poem-

It hurt to try and open it.
So, I did what I’ve always done
and went to a pub to read a book.
Only this time, I was in the book.
The bar was full so I stood in the corner
and ordered a dark beer.
The noise from the many conversations
faded, as they always do when I read,
but when I touched the book it felt electric.
“Here I am,” I thought. “About to read my own story.”
But I couldn’t do it. I opened the book to page 62.
Hell, I even took a picture.
But I couldn’t read my short story.
I couldn’t even get beyond the second line.
I’m not sure why. I don’t know what happened.
I’ll most likely read all the others and never read mine.

-M. Taggart

 

book view

Odd Walking Thoughts

On the Sevens I look. Often, they look back. Sometimes when I’m driving I’ll catch a few of them waiting to be seen. And when they are, they are seen forever as a reminder; much like the reminder in the wind. Sometimes silent, the spirit is like that. So we watch the wind and how the movement of leaves push thought into a tangible something. It could even be a footprint. The one closest to the leaf that just landed and the traveling to the leaf brought a self to a new moment; when the clearing of the mind was set free. Pick up the leaf.

-M. Taggart

Poem

It’s raining outside. A heavy rain.
And with it a feeling of release.
I just sat there feeling very little.
No pressure to do anything, but write.
Finally. I gave myself permission to write.
I’ve been telling myself to submit to publications,
but I haven’t. My cell vibrated and a half hour passed,
and while still on the phone, a text came in from
a childhood friend. He told me my step-mother
needed to hear my voice. She’s doing better, though.
I said goodbye, replied to the text, “I will call her,”
and my phone rang again. Same family member, needed
to say more. I found myself remembering that I needed to
go to the post office and just like that I was in my truck.
It’s a mess outside. The rain won’t let up. I decided to grab
some beer for when I got home to write. Inside the little
store it wasn’t busy and I was the only one at the post office.
Now I’m home. Looking out the window. It’s 11:57 AM.
Not sure who’s going to call next. I owe lots of people phone
calls and I’m not sure when I’ll get to it. But for now, I think
I’ll shut everything off, and again, give myself permission to write.

-M. Taggart

Poem

I dislike fear mongering
Hate tactics
Manipulation
The cover of the Narcissistic wings spreads far, so far indeed, that the puppets aren’t aware
of their distasteful puppeteering, only that they’ve claimed salvation to the world.

-M. Taggart

Poem – Abe

Delusional, humiliation, humiliated.

sometimes I say words outloud
to exercise my tongue

My childhood best friend struggles with ‘humiliated’
I make sure to practice that one from time-to-time
and I’ll call him and say it, then I ask him to say it.

I’m real nice like that.

somehow he’s still my best friend
and he’s one hell of a man
I’d fight for him

when my Dad was dying in the hospital
he constantly looked in on me, and my Dad,
with texts and phone calls

He’s the one I turn to, to vent
I remember Abe saying to me once
“Let’s just run away.”

He lived at my house.
We were teenagers.

And while we walked down my street
I jumped and punched the STOP sign,
it spun upside down and read, POTS.

We didn’t run away.
and it was around that time
when I realized God had given me
one hell of a right
which landed me in jail

Gotta go.
I owe my best friend a phone call.
I need it.

gonna say humiliated
and ask him to say it

then I’m gonna send him the link
to read this

Love you man. Always.

-M. Taggart