By Romy Taylor

20260728

Is there a poem in my pen tonight?

A rhyme that is ready, a verse that is ripe?

Is my pen feeling chatty, witty, or wise,

Is it pithy, sassy, deep, or quiet?

Is there something you wish to say, dear pen?

Please let me know how you’d like to begin,

I am your servant, your scribe, your receiver,

You, my pen, don’t need a believer,

A willing woman will do just fine,

The pen begins moving,

Behold! A first line,

The spigot is on now, the words start to flow,

The poet is here, good-bye, I must go.

Is God a poet or is God the pen?

Is God the movement or is God the wind?

Is God the rainbow or the slant of light?

And we with our eyes angled up just right.

Some say God is me and you,

Could God be all, including us, too?

And if God is all, in all, and such,

Could God be everything or is that too much?

We’ve been told through the ages that God is the Father,

But I’ve seen with my eyes God is the Mother,

And a puppy, and a flower, and a flame, and an ocean,

God is stillness, is power, is mystery, is motion.

God simply “Is” and this is our call,

To be ok with God in all,

Let God be the poet, let God be the pen,

Let God be the rainbow and the shadow within,

And next time you notice something large or small,

The Poet is there, writing it all.

Now’s not the time for an artist to tremble,
To be self-conscious or to think their work simple.

Today's not the day to say you're too tired,
To write the song that lights hearts on fire.

There isn't a minute, sixty seconds of time,
For the poet to wait for an ecstatic rhyme.

And, we certainly can't spare the fine painter a day,
To ponder and wonder and do colorplay.

The sculptor, my goodness, we need their expression,
To look at ourselves in cast bronzed impression.

Artists and writers and cynics and teachers,
Now isn't the time to be silent creatures.

The world is ablaze, there's death and wrong dealing,
You are the ones who tune into feelings,
When everyone else is lost in their minds,
Creators are busy healing the blind,
Pointing the way towards the path full of light,
While empowered madmen act out in plain sight.

This isn't the time for your work to be stalled,
We need you creating and you're being called,
To tap into your pool of calm,
To write or sing us through the storm,
To remind us of our kindness,
To shine away our blindness,
Put these days behind us,
Give us poems that remind us,
We are children of the Highest,

So get to work, get righteous,
Own it, don't be silent,
Warriors of defiance,
Taking on the giants,
Laughing at their shoes.

We are talkers, tellers, singers, yellers,
Painters, poets, storytellers,
Comedians, cynics, satarists,
Writers, cosmic fairy dust,
Highway men and wanderlusts,
Creators, everyone of us.

Now isn't the time to tremble or hide.
The world is blown open, and you must oblige.

A hand, a say,

In the direction it will blow today?

Watch the wind lead and follow,

Reach the deep, stir the shallow,

Shove so hard it moves the marrow

In our bones.

Hear the wind howl and whistle,

It speaks; do you listen?

Is it angry or indifferent,

Playful or belligerent,

Is it cosmic or insignificant?

My God! What say, this wind!

To whom does the wind belong,

Or does it act alone?

Do I see myself in the wind somehow?

Is it rage or is it wanderlust,

A reminder that I always must,

Move along and shift around.

Does the wind follow any rules?

In like a lion, out like a lamb,

Here today and gone tomorrow,

Or is it more mysterious,

Am I the only one who’s curious?

Who knows, honestly, who knows,

If the wind plans or if the wind just blows?

Poem by Romy Taylor

Why so many children are sacrificed, I will never comprehend,

Why the meek lambs of us are groomed and forced to bend,

Bend and spread and open wide, then dressed and shipped,

Fully equipped, 15, and already stripped,

Of their decency, of their say, and their will.

Stripped to the bone and bent for the thrill,

Of an evil freak on a Saturday night,

Who runs his empire in the broad daylight.

But, at night on an island or a corner booth,

He rapes girls, chains boys,

And it’s filmed for proof.

His depravity that was his super power,

Will be the gravity at a certain hour,

His towers will tumble and his back will break,

His tongue will hang forked like the Genesis snake.

His punishment will be in-kind to receive only what he freely gave,

To the lambs of us in the torture cave.

“The Ultimate Freedom”

By Romy Taylor

Some of us are good at asking,

We love the riddles and savor the reasons,

Engaging the world with open eyes,

Considering the how’s and questioning the why’s.

Some of us are storytellers.

With listeners gathered ‘round,

We weave together then pull apart,

We charm your ears and hold your heart.

We are the tellers and telling’s our art.

Some of us are experiencers,

Living deep in our very own story,

Being the plot, remembering not,

We are spirit, not of this, but in it,

Human beings for only a minute,

Some of us live an ironic tale,

Where the child’s the bravest of all,

It’s a hero’s journey in the truest sense,

His story is one that was never meant

To explain the whole, it was only a glimpse.

It’s not your story, you were only a witness,

A separate light that was allowed to see darkness,

Shine your own way, child, just a little bit smarter,

Because you saw dark, doesn’t make you darker.

And those in the dark, or so it would seem,

Have the ultimate freedom, to live the dream.

Without repercussions, pushing the border,

Acting self-righteous while sewing disorder.

We fret over their unfettered ways,

As if there’s no end to injustice these days.

Some of us are wise and old,

We know the silliness of the bold,

Who buy and own, who rape and steal,

Who enter a room forcing others to kneel.

But the wise and old have seen this before,

Old as time, familiar lore,

Round and round it’s always the same,

Some in power while others in chain.

So what really is the Ultimate Freedom,

if freedom is still our aim,

Some of us ask, some of us tell,

Some of us lost in our own private hell.

The Ultimate Freedom is to do the reverse,

To counter the thing that’s running its course,

To sit on the opposite side of the table,

To buck the system, reject the label.

Freedom doesn’t have to dig in or oppose,

It’s God-given, God blessed, everyone knows,

Claim it now and make your choice,

That’s the Ultimate Freedom to choose, not force.

“For the Love of Words”

by Romy Taylor

There are certain words I often read, but very seldom use,

Bucolic, erstwhile, vagabond,

Just to name a few.

To and fro and back and forth weave a rhythmic spell,

While malodorous, redolence, fetor and stink tell you how things smell,

Resonate and reverberate are words to do with sound,

While calamity and debacle name a thing not working out.

Diatribe’s a good old word, I had to look it up,

It’s a long, angry speech, a scolding,

When someone’s mad and smoldering,

I’d rather hear something less jolting,

Inflammable words unfolding.

Ubiquitous is fancy for commonplace,

Something you see everywhere,

While preternatural is unusual, not ordinary, rare.

Sort of like anomalous, you know, when something’s strange,

Like humility, rhubarb pie, or folks who embrace change.

Change is an easy word to say, but it’s quite arduous to do,

Some say it’s irksome and onerous to try to shift our view,

But change is growth for both of us,

Change helps not one, but two.

Change means someone is evolving, turning up their vibe,

They’re flying with possibility, not lost in diatribe,

And if we are intentional in ways beyond the norm,

The preternatural sense of that would show up in rare form.

Don’t get me started on quantum physics, although ubiquitous,

It’s in the alpha and omega of every one of us.

But I digress, as I often do when I play with rhyme and measure,

Into the bucolic world of words, my God! it’s such a pleasure.

Since when has our President ever ignored,

The other two branches and sewn such discord,

Not only here, but all over the world.

How will this ever come to an end,

As they bully, and lie, and only defend,

their position,

Just wishin’,

They could rule the whole world.

Power for them, but never for us,

Step on our neck, back of the bus,

Bully and rape, kill and exploit,

To them, we are all just another George Floyd.

Watch them kneel on our neck,

And shoot at our face,

Use up our daughters,

Kill off our faith.

They will decide who lives and who dies,

They will decide what we do with our life,

And, guess what,

They’ve decided:

We’ll pay their price.

Our good cannot touch them, they own it all,

Did you get invited to the President’s ball?

Those one percenters will dance on our grave,

We poor, pathetic American slaves.

That’s right, they own us, those favored few,

They will decide and they will do,

While we penniless middle devour each other,

The one percenters will watch and huddle.

Who will their next victim be?

Greenland? Grassland? Grandma? Groceries?

The women? The Libtards? How about the babies?

Now there’s an idea no President has tried,

Go after the babies far and wide.

Go after the least, the meek, the weak,

What’s fair game for bullies? The innocent sheep.

So stop being sheep, terrified, and trembling,

Step up, speak up, there’s no sense defending,

A party and President who’s gone off the rails,

Start speaking out, let love prevail.

You know the difference between right and insane,

Let’s save our country, let’s relight the flame,

Of justice, of courage, of love for each other.

Let no President promote hating another.

We are America, land of the free,

We must come together, we must all agree,

That no President shall ever be crowned like a king,

Unchecked, unaccountable,

Who can do anything.

A President is an employee, at best,

Serving, and listening, and leading the rest.

It’s We the People who are the real boss,

We bear the burden, we carry the cross,

So to speak, because here we can choose our religion,

Be it Thor, Jesus, Buddha, Mohammad

Come to the table, you all are wanted.

This land we love and choose to thrive in,

Not a few, not a group, but every man,

every woman, every child who’s here in the flesh,

This land is for you, this democracy blessed.

“What’s this about?”, I ask then I hear,

It’s a holy time, don’t worry or fear,

It’s ironically called opportunity,

The only true way to learn humility.

So, step lightly through these stressful times,

Nothing is wasted, it’s all divine.

Love your neighbor, your enemy, and your God,

Everything’s as it should be, nothing is flawed.

At the risk of good manners, this record in rhyme is a cry

For the ages, as old as time,

May we all come around to see good in others,

May we all once again, be sisters and brothers.

I must forget the places I’ve been, and the people and problems must all melt away,

I turn to wave so the spirit can play.

It dances with words that make no sense, a giggle, a wiggle, there’s no past-tense,

Everything Is,

I AM,

And This,

To write nonsense I must not exist, but I do,

I am here

I can see my pen moving,

Scratching and flowing and looping again, I disappear, the poet comes in.

I go away so the poem can win.

But, this is all too tidy for me,

I like the ridiculous, the more so the better, with nothing to work for, the words simply flow,

And this makes all the sense in the world, for the mother, the writer, the thinker to leave, so spirit takes over and I can receive.