Mary Taft

Mary Taft, adopted as a baby
No one knew her real name
Raised by a well to do family
Went to church every Sunday
Until the age of sixteen
When she became unruly
Skipped school, got in fights
Did drugs, got drunk
Ran with a bad crowd
Stole from stores
Sold her body for money
Maybe Mary was
Genetically fated
To be like her real mother
A pretty streetwalker who
Spent time in jail for theft
Got hooked in drugs
And died of an overdose

Bob Boyd

Author: BobBoyd

79, cancer survivor, work out 3 times a week, ride my exercise bike 2 hours daily. Began writing poetry October 2023, living in Greensboro, North Carolina, originally from just outside of Boston, MA. Retired and enjoying a solo, reclusive life always researching and gaining knowledge. Most of my poems are fictional. I write about many things: Spirituality, Mysticism, the Paranormal, Cryptids, Werewolves, Ghosts, 411s, Nature, Birds, Animals, Romantic Love, Death, NDEs, Women Persecuted as Witches, Fictional Characters I Create, News Stories, AI, Robots, Insects, like the poem entitled, Hail Caesar Bob, (about when bees were swarming me outside the door to my apartment), and many other topics. I write a minimum of 3 poems daily, sometimes more. I like and abide by the saying life's too short to be taken too seriously. View all posts by BobBoyd

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Enlightenment

White Light illuminates the darkness of the inner night.
To mystics common fare, to others never there.
One in whom the sun never sets sees it everywhere.

Bob Boyd

What Matters to Me

I don’t care how rich you are.
Riches mean nothing to me.
I don’t care how degreed you are.
You might think you’re better than me.
I don’t care how successful and important you are.
You might be too self-centered and have no time for me.
I do care about how humble, compassionate, and kind you are.
Those are the things that matter to me.

Bob Boyd

Heaven’s Hope

I cannot imagine 
a woman 
or a man
psychopath born
psychopath dead
cast into the
fires of Hell
by a loving
reasonable God.

If you believe
I’m wrong,
how can you 
account for a
God who’d send
a psychopath
into the world
without heaven’s hope? 

Bob Boyd

My Love

There are mystics 
who say love is the way
to total liberation,
becoming one with God and 
getting off the wheel of rebirth, 
living forever in eternal bliss. 

I love the thought of that. 
I’d love to be one with God
and get off the wheel of rebirth
and live forever in eternal bliss.
But, honestly, my love, 
I’d rather stay on the wheel 
and keep coming back to this life,
forever ... in love with you.  

Bob Boyd

Pink Dogwood Tree Petals

In the yard across the street
Pink dogwood tree petals are falling,
Ordinary, a beautiful sight.
Tonight they sadden me
Remembering the last time I saw them
When you said you were leaving me.
Now like the pink tree petals,
Tears are falling from my eyes.

Bob Boyd

I'm in Love With a Witch

I don’t care if she is a witch
My pulse reaches a frantic pitch
When She looks into my stunned eyes
And her love above all I prize.

I don’t care if she casts a spell
That could send us both to hell.
For her love, I’d even go there,
For her love, I’d go anywhere.

Bob Boyd

Before the Big Bang

I loved you before the Big Bang
When the universe was born
Before the planets spun in
Vast galaxies 
Before the stars rose in
Night skies
And I know we are
Destined to be 
Reunited soulmates
In this life 
Or the next
This existence
Or the heavens

Bob Boyd

Terminal Zen Sickness

He studied Zen Buddhism.
Practiced zazen every day.
Chanted sutras every night.
Began meditating too much,
Addicted to the daily highs.
Developed Zen sickness
And lost his mortal mind.
Now imprisoned in an
Asylum for the insane.
Walks like a zombie,
His eyes forever glazed,
And mumbles fragments of sutras 
Inside his disordered head. 

Bob Boyd

Skylark

A skylark sings songs while it flies
I wonder what it’s singing about
Maybe the fun and the freedom
Of flying so high in the open free sky
Above the earth liberated from gravity
Above the planet’s cares and concerns
Maybe the skylark gets high when it flies
An intoxicating rush among billowing clouds
I’d like to feel what the skylark feels in flight
And sing like it high in the open free sky   

Bob Boyd