Poems by Jeff Taylor

Photo—Kim Mosley

The Season of Convalescence

In my great grandmother's time,
people went to the continent
to take the waters
after sickness, or accident, or
a setback, a bad turn of fortune.

Others would make their bed,
bring a pitcher of water,
cook a little something
light and nutritious,
poached fish in white wine sauce,
some herbs and greens,
a side of boiled potatoes.

They would write: memoirs, letters,
take a walk in the garden, rest
or nap before dinner, have
a slipper of sherry
in the parlor
before retiring.

The Season of Cancer

In between
the time to be born
and the time to die comes
the season of cancer
hard up against the one or the other
for cancer is always
a time to live or a time to die.

And at the turn of the season
comes the hardest past
the time of waiting
with no changing of season
to look forward to, for
it is always out of sight
until passed.

It is hard.

It is easier
to live with pain
than face uncertainty.


After the whirlwind's passed
and the emergency responders
responded and gone home

After the neighborhood’s
pulled together and pulled through,
the calm descends.

There's time to look back and say,
“Damn, that was close.
We almost didn't make it.
I didn't understand why
the experts were
in such a hurry, I mean
it wasn't like we were
in any danger, were we?”