August probes a tongue
at the edge of open
windows and doors

insistent cicadas
draw ragged lines on summer
and scrape at eardrums

inattentive
in the darkened bedroom
I surrender my head
to crossed arms
and the scent of old linen
beg for solitude and sleep

over the sound of lawn mowers
the opening of a car door
accompanies the silence
of a more familiar engine

he is home
and wants his dinner

©2006, Janet Taliaferro

“Summer Room” appeared in in Vol. 20 of “The Northern Virginia Review“

Summer Room is a post from: Janet Taliaferro

Cans from the six-pack we drank rattled
on the floorboards of the pick-up
the dust on the dash showed my bare footprints
when he decided to move faster than I wanted
and he tore my best slacks.

I wanted cheering up, but he wanted sex
so that’s why they call it date rape
and a good way to get there is chasing the blues
at a drive-in west of town on I-40.

©2006, Janet Taliaferro

Westbound on I-40 is a post from: Janet Taliaferro

Read the full text of the 3 poems:

Westbound on I-40
Summer Room
Night Terrors and the Wizard of Oz

3 Poems from “Anger and Aloes” (video) is a post from: Janet Taliaferro

Hear me read 2 poems from a collection of poetry I’m currently working on.

Rearview Mirror is a post from: Janet Taliaferro

I know the humble spores
have survived ice and fire,
will outlive the saw
bitter rain and the bomb
and when all my children’s children
have long disappeared
the decent lichen
will spread itself
to cover the nakedness of stone.

Past and Future Tense is a post from: Janet Taliaferro

When the weather was bad
we played Batman and Robin.

You had a yellow towel
for a cape
and pulled briefs
over a pair of rayon pajamas
just the right blue.

I had a red jerkin
and long ribbed stockings
that buttoned to a cotton vest.

You played with the other boys
in the neighborhood
who were your age and athletic.

They let me put on my white apron
and nurse’s cap
so long as I sat quietly on the porch
while the war went on in the back yard.

Bobby gashed a knee and I cried
while you bandaged the cut and scoffed.

I put on a Juliet cap
and played alone on the balcony.

Once you were abusive.

I tattled and neither of us
have forgotten it
or spoken of it again.

©2006, Janet Taliaferro

Sibling is a post from: Janet Taliaferro

I watched you marshal armies of spools
as you taught me about sharps and crewels
how to cross a stitch, baste, darn and join.

I learned that love
lies in crisp taffeta and pleats of plaid
circles the throat in lace-edged collars
is always brand new and has its own song.

I whip the hem of my daughter’s skirt
and when I hear the eye of my needle
rasp against your thimble
I know you.

©2006, Janet Taliaferro

Sewing Song is a post from: Janet Taliaferro

I think secrets live in cups
pass from lips to ears and back.
Grandmother and I drank tea from cups pink with apple blossoms
ate cookies with just a hint of lemon and she told me
my great-grandfather, on the other side,
was the only Democrat and the only drunk
in Bremen, Ohio.

I told my daughter, over coffee, I knew for a fact
that my mother always loved another man
and I could see in the brown reflection
against a white stoneware mug the truth of rumor
that he had once
just once
taken her where evening turns sheets to amber.

© 2006, Janet Taliaferro

Grandmother Tales is a post from: Janet Taliaferro

Rearranged first by me
and then by the careful fingertips
of daughter and granddaughters,
miniature dishes and lamps
have lost their tags and stamps
that said “Made in Japan.”

Two weeks after the bombs
fell on Hawaii
Mother and I went downtown
to the small shop
a few steps off Broadway
eager to buy candlesticks
or vases of flowers
from the almond eyed woman
and her slender husband.

Hand in hand we stared
at the empty shop
door with a cross of raw lumber
battered plate glass window
held in place by wide strips of tape.

“Where did thy go?”
She shook her head.
It would be four years before
we realized
the full meaning of the word
“internment.”

©2010, Janet Taliaferro

The Doll House is a post from: Janet Taliaferro

As her husband drove across the bridge
in Northern Wisconsin she announced,
“I want a house on that lake.”

He didn’t slow the dark blue Packard
with the metal covered spare tires
on the front fenders,
but seven miles up the road
the family stopped for the night
at a white clapboard inn with a green roof.

He never mentioned her remark.
She took notes—
town location,
address of real estate agent,
name of lake,
place to stay the following summer.

It all began like dropping a stone
into the crystal blue of the lake
the ripples gently disturbing
the surface of our lives
now into the fourth generation.

©2010, Janet M. Taliaferro

Always Decisive is a post from: Janet Taliaferro