Bonnie’s Day Off

On his way out the door Bonnie kisses Clyde goodbye and says in her quiet voice, y’know, that voice, “Hey Honey, pick up some money at the bank on your way home, will ya?”

OK, not poetry. But it is amusing and has a rhyme… honey/money, which reminds me… Please check out my donation/tip page on your way through.

Click here: /poetkevinjtaylor


Perched, a red-winged blackbird watching me,
its fencepost newly staked, bark on, topside down.

At arm’s length, rusted fence pliers bounce along a span of wire.
One. Two. Three. “Hemlock, see, twists over time—”
that’s Cunningham’s voice, “stretches the wire.
Set one post wrong-way-to and it’ll sag right there.”

Come a day I recall Seamus Heaney
and with newfound pride—my own name
and that red-winged blackbird there,
down Vernon River way.


Seamus Heaney wrote a fabulous poem titled St. Kevin and the Blackbird.

Here he is: Bob Cunningham, Feb 24, 2016

We are nameless

We are nameless, I-men, striving
far above the beggared notions
of apathies and death’s release.
We are shadeless, unencumbered
beings drawn from Prime Consideration.
Others, fallen, fail, false in trade,
offer i for I.
                  I, reaching
skyward, holding fast the honest
roots wherefrom he rises— i-man,
reaching down, splits the rhizomed root,
splicing fungused-i to feed upon
a stolen I-man grace. And struts.



a circle.
Draw a line,
through its middle,
in your mind. Within that
circle, on that line, draw yet
another circle there, just as the 1st;
you choose the size and where upon the line
it falls. And in the spaces left unclaimed, on either
side, if there is room, draw yet another circle there. And
others still until the line is full. This string of worlds, sized large
or small or mixed, is ready now. The secret of this Tao is
held within. The universe, the path you choose; the
distance ’round each world alone, when added
to the others, is equal to the measure of the
first. You drew the circle. Drew the
line. Drew the others. Chose
their size. The secret
of this Tao is held


I discovered many years ago that if you draw a circle and then, like a string of pearls, draw a series of circles enough to fill the diameter of the first circle that the sum of the circumferences of the lesser circles is equal to the circumference of the great circle no matter how many circles you draw and of any varied size. If you draw just 2 circles within and trace a line around them like a sine wave you get the basic on the yin-yang which, if you measure and sum the perimeter of each piece (yin-yang) the number once again is equal to the circumference of the circle containing them. A meditation on this bit of mathematics reveals more than one spiritual truth. At least it has for me.

Published in “Between Music and Dance” 2013 as “Tao”

Sometime Around Vespers

Sometime around vespers or matins, still dreaming or about to—
swimming spaceless beyond the stretch where vision is blindness
where photons tumble like Phaëthon from his chariot of fire

Where time beats that archetypal
echo of rhymed nothingness
pulsing through ALL verse


Except to those returning soul-side
grooving to the hush between the beats—
the authors of such co-labours as these


Vespers: evening prayers. Matins: morning prayers, morning birdsong. Phaëthon [fey-uh-thuhn, -thon] In Greek Mythology Phaëthon is the son of Helios, the sun deity. Phaëthon “borrowed” his father’s sun chariot god and drove it too close to the earth where Zeus killed him with a thunderbolt to save the world.

If (when)

If, for example, we die (and I’ve heard otherwise).
Not if but when, I’ve heard.
I would argue (suggest)
There is no truer when than now.
We live unless (until) we say we die.

And only then if I agree
And we agree
And others too
And once agreed
Must not be spoken of
(Which, all said, appears
To be the dyingness).

Living, living now, and thus—
If (when) we’ll agree amongst ourselves—


L’chaim! (pronounced luh-khah-yim) a Hebrew toast. Literally— To life!

Published in: “3201 e’s” 2018

Young Wm.

The point is, young Wm., you have no ticket
to the pantheon. Earned it? Yes. But in leaving
left the scrip behind; compare yourself
to erstwhile selves and having fallen thus
go now unbidden. Whilst you, young Wm., hailed
Lo! A fraud! A thief! or by some lower
hellish frame have learned that crueler hells
no doubt exist though like the pantheon
as hard to find. The point is, young Wm., you
have no ticket to the pantheon. Get on with it!


The Curious Cognition of Eddie and the Candlestick

Chess is philosophical in nature
And machine-like in action
And so, a philosophical machine:
A universe, a mind at play;
Each piece, mind-set.

The board itself is at least a piece—
A piece-supporting piece, you see.
Chessboards behave as minds behave.
Pieces behave as minds behave.
And ideas of mind exist—
Like the be’s and the what’s of the candlestick.

And this universe is a mind machine.
Agreed or disagreed—
A universe hangs upon a fabric of still,
Of mind manifest and lightness of will—
All presence sans preference
And essence sans weight.

When Eddie moves the candlestick,
Unlike moving a picture upon a wall,
Eddie moves the room with it
And never moves the still at all.