The Poet SPIEL

The Poet SPIEL Poems

naked arms

they may be hungry
but they are not cold

afterwards —
you learn to touch the knob
with your eyes closed
so you may believe it cannot hurt you

looking at the floor —

— late eyes,

drawing wheat

in his dirt

I might've told him

Mark Saunders and ten others
made the Honor Roll

On this side of town

As this hombre roasts on the hiway,

interpretive solo

this red-faced man
stoops his shoulders

judicious interrogation

why eat chicken
but refuse the meat



In this rare moment of clarity
Gerald says

build a wall

build a two car garage
one for your b-mer

The Home

Each time old Homer has visited his Eleanor,


breathing someplace
no one has mapped

in my country
what gets better
just keeps getting
better and better


Andy, letting me touch his leg so I'm failing to concentrate
on conjugating verbs in our Spanish class.

I can't help it,

angry meat

you, dear friend, caught the brunt
of a spanked message,

Arthur Won't Be Coming Home This Year

Elsie's meringue weeps more than she'd like. She hasn't lost her touch for turning it the perfect golden nor stacking it a proud four inches deep. She hopes one of her grandkids will drop by for a slice of her lemon pie on the way home from school. Rolly is her favorite — he takes the time to admire her rare collection of black glass knick-knacks. She has so little left to her name. Her kids sold off the farm and most of her possessions to pay bills when Arthur passed — then moved her into this tiny shoebox house.



keep a hungry dog

the baptism
"The Baptism of Christ" ca.1684, by Luca Giordano

one wonders what so predictably clings

like it's a sacrifice
they heat you
one small soup—

alas our senses dumbed
our throats dammed

this hideous place

The Poet SPIEL Biography

Internationally published American artist/author Tom Taylor / The Poet SPIEL savors the past, dares the future, swallows the present; steady hand, open heart, countercultural, passionate, sardonic, sometimes absurd. Born 1941. USA., as a child, the artist's temperament was already edgy and precocious. For survival in the farm world he'd fallen heir to, making art allowed him to discover that he could freely create his personal child-view of a complicated world where everyone was bigger and smarter than he. Amidst his 9th decade on earth, coping with losses associated with dementia, art is the friend which has withstood the petty and the foolish, the graceful, the garish, and the grand of a diverse career in the arts. He could make a dark poem or a sunny picture, a sad picture, or a pretend picture. He could define the me of that moment—happily wishful, pissed off, and lonely, hungry for something he did not know. Making any kind of art, as work, as play, as sustenance and medication, has rescued him from drowning in the chaos of his troubled and hungry mind. destined to express the manic-depressive disorder he'd inherited from his mother's blood. A family curse, indeed; but one with coping tools he's acquired through introspection and talk therapy so he is able to work it through by painting or writing its discomfort to more easily recognize it, then, better cope with its horrors. It's taken him a lifelong pursuit to become reasonably competent at understanding why he is the way he is and how to accept his Self. The arts are his safe place.)

The Best Poem Of The Poet SPIEL

Naked Arms

naked arms

they may be hungry
but they are not cold

they learned first
not to be cold
not to wear a coat
because there was no coat

you see them at grunt work
on hiways on rooftops on farms you see
them pushing snow pushing manure
no coat like they are not cold
tho you are freezing everyone is freezing

the old ones survived
the border crossing
determined to tolerate
anything for a penny
just for this opportunity
they could not afford to be cold

their kids' kids' kids still crawl out
from beneath old truckbeds
or plywood lean-tos down at the tracks
to walk to school to learn english
with their faces scrubbed
but without coats with naked arms

you want to say:
are you hungry
are you cold
tho you know they are not cold

if you gave them your coat
they would not wear it
they do not wear coats

bulk beans or rice suffice

but they are not cold

_______by The Poet Spiel

The Poet SPIEL Comments

The Poet SPIEL Quotes

Tradition and the Truth are often mistaken one for the other. _____by The Poet SPIEL

TRUTH is common. Knowledge of the TRUTH is uncommon. Love of the TRUTH is rare. _____by The Poet SPIEL

A Truth half-told is a seedbed well laid for lies. _____by The Poet SPIEL

It is often wrongly implied that what the majority chooses surely must be the TRUTH. _____by The Poet SPIEL

Facts are negotiable. TRUTH is absolute. _____by The Poet SPIEL

Embrace a lie and the lie will consume you. Embrace the TRUTH and the TRUTH will replenish you. _____by The Poet SPIEL

Vision of the TRUTH is clouded by nostalgia. _____by The Poet SPIEL

TRUTH spoken to a deaf ear is still the TRUTH. _____by The Poet SPIEL

The TRUTH or fear of the TRUTH which is more frightening? _____by The Poet SPIEL

TRUTH hovers in the wings as you appear center stage. _____by The Poet SPIEL

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