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

poem

A modern attitude
spoke of the last night on Earth.
I didn’t tumble too far into the
cold water- it wasn’t for me.

I backed away from the
truest absence and little
by little the old became
here again

Much like a timeless line
written for humanity

And much like the golden tongue
of a child singing because the
happiness within them has
no other way to become tangible

-M. Taggart

Poem

When happiness makes its rounds
back to me again, I lean into it.
I don’t mean marginally happy.
I mean the kind of joy that stops
you in your tracks and halts
any action that was moments
ago needed, for one thing, or another.
And there you stand, sit, or lay,
looking at a blade of grass with
the sun shinning and the wind
blowing just enough to whisper
your name as you tilt your head
in an attempt to catch the message.

-M. Taggart

Poem-

Sometimes I ask myself,
“Why don’t I want to write?”

And a little voice inside me says,
“Because I don’t want to.”

And then I make myself write.

Why do I do that?

-M. Taggart

Scarlet freedom

We live in a world
where we look at our mortality
rates as victims.
We are the mortality
and we are the victim.
We do our best to understand
where we fit into each round hole.
As if carnage from the heavens
scrapes its teeth at the edges
of our wars; and all the spillage
frees the smallest of fractions
while we struggle to dig
half a hole.

-M. Taggart

Color of a Son

Cancel me not.

mtaggartwriter

To my unborn son. I have a few things I need to tell you. Soon you’ll be here and then you’ll grow to be a man. You’ll make your own decisions based on your own thoughts. Listen. There are good people and there are bad people. There are even evil people. But know this- The color of the skin does not wear the character within.

Strength of character is a mighty thing. At times you’ll see a child teaching an adult what kindness means. Don’t let this moment elapse without truly seeing. Black, white, red, yellow; this means nothing. Hate, greed, abuse, control for power- all will be forced onto you through out your life. It’ll be up to you to identify and see the true agenda behind each. If we could put a color to these, or place emblems on foreheads, we’d all learn quickly. Color of ones skin…

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Poem

How’s life I wanted to know.
I asked the pacing doors.
The hallway wasn’t the same
and the smells were changing-
found a grievance filled with
letters floating around my head-
I wonder if I’ll see him again,
even if just inside a dream or two.

-M. Taggart