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Original Poems by Sky Taylor

The Dust, a poem by Sky Taylor

Illuminating from the dust of the desert storm, A rider so lean, he was skeletal in form.
A tall, white hat rested on the scarred skull, A star on his chest, anchored above the empty hull.
Chaps clung to bones outlining once-lean hips, A rolled cigarette dangled from once-parched lips.

Seeking justice, leading his dark horse to the west, Over flat barren earth, then over the crest.
To the north searching for flesh, the buzzards soared, But the rider feared not, a skeleton to the core.
To the south, a duel was sought by the sidewinder, But the rider ignored, determined to find her.

To the east, the ghost town shimmered through the dust, A cave of rotting wood, and iron turned to rust.
The building he sought bled clearly into sight, As the rider thought back to that once-forgotten night.
When a friend of a friend took the life of his lady fair, Jealously put a bullet to her chest, part of the dare.

But his fair lady, he did not seek. For she lay with him within the deep.
It was the friend of a friend the rider sought, To avenge two deaths that had been for naught.
The crowd in the saloon dispersed in a blink, As the friend's friend downed his last drink.

In a blink of an eye, the rider secured his prey, Stowed him on his horse to ride back that day.
The keys to hell, the rider held tight in his hand, And would send the friend's friend to no-man's land.
You can successfully cross most anyone in a bar, But beware of a dead man who wears the star.
For he will rise up out of the dust of hell, And lock you away in his eternal jail.

Searching for the Perfect Church - A Christian Poem

Searching for the perfect church, I drove thru town and around, To seek and find a pristine church of perfect sight and sound.
My journey's been quite difficult you see, as well as oh-so long, For I'll not settle for second best, for that would be quite wrong.
The brand new church outside the city, embedded in the dust, Was filled with nothing but sinners, for my money they did lust.
Around the corner of my manor, to the church on Sunday I did veer, But soon my happiness turned sour when they asked for volunteers.

Last month I stumbled onto a stunning church close to what I sought, But the congregation of old bachelors labeled that idea for naught.
The little church nestled inside the woods, was just a bit too quaint, Too small, too old and too confined for me, God's beloved saint.
Then I found the massive church that sits upon the hill, Quite nice inside with cushioned pews that gave my soul a thrill.
But as quickly as I settled in, I abruptly had to take leave, For a bawling child behind me, made my stomach heave.

I'll forego the church that resides in a meadow, for it is but a hull, And the minister and his followers were nothing short of dull.
The church within the big city, though nice was smaller than a mouse, How can something so small in magnitude, be called God's house?
The church I visited last Sunday morning, when the sun was bright, As it bled through stained glass windows, playing with the light;
Although I enjoyed the light effect - so lovely, but all was not perfect, For soon I determined the minister was lacking sufficient intellect.

So the following Sunday, I woke up early and drove a little bit further, To my childhood church that I had attended with my dear sweet mother.
But it had changed from gold to glitter, the carpet stained and old, The same minister, the same sermon, the same sheep in the fold.
The experience left me shaking, for I did not want to think of age, For age is ugly and for me, an updated church is all the rage.
So wiser now, I hit the road in search of that church divine, I never thought that finding such would take so much time.

Just where, oh where can I find that perfect church of mine, Which mirrors my educated taste, and is equally divine?
For now I've visited every church listed in the phone book, And I've been quite patient, due to all the time this took.
Where are my stained glass windows, the pews of solid wood, The silver communion cups, a congregation that I find good?
And where is my minister that supports a sliver tongue I ask, For searching appears quite useless, and I'm tired of this task.

So I sit in my plush car, behind my wheel all nestled into the leather, I'll not give up until I find the church, of my important rathers.
For I'll set out early come Sunday morning, my spirit resolute and pure, To seek and find my perfect church, I'll find it one day - of that I'm sure.

The Northdown Witch, a poem by Sky Taylor

Legend has it that trouble was doubled by the Northdown Witch; To find her, travel thru the wooded vale, hemmed by a ditch

But be prepared, for as one clawed hand stirs the black caldron; The other hovers over a book of spells, not penned by the sun

For it contains pages of darkness, secret incantations of evil; Men to toads, children to mice, mankind ripped of human will

Harnessed by a rolled curse from sacrilegious lips, a wicked tongue; So tread carefully as you near the lair of the evil, wicked one

Enter quietly thru the back, along a winding mossy trail; Gripping a leather-covered hand tightly to the rusty rail

Where it ends, you'll find the secret passageway; Tucked into a hill, to block the light of day

Stealthily move forward, past the glowing eyes of owl; On past the transparent herb-filled jars, musty and foul

Till finally you reach the heart of the heartless one; Who stands brewing a curse over the black caldron

Do not hesitate, do not fumble, do not pause, do not wait; Lest your head becomes a knob on the witch's garden gate.

The Halloween Witch, a poem by Sky Taylor

Pointy nails clamped tight 'round a caldron spoon, Broomstick longs for a ride against the Harvest moon.

The late October air is cool, night sky pitch black, Costumed children skirmishing below, hands on sack.

'Trick or Treat' rings through the Halls of the Night, For Halloween means thrills, delight and frivolous fright.

Witch pauses her broomstick and slows her ride, A slow, sly smile stitching across her wrinkled hide.

The children gaze up as the wicked laugh escapes, Rooted to the spot, with little mouths agape.

Watching in wonder, witch jets from the scene, Creating an unforgettable, magical Halloween.

So if you're about on October thirty-first, Keep eyes peeled for a sudden burst,

For the witch she flies against the Harvest moon.

Where Did You Go When You Closed Your Eyes?

Where did you go when you closed your eyes, Sweet little baby, rock-a-bye;
Drifting off to dreamland, chasing the stars, Riding on a horse galloping afar,
Playing guitar and singin' a song, Mama & Daddy won't you come along, tonight.

Where did you go when you closed your eyes, when you softly delivered a contended sigh;
Did you go to dreamland past the Milky Way, Bathing in the sunlight of a summer day;
Did you pause to think of what you left behind, Were there visions of memories in your mind,
Where did you go when you closed your eyes, tonight.

Twenty years later he was drivin' a truck, Heavy on the medal & pressing his luck,
The girl of his dreams came driftin' along, Leaving Mama & Daddy lost in his song,
A beautiful wedding & a flower girl, Then off with his love on a fairytale, tonight.

Some say Time is a healer & dealer of age, Turning through life page by page;
Filled with memories,a precious goldmine, A few regrets as well as good times;
A hard day's work & calloused hands, Ends with a visit from the Sandman, tonight.

Mama & Daddy been gone a long time, he sure hopes that they're doing fine;
He's encroached with visions of a better place, A big step up from this old rat race;
But until that time he'll sit right here, His woman in his arms - please hold me dear, tonight.

One last storm by Life's old gristmill, As he slowly conquers that final hill;
As he lays there drawing in his last breath, His love beside him - love stood the test;
A smile on his lips as he closes his eyes, His sweet love asking why oh why, tonight.

Poem by Sky Taylor in memory of my sweet father, Carroll Taylor

The Journey, a poem by Sky Taylor

He was on a journey that entailed great strength,
As he wandered, searching o'er the length
Of the Great Divide - so vast, so wide.
Envisioning clouds hovering over the dust -
Of the earth from which he'd been thrust.
One last breath, a look sublime,
For the Angel of Death had announced his time....

The Photographer's Quest

a poem by Sky Taylor

Took a photo of a bird in flight, but it appeared to be all blurry, Then again the one with wings had been in quite a hurry.

Couldn't be me - I contemplated, eyeing up the settings, A pro am I there is no doubt - from nature shots to weddings.

Aperture, shutter, manual and that trusty Dummy Mode, Yes indeed - I've mastered them all, the entire mother load.

Next I took a photo of a hawk, but somehow it proved quite dark, As did the three geese, the bright sun overhead and the meadowlark.

I fumbled with my numbers, bumped up the old F-stop, And then I clicked until I'd shot a totally different crop.

But now the photos are too light, compliments of the sun, This imperfect lighting is ruining my photographic fun.

Cranking up the ISO I aimed and shot again, A barn, an owl, a goat - and then a few pans.

An hour later my computer held the shots from the day, I gasped out loud in shock, my nerves in a horrible fray,

For not a single shot was sharp, or nice - or even good. Then in a twinkling, it was that I suddenly understood....

This goof was not my goof in any way I can declare, Blame it on the camera, for that is only fair....

The Texas Photographer

a poem by Sky Taylor

August sunrise, camera by his side, Finger on the trigger & ready to ride,

To photographic adventure, blazing shots - Of streams, of Texas plains & what-not's.

Four hours pass, he's drenched in sweat, As he straddles a fallen log to take a sit,

To ponder his current state, more misery than joy, The heavy bag, the pack of gnats, the things that annoy.

The streams had vanished - dried up into ruts, The towering hills had shriveled, the trees all cut.

The plains lay empty, not even one rattlesnake, No critters sitting out for a long sun bake.

Texas. Hell in summer, no winter at all, Cedar breaks, grasslands - color void in fall.

Spring wildflowers could be quite nice, But rain was iffy, like the toss of a dice.

Wyoming had bears and Yellowstone Park, Skies black as night when it got dark.

Virginia had mountains, Colorado clear streams; Those were the states of a photographer's dreams.

Yep, he was stuck in Texas with an anxious trigger finger, To realize such was a real humdinger

Decided the Texas photographer, rising to stand, The rush of leaves? Nope, just sand....

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