Hush don’t – let’s not listen-
Smiling faces echo-
Abound and again go-
Watch the smoke rise-
Lips tingle
Twitch
-M. Taggart
Month: May 2015
Switch – Odd Walking Thoughts
The blackout is replaced by images and some we know. They are everything. A man with sad eyes watches and we push back because they make us sad. A young girl dances in a field with a yellow flower and her dress is winding around her body. There’s dust and it switches. A boy is kneeling. He’s holding a frog and pushing it to his ear waiting for the frog to croak. The blackness is back because we wish to not think, but we cannot, and it continues. We’re sweeping a back room. A women smiles and she knows something and we want to know what she’s thinking.
fog
And the fog drifts on. It’s hard to write. Here- let’s go fish and the water can be gas and the world below will tell much. Then, maybe. -M. Taggart
Judgement Wasted – Odd Walking Thoughts
One’s self reflection upon you is a horrid mirror. The mother home from work telling the boy he won’t understand. The father who never left telling his daughter she ought to. If we breath deep enough we clear all thoughts. Judgement wasted upon this mind.
I’ll continue to pave this path.
7
Goodbye-
From my mouth you travel
M- Taggart
Not so Ordinary.
I’ve put the book down. It’s been finished for nearly a month. It’s a WordPress author and I’ve waited. If nothing came back then there’s nothing. One scene is written so well it comes back often.
A boy was pressed against the trees. The trees held no shelter. It was late and the road was there. The boy was making his way home. I felt as though the trees and the night were perfectly lined up for this one moment. I read and turned the pages to gain what’s further.
Two cars came. The boy knew they were traveling too fast and he pushed himself into the trees, along the curve, best he could. He listened as twigs snapped; it’s safer here.
The cars came closer. The twigs wouldn’t let him in.
A Beautiful Scar – Odd Walking Thoughts
The boy walked down and further yet. This ravine was deep. This ravine was a beautiful scar. A brook and then fish and more. The boy was at the bottom of the scar and opened his eyes and was gone. He looked all around and was no where. He cried for help. No help came and he closed his eyes and asked, ‘Why?’ He heard a voice reply, ‘Why has nothing to do with it.’
A Moveable Feast – The Restored Edition
‘When spring came, even the false spring, there were no problems except where to be happiest. The only thing that could spoil a day was people and if you could keep from making engagement, each day had no limits. People were always the limiters of happiness except for the very few that were as good as spring itself.’ -Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast.
It matters not which end of the spectrum– early Hemingway, later Hemingway; I always find his words to be exacting and important to me.
I’m reading the ‘Restored Edition’ of The Moveable Feast. Hemingway wasn’t finished writing this story when he died. It turns out a chapter was added that he hadn’t written and the first published version contained that chapter and edits that ought not to have been made. Sean Hemingway, Papa’s grandson, obtained a copy of the original manuscript and again published the work in the proper format. This edition contains a personal foreword by Patrick Hemingway, the sole surviving son of Papa.
Read on, it’s good for the Brain. -M. Taggart
Ernest Hemingway, American Red Cross volunteer. Portrait by Ermeni Studios, Milan, Italy. Please credit “Ernest Hemingway Photograph Collection, John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, Boston”.
And Damn it’s Nice
It’s early. I’m overlooking our yard and driveway. At the end of the driveway are whiskey barrels on each side. They are dark and the wood is thick and smell of aged whiskey. In the barrels, flowers grow rapidly. Neighbors walk past and they smile and point.
My nearly spent cigar is lit and I’m writing and I’m happy. My window is open and the birds are here. And damn the sun is out. And damn it’s nice.
Here- Let’s live outside ourselves, so we may see each other better.
Shrieking Furnace
There is much rustling. Leave my work. This shrieking furnace. -M. Taggart
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