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Neen and Grampa, Love You Always

Neen and Grampa, Love You Always



Angel Robin

Angel Robin
MANY of these photos are courtesy of my SoulMate, my Beloved Eternal, Robin Taylor.

We Meet Again...

We Meet Again...







Cathy's Babies

Cathy's Babies

Thursday, September 14, 2017

Bourbon Kisses (Bloody Fire)

Bourbon Kisses, Bloody Fire (a prayer)

She floated in with Her Fury, clothed in blue-grey Clouds;
I'm swathed in calm;
She took my arm, for a dance
'midst highest azure Air - 
I felt no fear, no fear, no fear,
only honour: pure enchantment


upon a Night soft and still

Thy form elongates!
Frightened shadows scurry Home;
Home has flown, 
blurred with Her tears.
Home has flown
my Sisters, my Brothers, my lover!  
My Lover!
move away, run away!
Shelter us, please!
Shelter these sacred Lives 
We beg thee

dissipate, disappear!

all has flown -
where have you sent the angel - fish,
please tell us they've a new-born Home -
Where is Home?   
Where is Home?
Forgive us, please?
 spray your Joy anew 
whilst we repair our thoughtless ways

Lost in hazy fields,
I've seen your mournful smile;
prithee let us try 
may we learn the means by which
Thou shalt forgive our wasteful ways;
 thine weeping Trees wrench my Soul -
Oh! to feel thy gentle breeze anew,
beneath your gaze, 
your Heart
new Stars, please live
in MoonLit fields 
where your corn, your wheat 
weave once more,
  beneath your clear soft Skies

we need thy kindness in this Moment 
I believe in you -  
please believe in me, in us

but this Night
only smoke doth define thee...
  ice crackles 'pon the ailing roof
Her Truths become lost Songs unknown;

your Sisters sang your Songs last Night,
opened fog-full doors; 

you flowed in 
like bourbon kisses
tall dark flames

You awakened bloody Fire
long - denied, long denied - 
centuries long-denied -
 Burn your buried fire in bourbon.
James told us aeons ago, it seems 
Why were we deaf to his cries ?
Why did we wait in apathetic bliss
until your rushing bourbon screams -
blood flows upon your Creatures 

  "What have they done to the earth?
What have they done to our fair sister?
Ravaged and plundered and ripped her and bit her
Stuck her with knives in the side of the dawn
And tied her with fences and dragged her down .... " **
LightStorm, SnowStorm, Winter-in-the-eaves torment-
sorrow as the huge Sea throngs
gallons, huge Ship-fulls of rage;
She howls 

She howls !

as strangers
bring in cloudy arms, round shoulders clothed in blue-grey smoke

I pray to thee, my Sisters:  hold Her to your Hearts.

I love too deeply; 
my Heart breaks 
over sloping hills
 facing sickly fates -
these Storms, She sends -
We whisper Hopes and prayers,
drowned cries! hidden within rocking crevices;

Scream !
a Chorus need be heard, 
upon foggy, moody moors,
upon Windy angry flatlands, 
Her blood - drenched coasts, 
guards fall down
 to tumultuous Seas,
a sickened lullaby;
Good - bye, my loves,
Sleep deeply, angels,
be soothed by "Dreams of Sheep"****

please tell us how we must caress you -
Your servant am I; 

tell me how to move; 
we need thine Ancient Songs

o honour us, sweet mournful Soul
o honour me, these Lives, 
untold til Moments
come, forgive -
thy Mind aglow
upon thy Heart
I taste thy seeping Life -
tears blur mine eyes -
if you share
you honour me
you honour me
impossibly -
I sleep
I toss with star-drenched Seas;
Her tears doth fall 

**from "When the Music's Over," The Doors, 
featuring the Poetry and its deliverance
of James Douglas Morrison 

**** "And Dream of Sheep" Kate Bush 

Wednesday, September 13, 2017

ANGELICA (Arthur Phillips)

ANGELICA is Arthur Phillips' third masterful Novel.

Director, Mitchell Lichtenstein, has interpreted Arthur Phillips' Novel into a Film, which
opens NOVEMBER 17, 2017 !
Congratulations, Arthur !! *~*
      Do read Sir Phillips' Book ~~before~~ you see Mr. Lichtenstein's Film.
Arthur's Novel transports you to another genre - defiant,
literary smörgåsbord of a world.

(Each of Mr. Phillips' Books is a genre of his own Creation; every novel is a genre distinct to the other (thus far) four amazing novels.
ANGELICA is written in our 21st century's *~*Arthurian Genre*~* )

     Mr. Philllips' ANGELICA is a chilling concerto of a story (or several in one ?) set in Victorian England. Readers, the world over, including a few of my other Literary Loves,
(Stephen King is one) have fallen into the subtly horrifying world which *only* Arthur Phillips can create. You, the Reader, will find yourself on a haunting, psychologically chilling trip. Arthur's Writing is an ethereally
magical, menacing tour of the psyche Human and its capabilities, desires; what needling, mind-cycling trips our own sub-consciences play upon our unsuspecting lives.

      ANGELICA has been critically acclaimed, praised by the likes of Stephen King, Kirkus Reviews (a Starred Review) and Elizabeth Hand, of The Washington Post (Best Fiction of 2007 List), to name a tiny few.

      Kafka, Nabakov, Shakespeare, and countless other Immortal Word-Magicians, applaud Mr Phillips from beyond; they hold for him a golden seat (which he should not take before he enjoys the fruits of his Immortal Literary Creations for another hundred-plus years, at least!)
Please never stop writing, Mr. Phillips. You are Gifted, and you Gift us.
ANGELICA, by Athur Phillips

 Mitchell Lichtenstein's Film Adaptation of Athur Phillips' Novel, ANGELICA 

Friday, June 2, 2017

gods (Inspired by J. D. Landis)


                     (Inspired By J.D. Landis) 

(thoughts caught embracing):

Pantheism, as all Theories which imbue
Thoughtful Beings with     
Love and choice,
may paint a non- monotheist with
Protection, Love, and
Love and Hope
Love .... and Hope

         Eternity lives in the Ancients' palaces;
Their Stories echo;
their Voices robust,
as I am blown
      in soft circles
      through their tunnels;
      I tumble, I dream of the Ocean's dark waves
      as I am tossed.
I ought to be dizzy, as
I do not own my body's cycling waves,
yet fear has flown far from me, finally ....

             We have met before, my friend;
(I place my palm upon thy burnished ankh)

                                             I've prayed to Trees, to butterflies,
                                   to Mountains,  to tormented, Storm - shaken Seas;
                                         Myriad countries have been my temples
                                                    Meadows, Moons, Music,
                                                        moody bruised Skies;
                                      My Lover's eyes:  therein live my gods

Copyright CherylFaith Taylor, June 3, 2017

Note: The device upon which I currently type, with neither rhyme nor reason,
has mysteriously decided to embolden a phrase here or there sans my
permission. I shall fix these arbitrary features when my laptop and I are reunited.

Friday, April 28, 2017


Upon witnessing a Song Sung for Bowie

If I let rest my burgundy velvet eye curtains
all I hear is Bowie Love, respect,
as felt by millions upon billions of Beings, inhabitants of everywhere.

I wonder where he's off to,
candle - lit, rocket - fired,
starlette's beloved Jewel
a Human she permitted us to see
Where do our Souls live before or after,
or Simultaneously?

If incinerated, where might our (physical) temporary, endlessly recycling molecules go? Do they storm up into a cyclonic dance, then seamlessly stitch themselves together over a new Soul,
a sacred silent sewing ceremony,
performed in a silver palace,
secret, discreet
as undefined Air?

with love & special thanks to
my friend, Hawk Alfredson

Copyright CherylFaith Taylor 2017

Saturday, April 1, 2017

space .... ?

Words and Words and Dreams I sing for thee, love
my Words float, my face awash in mellifluous MoonDreams
where more than once, a nearby Star has caught my eye:
He glamoured me!
deep Space's tapestries feel surprisingly warm
Come .... Take my hand
Follow me: I promise thee a Show like no other

Young David Bowie gleamed; his Eyes glimmered;
(He glamoured!)
The Galaxy's grand and thunderous reply lit Universal Darkness -
Lesser Stars flickered

His Soul shone out through his extraordinary eyes;
He shot me a smile, straight into my own eyes !

His smile so enchanted me,
I felt my own smile
could never leave my face;
as your relationShip with
Your LifeTime
is more of Same to mine
than not -

these past several months have unsettled me -
I know they may have done the same for you.
If Life is a relationShip, a' movin' we go
We never end, we never truly die.

Thank you, Mr. Bowie.
I curtsy deeply before thee;
as tulle, lace, taffeta crunch
I crumble

With most gentle humble living eyes,
he says our cry's heard everywhere
each separate Home holds prayers for Peace
though mostly, I may pray to Trees,
My attempt's for naught -
I weep and weep
as his rapture caresses me
His smile has yet to leave my face
I have no fear -
I hold no fear.

David Bowie walked here in the 60's
or so he says, as Silence becomes quieter;
I watch him glide smoothly toward a different place - I realize it's hush - hush
I make myself move; I weep,

You hold my hand.
Thank you, my friend.

His gifted smile has never left
Thou art here and now, dear friend,
and I love thee, brother.
I love thee, sister.
I love thee, mi amor, for Rivers of Evers
My True Adventure Began with Thee

Copyright CherylFaith, one cold dia de marzo