Poetry by Chuck Taylor

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Shade of the Father


I am not looking for my father,
I was running from my father.

He’s in me now, and resting
Peacefully, as I move down

This two-lane blacktop.
Father’s telling me how his

Father was too cheap to take
Them on trips when he

Was a kid, but that was back
In the depression. Instead

Of trips, his father saved
Enough to send his kids

To college. My father’s telling
Me the different brands of

Cows we pass out on the
Rolling land, the Holsteins

white and  lovely splattered
With black, the Guernsey’s

Mostly brown, some with
Splotches of white, and I

Am telling him about feed
Lots and how the chickens

We eat these days who no
Longer roam but live in

Tiny cages and are fed
On corn alone so they

Will faster mature. My
Father doesn’t wish to

Hear about this and he’s
Not interested if I tell

Him about Jack Kerouac’s
Trip across these states,

Jack’s fear of death, his
Desire to live right in

The moment and to
Both seize the moment

In its full intensity and
To record that moment

In prose for us to be
Seized by its beauty.

My father doesn’t want
To hear about his fix

On God but wants to tell
Me, as we ride through

Small South Dakota
Towns heading for the

City where he was born,
About his work to find

A cure for heart disease,
His hope to change the

Diets of Americans so
They would not grow so fat

And die young from
Heart disease. Father, how

Far to the black hills?,  I
Ask, but instead of answering

He tells me how all four
Brothers slept on the back

Porch and when they went
To bed they stoked the

Pot bellied stove till it
Glowed red, but when

They woke before sunrise
In the dead of winter

The stove had icicles
Hanging down near its

Legs. Father, I say, we’re
On the road, have you heard

Of Neil Cassidy, the greatest
Driver in the world, an

Adonis was he with two,
Three girlfriends at one time

And he stole hundreds of
Cars, but my father has no

Reply.  I see him inside
The white light of science,

His home of reason, his
Peace of proof, his curious

Mind to find a cure for
The disease that killed

More people than any
Other. Jack Kerouac, my

Father’s with me on this
Road. I’m listening not

To jazz but to harmonies
Made by Mozart. No one’s

Pounding on the dashboard,
The sun is bright and the sky

Is the deepest blue you can
Imagine, and in this spring

We see wildflowers up and
Down this road. The demons 

That drove you, I have not
Been able to find them in

These parts, not in the earth,
Nor in the trees. No, not on this

Two-lane road. My father
Points to the small wood

Shack where he grew up
The son of an Irish man

My first girlfriend, my dad
Tells me, took a picture right

Here on the sidewalk in
Front of the door. I had on

These black and white wing
Tipped shoes that I was selling

In college to pay my  way
Through. Her name was Helen.

I wonder who she married.
I wonder where she is right

Now. Careful, dad, I say,
You’re only a shade but you

Are beginning to sound like
That old beat, Jack Kerouac.

The Indians when I was a kid
Used to pitch their tents just

Over the railroad tracks. My
Father wouldn’t let us talk to them

And I’d heard they ate dogs
So I took my Spaniel Suzy

And spent all day in the
cornfields saving my dog

​

'
50’s Mother

mother been yelling in the kitchen all along,
plates and dishes crashing against a wall,
all the crockery of the cabinets breaking
and she shouting, "I hate this shit! I hate this shit!"

I was fourteen when it happened
and took my sister down into the basement
to hide out through the rage

Do I see it through a feminist lens now?
Here she was, an MD in anesthesiology,
stuck in a 50's suburban home with not
a friend in the world

Mother is still swearing but all dishes are busted
so she moves through the house slamming doors
and soon she's throwing sheets and shirts
and socks and pants and dresses down
the basement stairs.

“I am sick of this. I am sick of this!”

Looking at it through the lens of performance art,
my mother sought an audience,
some souls to see her suffering and sorrow
and to get the message

But sister and I were watching television
on the basement TV, "Spin and Marty"

Dad came home from his commute
and without a word he picked up the clothes
and swept up the broken crockery

mother stayed the night in the bedroom
since I was in third grade she mostly stayed in bed
My dad left breakfast on the table for us
before we left

We ate lunch at school.

Mother returned to cooking suppers.

​