A Collection of Poetry
By Juliana Taliaferro
Resignation
When I was five
I mastered whistling
bubble-gum blowing
and backward jumprope
all within the space of one week.
My dreams were lofty as church spires,
as grounded as tent stakes.
Academic honors were garnered by the handful,
then professional accolades took priority.
I was driven to succeed --
I had to be better (bitter)
I had to be the best (no rest)
I had to be perfect perfect
Perfectperfectperfect.
Suddenly, I think
I might be content
to be that crazy lady
with the purple hair
and a houseful
of costumed cats.
Juliana Taliaferro 2001
Copyright 2001
Remembering Jeff and Lauren
Luxuriating in the velvety
deep green of a new-mown lawn,
I lie flat on my back.
Fresh garden aromas
seep in my consciousness,
reminding me that once
I lay nestled between
two cherubic toddlers.
I pointed at the summer sky
where we watched a parade
of princesses, elephants
and friendly monsters float by.
As our imaginings
disintegrated into thin wisps,
two tiny hands grabbed each of my own
and pulled me up, grunting,
to indulge in a frenzy of frolics.
A bright yellow bat in grubby boy fists,
tiny girl squatting behind
in awkward catcher's stance.
And I, mighty pitcher,
hurled a holey plastic ball.
Smack! He returns it straight to my eye.
Who knew that this small one
could pack such a wallop?
While I nursed a shiner,
the tots started tumbling --
crab-like cartwheels
over the grassy sea.
Then I, graceful gymnast,
to teach them technique,
pointed my toes,
lifted hands over head
preparing for a masterful flight.
Milliseconds later,
The move executed
I was sitting square
On my derriere.
As dusk sneaked upon us,
sparkling fireflies appeared.
Tired eyes commenced blinking
as we watched fairy lights wink.
It didn't take long
for wee lashes to flutter,
protesting futilely
against sleep's strong pull.
And I, bruised and aching
in every muscle and bone,
sighed deeply and happily,
having been granted the privilege
of sharing their magic.
Juliana Taliaferro 05-13-01
Copyright 2001
Mary Ellen's Secret
Mary Ellen Jones always wears long sleeves,
even on a hot, sultry summer day.
To off-hand queries about her strange garb,
I suppose I am cold-natured, she'll say.
Mary Ellen resides in a stone house
all alone, save her elderly father:
A nice old man who smiles at the neighbors,
but for Mary, he just doesn't bother.
No person knows where Mary Ellen goes
after her father retires for the night.
Slinking into her room, she turns the lock.
Her teeth are chattering, her knuckles white.
Hidden inside a non-descript journal
her precious hoard of steel weaponry gleams
The razors hold an unspoken promise
of long-sought relief in violent dreams.
Slash on her forearm to quell father's
roar.
Slash when he thunders, she knows not what for.
Crimson rivers soothe, for this she controls
unlike Daddy's daggers, which gore her soul.
Juliana Taliaferro 05-05-2001
Copyright 2001
Ponce de Leon's Legacy
Knuckles
Gnarled and calloused
Scratch against the doorpost
In futile search for entrance to
Lost youth
Juliana Taliaferro 05-16-01
Copyright 2001
Swamp Psalms
Gray moss rosaries
reverently draped across
spindly Cypress limbs
raised high in supplication.
Silent intonings of grace.
Copyright 2001
