Emily Dickinson – A Great American Poet

It’s always nice to revisit Emily Dickinson’s work.

The Sky is low – the Clouds are mean.
A Travelling Flake of Snow
Across a Barn or through a Rut
Debates if it will go-

-Emily Dickinson. To read Emily’s full poem read the original post.

And as always, Cheers!


The Sky is low – the Clouds are mean.
A Travelling Flake of Snow
Across a Barn or through a Rut
Debates if it will go-

A Narrow Wind complains all Day
How some one treated him

Nature, like Us is sometimes caught
Without her Diadem.

Final Harvest, Emily Dickinson.  414 (1075) page 241.

Gavin, smile at that Narrow Wind.  You’ll see him often and it should never ruin your mind.   And though clouds truly can be mean let the debates take place and observe- Nature is not against you.

And if you’re able to catch the snow flake, do.  Smile and let the rest wonder.

It's a chilly October day and you are just 34 days old in this picture. It’s a chilly October day and you are just 34 days old in this picture.

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Odd Walking Thoughts

As a child we wanted rocks. They told us to be. We wanted to know more, but the rocks only spoke one line. We pilled rocks into our pockets. We felt them against our legs as we walked. When we ran, they didn’t mind. Every day we asked a rock, any rock, what it meant to be. We watched our shadow at noon. The sun pushed. The oil from the rocks stuck to our feet.

-M. Taggart


The Buk

Charles Bukowiski-

hell is a closed door-

even when starving
the rejection slips hardly ever bothered me:
I only believed that the editors were
truly stupid
and I just went on and wrote more and
I even considered rejects as
action; the worst  was the empty

if I had a weakness or a dream
it was
that I only wanted to see one of these
who rejected me,
to see his or her face, the way they
dressed, the way they walked across a
room, the sound of their voice, the look
in their eye…
just one look at one of

you see, when all you look at is
a piece of printed paper
telling you that you
aren’t very good,
then there is a tendency
to think that they editors
are more god-like than
they are.

hell is a closed door
when you’re starving for your god-
damned art
but sometimes you feel at least like having a

young or old, good or bad,
I don’t think anything dies as slow and
as hard as a

-The Last Night of The Earth Poems. Charles Bukowski.

I’ve just now read this poem for the first time. Which is fitting. I received a rejection email yesterday. I was told they needed to pass because my poems were *****, however they also wished me luck concerning my revision process and continued writing.

I considered the feedback from the editor to be incredibly helpful. I am determined.


Selective Progress

It’s fun, now that I’ve gotten myself to understand what I was doing. And, I was doing it wrong. See, WordPress is a handy tool. I like it. Now, I write and toss the rest. And here is where I put it. Meaning, the rest.

Ah! and the amount of publications looking for the hidden…that’s what I hadn’t’ known before. What a puppy I was being.

I hope this finds you well, and if it does, I hope you find it well too.

I like whisky. I like beer. I think I’ll have both today. Today is important.


Odd Walking Thoughts

If ever I could think of a stick without it turning into a walking stick, I think I’d certainly become most lonely. See, if the stick walked far enough into the woods it’d surely find other sticks and some of them would also walk, then, they’d turn toward one another and share what secrets they’d seen, learned, and even tasted. For’ even a stick needs to eat. And when you think about it, a stick is sometimes used as a spoon for stirring, and there it is. If a stick can eat and talk and walk, what use would one of me be. Do you see?

-M. Taggart

copyright 2017

a poem –

Break your voice, make them listen?

I tap so lightly – your fingers and toes can hear me. but you can’t.
Isn’t that strange.

Congrats to your hair, and how it is.


-M. Taggart copyright 2017