The Taylor Sister Initiative

365: Day 7

2011-01-07T18:50:00.000-03:30

The snow has hit and hit hard. Though you can't necessarily tell this from this picture, it's freezing and just the beginning of a very stormy day.

356: Day 6

2011-01-06T18:45:00.008-03:30

This picture reminds me of when Sarah was little. She has that same inquizative look on her face. I also thought it was sweet as Chris is looking so adoringly at her. I do love to see a little love.

I had to also add this picture of cake as today is my mom's birthday. May everyday be celebrated as much as the day of your birth. Make a wish...

365: Day 5

2011-01-05T20:09:00.001-03:30

We spent the day at Luzzara so here is the fish that represents the lovely coffee shop and some close up knitting by Sarah. We're very rock and roll. And we love coffee.

365: Day 4

2011-01-04T03:31:00.001-03:30

My sister Sarah is fixing my video for me which is one of the reasons she's a great sister. She's also great just because she is her. It's a pleasure to be in the company of such awesomeness.

365: Day 3

2011-01-03T01:17:00.000-03:30

We found this safe while out shopping today. Made me think that you never know when you are going to find doors opening for you...old or new.

365: Day 2

2011-01-02T02:56:00.001-03:30

This is Chris - Sarah's most lovely boyfriend. Not only is he an award nominated blogger but he also is an amazing cook. Here he takes a few pics of the taco meal that he made for us (and took pics of as all good food bloggers do). You can read more about the food he eats and makes on www.eatingisthehardpart.com.

365: Day 1

2011-01-01T02:54:00.001-03:30

The joy of my family is that they will do anything for a laugh. Or just to amuse themselves if nothing else. This highly amused me as I stayed firmly on the couch for a lazy 1st January. I do love a bit of a laze - and who needs to do anything else when the entertainment comes to you!

FOUND POEM: A Sister's Advice

2009-10-25T22:07:00.001-02:30

from The Book of Answers by Carol Bolt

Do it early: Be more generous
A year from now it won't matter
Gentle persistance will pay off
Allow yourself to rest first
Startling events may occur as a result
That's out of your control
Listen more carefully; then you will know
Consider it an opportunity

When the earth sleeps

2009-10-18T07:38:00.001-02:30

Shorn fields are wrapped

like a bed-ready Grandma,

her head in curlers.

Photo by Kevin Dooley; Poetry by Heather Taylor

The End of Childhood

2009-04-30T06:23:00.001-02:30

They sparkled, gold rain through fingers,
chains snaking across our palms, settling
around chubby necks, rings swimming on
stunted digets as mum napped an afternoon
away. In the top drawer, a box rattled,
a delicate jingle, our excitement only forgotten
upon opening, a Pandora's box of milk white
baby teeth breaking tooth fairy beliefs in a moment.

Photo by h.koppdelaney; Poetry by Heather Taylor

Never turn your back

2009-04-29T06:05:00.002-02:30

When fighting zombies,
vampires, soul sucking creatures,
the blonde ones never listen
turn around to embrace frat boys,

or the professor, or to tie a shoe,
forgetting the simple horror rules
apply no matter how beautiful
or buxom you are. You are the

red-uniformed starfleet security,
the first to go, last to know,
like our final day together when you
told me her name, said I love you

for the last time.

Photo by ky_olsen; Poetry by Heather Taylor

Sestina: Moving West

2009-04-28T05:57:00.004-02:30

It's the first treasured find
that gives you over to love,
a fool that is made to make
that hasty transatlantic move
and create a new life, pierce
through the void however you can

like a "knock-em" 3 stacked can.
Gotta look, gotta see, gotta find
the feeling that finally pierces,
gives your heart over to love
yet you sit there, wait for his move
the one you wanted to make

and still wait to make
as he saunters to his tin can
of a car, signalling his move
the one you were afraid to find.
It's tricky, this thing called love
Tony, Brad, George, Phillip, Pearce

a carousel of names arrows pierce
or pass by, fluttering eyes make
love.
Should you? Can
you give into the find,
another knight to pawn move

that transports, moves
you westward, the sun piercing
eyes with blue, hotter than you'd find
any of the places you make
home. This is the story of can
of finding love

Will you do it my love
will you follow the move
of the motorway, can
you give me a piece of you to pierce,
give way to make
you my only find.

Our agendas met: Find love,
make move,
pierce souls as softly as you can.

Photo by PhillipC; Poetry by Heather Taylor

Coveting thy neighbours life

2009-04-27T07:38:00.001-02:30

Curved two seater in polished wood
A sprinkling of apple blossoms
on the path to double french doors,
your shoes and his pair each other.

I see your coffee maker - an italian
holiday souvineur, your blinds half
closed, inviting me to stare,
wishing I was the one you envied.

Photo by EraPhernalia Vintage; Poetry by Heather Taylor

Diner Date

2009-04-26T07:31:00.001-02:30

An hour passes to watched clocks
and a third coffee refill
before she stands bound for toilets

and her mom's Mercury in the parking lot.
She weaves through mid-morning diners,
bored waitresses, and sees he's there,

twitching with caffineine and impatience,
a wrong footed first date delayed
by his baseball cap and her nervous eyes,

them missing each others faces
and settling worlds away,
until now.

Photo by David Sifry; Poetry by Heather Taylor

St.Paddys

2009-04-25T21:54:00.001-02:30

A talisman for pinches,
we wore shades of emerald,
forest, grass and lime
as badges of a country
we imagined stuffed with
leperchauns and multicoloured
gold dust trails. As Santa
became imagined figments,
the seventeenth turned beer
green and streets filled
with curved hooks and regurgitated
pub lunches, guiness hats
bonding strangers who forgot
about the Troubles, the men
sat starving, the firing squad
leaving strings of snaked dead.

Photo by numb3r; Poetry by Heather Taylor

The End of Summer After His Second Marriage

2009-04-24T21:31:00.001-02:30

Barbie doll in hand,
they push her sobbing
into the front seat.

6 years of living
hadn't prepared her
for 5 hours encased in bus

an absent driver
side-glancing by request
at her and cross-armed

sister. They journey
west-ward, their mother
called after boarding

and a wave goodbye, too
late to follow promises
of a lincoln town

car ride home
by a father occupied by
brand new family games.

Photo by Space Ritual; Poetry by Heather Taylor

The Worst Way to End It

2009-04-23T12:57:00.002-02:30

4 months away from those 2 weeks
sheet wrapped together, I prearrange
seating arrangements in my head
until you are stuck across the room.

My eyes ping pong between the wall,
your vibrating foot, scrunched face,
and the skater shirt I've been flirting
with. I miss your eyes indefinately.

The love letters never came after
that, the overseas romance a
blocked name in my inbox.

Photo by Dyanna; Poetry by Heather Taylor

Routine

2009-04-22T10:40:00.001-02:30

Bill felt he was born for this. Eating lunch as he watched numbers scroll a board, sift through e-mails, organize filing cabinets. Each day itemized by activity. Carefully scheduled and planned. On Fridays, he'd wear his dress down tie and have obligatory post work drinks. The girls nodded at his nervous hellos before turning back to the slick sales boys from the third floor and Bill would sip his half with the other accountants from his division.

Days passed this way until he turned as grey as his sweater, and began to fade into his cubical walls. Lunch no longer interested him and he worked long into the night, home an untagible place. His keyboard began to give out, the keys no longer responding to his touch and the IT team never came. Unheard, he stayed glued to the number board, eyes flicking at the changing state and he'd guess the curve of the upward/downward fluctuation. At drinks, he sit in corners, watch the buzz of hormones. His hellos no longer nodable became a quick glance behind shoulders, a shiver as if graves were walked upon, a look straight through as if he was no longer there.
Photo by h.koppdelaney; Poetry by Heather Taylor

Treetop canopies

2009-04-21T13:54:00.001-02:30

Green struggles under
dark glasses sunblocking bare earth,
rain a distant dream.
Photo by Estel-uk; Poetry by Heather Taylor

Possible futures

2009-04-20T14:06:00.002-02:30

I dreamed of you: a pea under my pillow,
shoots curling round stubby fingers,
summer lake cottages with star blankets.

Breath whispers from bluebell carpets,
moss curls to pigtails, shoelaces hang
on overhead wires like brand new bows.

Tiny kicks ripple water, lap at sleep
edges the memory of unsung moments
your face yet unmade.

Photo by sleepyneko; Poetry by Heather Taylor

Stuffed

2009-04-19T23:48:00.002-02:30

You plug ears with cotton
nod in time to lip movements
and promise moonbeams to the sun.

Your kind trade player card lives
with mates in white suits
saying yes over and over

when you really mean no.

Photo by Cosmic Kitty; Poetry by Heather Taylor

Pilot Season

2009-04-18T14:36:00.001-02:30

Beside me, you dig your fingers
into the top of my hand
the skin edging white
a spreading pressure stain

"What's wrong?" the start of
chained events unsaid
as our eyes stay fixed
on flickering screens

overrated BBC programmes
elongating the night.
"Um. Uh. Um." You sputter,
an engine on it's last legs,

and I watch as your eyes
swell to tears, another ending
I wanted, the perfect finish
of our year long sitcom.

Photo by Aaron Escobar™; Poetry by Heather Taylor

All I Want is Elvis Presley's First Recording of "My Happiness/That's When Your Heartaches Begin" that He Made for his Mom

2009-04-17T15:02:00.001-02:30

Four dollars found in dug pockets,
the push of brooms, christmas cards,
crossed the counter a few days after
high school released him from it's grip.

He played the songs on repeat,
the ones he knew she loved,
in preperation for this day
and played them again

for a slanted mic, under-paid
technician audience. The years
ahead were barely a glint,
the only fan, his mum

and this record, his gift, the only
thing she wanted, the thing
that would drive collectors
to auctions & garage sales

a priceless thing, happiness and
heartache in it's grooves,
a love, a dedication, a simple time
before the madness began.

Photo by eek the cat; Poetry by Heather Taylor

Orange

2009-04-16T22:05:00.001-02:30

Gracing favorite hockey team jerseys,
Halloween cookies, morning juice drinks,
you're the poster boy of nutrition,
sports sites and spas.

We love/ hate you
our joy leaking from pores
as you magic tan your way
through Essex and back.

The out of favour flavour,
you stare blue and green-wards
dreaming of 70s polyesters
and retro wall patterns.

Photo by Malkav; Poetry by Heather Taylor

The First Night That She Died

2009-04-15T16:00:00.004-02:30

The first night that she died,
we wailed at the loss, tears turned
to hollers and yells and shouts
until her eyes opened and she demanded

her last supper : thick steak,
thicker gravy, grits and greens.
We let her suck on chipped ice,
stroked her hair and waited.

The second night that she died,
we sniffed at her passing, damp eyes
turned to moans, whimpers and sighs
until her lungs rose and she screamed

for last dinner rites : peachy-plummy
pies and giant meatballed spaghetti.
We gave her soup through a straw,
patted her head and went to bed.

The third night that she died,
we flipped through magazines,
heard the clock tick slow
until she sat up and whispered:

Dinner please. And so we mustered
up some sliced ham, mash and a crusty roll.
She ate it with relish, licked her
plate goodbye, and finally fell asleep.