Poetry at 15

When I was fifteen, I began collecting poems in a handmade journal my mother made for me.  The journal has been tucked away for over 40 years in a beautiful, wooden, “hope chest”  my Grandfather made for me.

A hope chest, when I was growing up, was a place to primarily collect household linens, such as embroidered pillow cases, in anticipation of becoming married someday, and having a dowry of sorts to begin that marriage.

I never filled mine with household linens.   Instead, I chose journals, memento’s, love letters, and a dried corsage or two.

I seemed to know in my fifteen year old heart, it was poetry that I would stay married to the longest.


Yours in poetry,



Carey Taylor, Blessings

I am so honored to have five of my poems published with “Dodging The Rain”, and the photograph by Diane G. Martin was simply stunning. Thank you so much.


Carey Taylor is a poet and Pushcart Prize nominee from Port Ludlow, Washington. Her poetry has appeared in Cirque, Clover: A Literary Rag, Off the Coast, Snapdragon, and others. She has a Master’s Degree in School Counseling, something that prepared her well for becoming a writer.

Sylvia Plath Watches a Young Woman in Checkout Line at Walmart

are you blue?

not like
egg of robin

blue-black blue
before heal of bruise

cave of bat

of deepest ocean

carbon blue of knife
you slide between




oh let me fill your cart with
what mine cannot hold—

cobalt of nebula

turquoise of Navajo

cornflower of child’s barrette

cerulean blue of sky
you reach for      after




Thoughts Six Months After Trump Was Elected

At first they fed in multitudes,
from the high energy suet cube
hung in the Contorted Filbert.

Then came week

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Dodging The Rain

I was thrilled to be notified by email a week ago, that five of my poems were selected for publication in Galway, Ireland with a new Blogazine on WordPress called Dodging The Rain.  These poems will be appearing on October 1st, so I will post again once they are visible.

This creative blogazine was started by three graduates of the National University of Ireland-Galway’s Masters in Writing Programme, and one graduate of Uversity, the NUI recognized Creative Process Masters of the Arts.

It is a visually beautiful blogazine, that is welcoming to emerging writers and artists and I would highly recommend my poet and artist friends check it out.

I have never been to Galway, but I have looked across Galway Bay from the Flaggy Shore.   I miss you Ireland, and hope to return soon— in the meantime I am honored to be included in this wonderful new creative adventure.

Carey Taylor Photography – West Ireland/County Clare


Yours in poetry,



Summer Writing and Family Visits

This summer I have been busy writing, revising, and taking a poetry class conducted by Gary Lilley at The Writers’ Workshoppe in Port Townsend, Washington.   In addition, I traveled to Michigan in June to visit my husband’s family, a trek we have made regularly over the years.

Sometimes I write poetry for my family as a way to express the things that never get said in daily conversations.  This poem is for my Father-in-law, who always makes us feel welcome in his home, who always plans special adventures for us when we visit, and who has been the keeper and communicator of the family history.

Thank you Bob, for all the birthdays you never forget, every Sunday morning phone call you never miss, every wine glass we’ve shared together, and for showing us all how to age with as much grace as possible.

Family Reunion

On summer visits with his grandpa
they pick blueberries
broil on sand skirting Lake Michigan
stroll the farmer’s market
walk the dog
eat Moose Tracks ice cream
after dinner.

When the boy grows up
they browse art galleries
and bookstores
talk guitars and
grill salmon on the

Before the boy leaves
they drive North
on Highway 31
stop for lunch
at the country club
visit the family plot
at Spring Lake Cemetery.

They stand side by side
at the headstone
engraved in granite are the words Baby Taylor
the boy takes a picture with
his phone
not sure of his return
nor wanting to forget

the trees turning
from lime to canary
or this tiny sugar
bone melt
still seeping
in the last heat
of summer.


Yours in poetry,