WHAT TO WEAR TO A SOUTHERN WEDDING

Poetry can be fun.  I wrote this when I was living high as Mother of the Bride.  One of the best times in our lives, full of love and joy.

I would not suggest black lace –

always out of place.

Considering the clime

this is not the time to favor a frock of cut velvet –

you would just melt in it!

If this rain keeps up for twenty-one days

raincoats may be all the rage –

with matching canoes in pastel hues.

Silk never failles but linen does wrinkle.

Why not a jersey knit in a floral print

or back to the 80’s for a lady-like chintz?

Of course,

you must not wear white.

White is reserved for the bride

even if her dress is growing tight.

My Georgia RaeNell has always been a size four-

nothing less and nothing more!

Your options are endless.

The responsibility stupendous!

But since I already have my dress

I am beyond this couture stress.

At this point I’m just along for the ride.

Hugs and kisses,

The Mother of the Bride

Amy Holt Taylor 5-2009

HOW THE MIGHTY

The saddest sight I have ever seen

because of one word -

no.

The seed of hate

sealed the fate

many decades ago.

I won’t reveal the town’s name.

Actually, many places

have suffered the same,

of their own choosing,

in trying to shut others out

based on race and religion.

A river town

bustling with commerce.

Brick stores and spacious apartments.

Proud city, too proud.

The shiny storefront windows

were used for looking out,

keeping “them” from walking in.

The town looked successful.

A large library

and corners built up with churches.

Did the people go to hear the Word preached

or were their hearts beyond reach?

Was Sunday just a day to pass

their manners around,

among their stalwart like and kind?

They built the town –

monuments to business acumen

and to men.

They bled the town,

one drop at a time

as those who were kept out

 left.

A dying town

 bound together

by the growing measure

of verdant vines

dressed in false buds and trailing tendrils.

Buildings once standing tall,

standing now like ghostly corpses

looking for lost parts,

hope and promise long deceased.

Where does hate start?

I have seen the saddest sight-

a town that hate devoured.

Was there not just one who knew what was right?

Amy Holt Taylor September 2, 2011

POETRY - YEA!

As a trained English Major in fairly good standing with the National English Major Society created by Garrison Keillor, I consider it an honor and a necessity to share Poetry Month with anyone who will listen.  I hear your sighs and see rolling of eyes. I began writing poetry when I was twelve.  I am working on a book in progress, breathing poetry.  I wanted to put all my poems in a notebook so I could see them and have easy access.  I memorized my first poem in grade school, The Swing by Robert Louis Stevenson.   

I will catch a phrase in my head.  Walk into a grocery store.  Drive by the Daffodil Lady.  Think on a few lines.  Then find paper and pencil.  I often remember where I was when the idea was birthed. Sometimes I just sit down and start writing. The words and rhymes just happen.  And some of them take my breath away.

I am not perfect or published or the Nation's Poet Laureate.  I have read thousands of lines of poetry. I can walk into Robert Frost's home in Franconia, New Hampshire.  Go up the stairs to his simple room and stand at his desk, looking out the window at his view of the White Mountains and wonder.  What was on his other road?

Whatever my talent, I believe it is a gift.  God has wired my brain a certain way.  He is the creator. My talent is just sitting down to write.   And then He lets me breathe. 

CANTRELL AND KAVANAUGH

Daffodil lady.

A handful, just a few

early season blooms

of yellow and green.

She stands on the corner

trying to catch the eye

of the person driving by.

She steps closer.

Look at me.

Don't you see

what I have to offer?

Flowers for just a dollar or two,

a way to brighten your day.

Dollars to pay my way

back home,

money to buy some food.

Daffodil lady

where do you belong?

With your bucket bouquet

have you paid your way?

Are all the flowers gone?

Amy Holt Taylor