poetry, prose & blog

life & reflections put into words

"Rockmelon" by Taylor Neal — SAD Mag

as I slice cantaloupe in the morning.

not to be mistaken with honeydew.

I see her standing at the counter, 8am, before school,

as my sister and I spoon our Cheerios

first in half, then sliced in fourths,

a pause as her toast pops up.

sit patiently on the counter and wait.

the tip of the knife cuts out the gooey middle,

a pile of guts on one end of the cutting board, then slice away the

I’d watch her make perfect cuts, silently cheer her on,

the tough green must go.

popping one into he

The Pear Tree

we drove through my hometown late one afternoon,

a mid-July breeze kisses my cheeks and

whispers over my shoulders

through the open window

(I always have the windows open)

and the golden light of a yawning sun

bounces off the sweaty hoods of a small town summer rush hour.

and as we idled there,

held by the precious sonance of contentment

my love told me a story from his childhood:

“when I was a boy back in the UK I had a paper route.

along my route, on one of the corners,


flying kites in the desert

folks in homes on wheels of their own making

shrubs dotting guidance for where to spend the night.

the man in my van strums soft acoustics and

someone in the distance sends the sun to sleep

with the flying of a kite.

kites always remind me of you

but I try not to hate,

instead I nod at the memories as they surface one after the other;

this is what I’ve been up to without you,

except for the guitar behind me

being played by safer hands than

yours ever were.

those soft notes make me fe

under the plums

and the sounds of birds

as I have on this grassy land.

my Temple has created a temple here,

of bird baths and candles and potted plants.

the man I love in the magic school bus,

fragrance from the ocean washes in as

the cliffs below us

up on the Mesa

yet close enough to be reminded of water’s power

when one must be humbled in the fragility of humanity

so we tend to the gardens.

everything that is,

is part of our now.

I breathe in and the breeze responds

like his do.

my drink warmin

I Will Not Be Efficient

My lover recently told me that among all things, he wouldn’t necessarily describe me as “efficient.”

“You are extremely resourceful and extremely capable,” he said, “but I don’t know if efficient is the right word.”

Amidst a very large To-Do list, I was a tad frustrated to hear this. I asked him to give me an example of what he meant.

He said, “instead of buying a new, fully functional working van you spent months fixing up an old one. You shoot film instead of digital, just because you like

"Morning Shift" by Taylor Neal — SAD Mag

rising, in the quiet stillness of the night,

humble witnessing as Luna watches over our most vulnerable hours, sharing those sweet, peaceful, intimate moments in silence ~ just her and I ~ in the protection of a nurturing, heavy darkness

the warmth of slumber lingering on tender skin and sips of steam

slow movement flows gently through space as light begins to trickle across the sky

I blow her a kiss goodbye and send her on her way in whispers as she fades

inviting her sun to take over the

Mornings in Vannigan

Sproat Lake — August 26, 2021

My favorite times are the quiet mornings, before she is awake, when the van is still cozy with the lingering warmth of body heat and slumber. I slowly come away from dreamland, back into consciousness, back into my body, and remember the magic of falling asleep surrounded by beauty the night before. My body floods with gratitude for our safety and the cozy bed in which I have awakened, and I spend a suspended moment in stillness, in this moment before I admit