You can find his website at (http://hometown.aol.co.uk/rogertab/myhomepage/poetry.html)

Poem No 63

THE QUILT MAKERS' SONG
 
Life! Let me not hunger
for all I cannot be, but
suffer me a passion for
what’s gone before;
Let me build cathedrals,
flare them high, dedicated
to my better selves
so they may rest easy
in a shade, against crosses
made by matchstick men,
losses we shall count again
when the time comes
to account for more
than dreams. Life, not
all it seems

Love! Let me not beg
at the roadside, but
give freely and let’s
paint pictures to last
centuries, windows
stained with all the colours
of our love-making;
Let those who come after us
be together in their turn
and lift an eye for knowing
this; and we shall share
each kiss again, again
again – we matchstick
men. Love, not
all our pain

Death! Let me not weep
for those I have loved;
Let there be candles lit
in each airy cathedral,
saintly with sunshine,
ringing out with rain, our
seasons come again!
Smiles of joy among the tears
to mark this, the salvation
of our fears, a passing
through chance memories,
celebration of our years;
Butterfly wings across
a garden. Dead, and
who’s forgiven?                                                                
        


Copyright R. N. TABER  
(first published, 1996;2000)  

Note: This poem was inspired by the AIDS quilt and by those involved in
making it.   A slightly different version has appeared in several U.K. poetry
anthologies and other poetry; it also appears on two other on-line sites.     

THE POET’S SONG    

I am a Painter of Dreams,
my brush, a pen – words
all the paint available, tackling
the unassailable to bring within reach
of unquiet heart, restless soul,
images of life and love,
vision of a goal beyond perimeters
of  time, space - humanity’s crude
conception of grace

I am a Painter of Dreams,
bringing you mine, intruding
on yours, winging heaven’s elusive
towers that flicker in a mist
of aspiration, inviting inspiration,
daring us to home in, defy
the rude mentality of a classroom
morality- humanity’s crude
conception of spirituality

Look, see, hear, taste, touch, smell.
I am a Painter of Dreams, who
means well but often offends
who dare suggest I speak for all
that seek gold where the rainbow ends;
For, like Pandora’s Box, our secrets
once let fly - each to their own;
Painter, dreamer, shades of light
or ships in a cruel night  

Senses, falling apart at the seams
for a Painter of Dreams   

Copyright R.N. TABER  

Note: This poem  appears in the  Poetry Now Book of Kennings published  May  2001. It can also be viewed on two other on-line sites.  
        

Poem No 65

DOGGEREL

She's cute and sassy

Her name is Jassy

She doesn't come from Dunham Massie

Or even Tallahassee

She's a Lancashire lassie

From Leigh Dog's Home

(not worthy of a poem)

The Bitch