like all it eventually wains.

So do not fear,

Pain, sweet pain.

A Down Day

Did you ever have a down day,

filled with regret

from self loathing?

Not happenstance,

made multiple mistakes,

wanting another shot,

but knowing

just the

different erroneous decisions.

For such is the nature,

of the natural man,

occasionally stumbling

across the truth…

Paying no attention

to my bruised toe.

With only a cursory glance

at what is right before me…

Maybe I’ll get better,

"I ain’t what I wanna be,

I ain’t what I should be,

But I’m a damn site better than I was"

Good words,

even some truth.

Did you ever just have a down day?

Well there is still hope,

still faith,

and eternal potential.

Nequaquan Vactum

 (The Void Does Not Exist)

Daddy I miss you.

I often feel lost

without you.

The look

in your eye,

why can’t you help me now?

Teach me, guide me from a memory,

from unfathomable distance.

I long to talk with you

and listen which oft I did not do.

I want to show you

who I am, what I’ve done.

But I’m not sure

of either,

the why or meaning.

Aw Daddy,

I miss you.

Please, please

Let me go!

Set Me Free

 (Sammy’s Song)

Set me free Mom and Dad,

all you gotta do is set me free,

Mom and Dad.

You know you can do it,

if you try,

all you gotta do is set me free.

I don’t want no one,

if I can’t hate Cain by myself.

I don’t need nobody else,

so if I can’t hate Cain by myself,

set me free, set me free.

Set me free Mom and Dad,

all you gotta do is set me free,

Mom and Dad.

You know you can do it,

if you try,

all you gotta do is set me free.

I don’t want no one

if I can’t hate Cain by myself.

I don’t need nobody else,

so if I can’t hate Cain by myself,

set me free, set me free.

The Deciduous Tree

From mother earth divine,

I am a deciduous tree,

from Heavenly Father you see.

Each year I grow

and lose my leaves,

in cooling winds that blow.

And like the tree,

it is taken, by faith,

quiet and dormant be.

Each year

Renewed and fresh.

When spring appears

and Heavenly Father is near

and slip

and dip with grace,

for springs new stirrings,

A trip,

fought the fight,

browned by mite and parasite,

obsessed like my need,

My mother and father

through my need,

asking not to matter

underlying tatter,

that I may bear new fruit sublime.

Shrew

Did you know?

The shrew you knew,

Been entombed,

Buried. Turned blue.

From pointy nose

To skinny legs too.

Lost are his days.

No wonder, no hope,

Afloat in universal haze…

Locked mind away,

Closed to the love,

That still exists today.

No power to warm…

No showered thought…

Among worms swarm,

What has been wrought?

His pointy ears silent,

His tombstone bought.

Tears for his passing?

Past pitiful pain…

Only maggots slashing.

The shrew you knew?

Buried, ignored, but

Love, eternally too.

To A Japanese Cherry Tree

Old Mr. Winter,

held at bay, too warm.

But, for another day?

And the tree

oh cherry, small.

Blooming too early.

Fooled by the warmth,

like misguided,

virginal youth.

Surrounded, like

an emerging tooth.

Amidst older, bare, leafless,

patient limbs.

Awaiting true spring,

to arrive, climb.

Oh young cherry,

a mockery sublime.

The Passing Feet

The paths of our feet

go many ways.

They sweep and turn

and wander down a lane.

They meet, they touch

They saunter, they part;

on beaches and bleachers,

on mountains and meadows,

by the sea, in the sand.

The feet do wander

past old and new things,

past gardens and trucks,

yet always they bring,

us to each other

at birth of the spring.

Oh I will miss

the sound of your feet

by the gardens and pools

or out in the street.

And when your feet pass

to be heard no more,

yet will I sit

and wait by the door,

till the trumpets do sound

and we walk by the shore.

To A July Child

Hey little Cancer

with the bowl

on your head.

Your blue eyes

are open

and need still

to be fed.

Now a bath and a bottle,

maybe a tear or two.

goodnight and a kiss

God’s love with you.

Now Mommy look

his little blonde curl

so fast asleep

Come, let’s make a girl.

The Victorian

At the window

I ordered

a chocolate shake.

He said, "There

you are young man."

If only I was,

a young man.

I wish I were…

But, only, with all

my current life.

Though then, I would

be a victim of

precocious puberty.

I wish I could be at the play

of youth, not old

alone, adult,

numbed with vermouth,

be a victim

of presbecusis,

precocious senility.

I wish it were a

youngman, me,

ordering the shake;

But, only me, my

closeness to mortality,

feeling the nearness

of all eternity,

a victim of

life’s uncertainty.

Memories

Tis strange how things

run around the head,

Even just sitting

or lying in bed.

Things that were buried

from long ago.

like soft gentle rains

or beautiful, deep snow.

There are many things

that quicken the mind;

A color, a touch, or a

scent of some kind.

Thoughts of a moment

just passing through,

things from the past,

delicious and new.

Memories of little things

like walks or a kiss,

like ballgames and Christmas,

or concerts of Liszt.

Just tiny things

brought out of time,

sweet little moments,

I am glad to have mine.

Reflections of Anytime in My Maturity

A direct poem of which I will make rhyme…

So one may understand no matter what the realm of time,

all men are vegetables absorbing knowledge in their class,

so the future will not go up in smoke,

only one single blast.

I have studied Archimedes and discovered knowledge is not power.

On the grave I can only see one withered flower.

I have studied history and discovered the lack of evidence in the Christ.

Thirty-three years but what is my life.

But, I have studied myself and found I am a unique person,

on the fact of this earth;

For if I change – History may have a new re-birth.

The Bank

What a fool I’d be,

crying with banks about mortgages.

Interest only loans you see,

and I sound like a broken CD.

No matter they got the money,

and I on the verge of the street.

A reformed drinker is me,

yet I want for the addiction of money,

from the banks you see.

So if ever you’re tempted

from a bank you see,

to borrow money,

do it so carefully.

For otherwise

your wallet will be emptied.

The banks contract,

you soon will be pre-empted,

with money or a fee,

and parted from plenty,

a poor fool you’ll be.

Council on the Bluffs

Only yesterday, we walked

across the waters.

Looking for simplicity and truth.

Playing with the ripples

as they soothed

our sore feet.

We found each other

out there upon the waves.

Searching for comfort and love.

Holding each others’ hand

as we slipped beneath…

The waves.

A hard beginning we’ve had,

getting dashed on the coral,

and bleeding on the sand.

Picking each other up,

knocking each other down.

We’ve now walked for some time together,

learning of love and responsibility,

asking for knowledge…

Holding council on the

sunlit bluffs,

Together we’ll stroll,

along the sand,

on the way to self and understanding.

No more to hold,

council on the bluffs…

But to walk again, on the waters,

Hand in hand.

Just God

Oh my children

what do you fear?

That God exists

and is very near?

Or perhaps your fright

is that there is

a wrong and a right.

You see not these,

nor the universal questions,

or life ending

being very near.

Much more to the life

than selections of earth and thesis,

like finding yourself

and all the missing pieces,

not for fun, but for peace.

On the Destruction of New York City

It’s over, thank God?

Twas a horror, though now gone by,

the earth quaked and rolled.

The heavens spoke, bells tolled.

The rivers rose to purify,

the hearts that froze.

On the same quest failing the test,

pigeons floating dead in the nest.

While ship-bows stare at the sky,

gulls fly over wondering why;

and tall buildings wade in waters,

fish among their bricks and mortar.

Unfit domains for unholy shrimp,

or the costly pimp.

From the east rolls the sea,

to feast on those who could not flee.

To wash away the decadence

and give the earth a new fragrance.

And nothing lost, little cost,

unhurriedly now the dews may frost.

It’s over and no death, for

there was no