Poetry from Chuck Taylor

Childhood, a Pantoum

Pat’s family on the outside could impress

They moved around seeking and finding less

Hidden, Pat’s dad, a mad alcoholic

Hidden, Pat’s mom, clinically depressed

They moved around seeking and finding less

Hidden, Pat’s sister was manic-depressive

Hidden, Pat’s mom, clinically depressed

Every day Pat dreamed of fleeing home

Hidden, Pat’s sister, manic-depressive

Pat played outside as much as Pat could

Every day Pat dreamed of fleeing home

The shy dad, a famous research doctor

Pat romped outside as often as Pat could

Two great pals Pat had in the neighborhood

Pat’s shy dad, a famous research doctor

Pat’s mom, a doctor who stayed at home

Two great pals Pat had in the neighborhood

Hidden, Pat’s dad, a mad alcoholic

Pat’s mother, a doctor who stayed at home

Two times Pat’s mother tried to kill herself

Hidden, Pat’s dad was a mad alcoholic

Pat’s mom did time on psychiatric wards

Pat’s mother, a doctor who stayed at home

Pat was too young to understand compassion

Pat’s mother did time on psychiatric wards

Pat ran on survival and did not learn love

Pat, too young to understand compassion

Pat’s family on the outside could impress

Binky Villanelle

No, you can’t compose a poem about a binky,

The voice of the rational brain insists.

Binkies aren’t serious enough, though tricky.

 A binky’s to calm a cranky baby

When the crying insists and persists.

No, you can’t compose a poem about a binky.

A binky is a baby’s sweet whiskey,

Fake tit of distress, that’s why it exists.

Binkies aren’t serious enough, though tricky,

In some cultures they’re considered kinky,

The way babies grip them in stiff fists.

No, you can’t compose a poem about a binky.

Stealing poor baby’s binky is frisky.

Some say taking that knob brings an abyss.

Binkies aren’t serious enough, though tricky.

What if down the kid’s pipe it goes twisty?

Baby starts to choke, you could slit your wrists.

No, you can’t compose a poem about a binky.

Binkies aren’t serious enough, though tricky.

Nostalgia Villanelle

In our homes, families must now cluster

Playing video games, watching TV,

Ignoring the talking heads’ shrill bluster.

Who recalls the joys of the newspaper

In these Covid pandemic times, whoopee?

In our homes, families must now cluster.

The paper used to offer such succor,

As you balanced its many sheets on a knee,

Ignoring the talking heads’ shrill bluster.

Columns, horoscopes, puzzles, remember?

It set your inner timer to be free.

In our homes, families must now cluster.

All those sections to read, what a caper!

All at your fingertips, such peaceful glee,

Ignoring the talking heads’ shrill bluster!

No talking head needed as instructor,

Your mind once on quiet print worked to see.

In our homes, families must now cluster,
Ignoring the talking heads’ shrill bluster.