The pinioned wall escaped none- again we walk, and walk, and walk, and walk. Bubbles spun and we wondered why they might swirl with no drift. The breeze was light. Hands worked together the best they could.
He was crying and felt shame. His face was dirty and his hat didn’t hide the dirt or tears. Cars drove slowly in the parking lot and he knew they saw. He was small and he thought they’d wonder why he was alone. It was hot and he didn’t want to cry.
The Salvation Army drop box was beaten and the white paint was chipped badly. His throat hurt. He wiped his eyes. Tears came again and his nose filled too. He tried to hold back, but his chest heaved and he stopped while he cried openly; without insult to others as they watched.
The boy carried a laundry sack. The sack was full. In it were contents important to him though there wasn’t any way for him to express how important and the tears tried but weren’t enough.
He pushed the sack into the opening and felt them watching from their cars. His shoulders heaved with his shaking while he tried the best he could to push the hurt down again. His nose had run so badly that mucus hung from him. Finally, he felt the content of the sack form to the opening. He listened as they slid to their new home.
It’s nothing really, he thought. She didn’t know.
Enjoy feminism do you? Me too. Especially the equality part.
Enjoy Religion do you? Me too. Especially the morals part.
Is your head of church female? No? Ask Why.
Welcome to my mother fucking pulpit.
She didn’t know it-
Photo taken by myself during a snow storm a number of years ago.
New England Winter. February, 2015.
This past winter was memorable. While visiting family in Maine, Megan and I decided to take a drive during a snow storm. I’d much rather adventure in a blizzard then sit comfortably while watching it from a window.
One of the back roads had a high snowbank. We stopped the vehicle and I got out and started to climb. Megan took the picture. I didn’t think much of the picture at the time. Now though, I enjoy it very much.
On the other side of the banking is a large field. It was cold and very dark.
Memories believe nothing when told from the wrong voice. -M. Taggart
It’s not for them. To write about a maze that didn’t exist. They cannot ask the question to be written, then to find the way out. He can ask, then we do see, and it’s more of the same. We hear a beating something and it’s nothing more than our self. That’s where to begin.
I see A Sad Women-
She’s hoping to be admired-
There are a number of bees walking near us. Though, bees normal don’t walk. We wash the metal bin. An old man walks with a cane. Swirling, we watch, bubbles come close. The man with the cane sees the bees. ‘Don’t try and disturb them.’ He remarked. The bees became upset and found him. We watched as he used his cane to defend. We asked the bees, ‘Why?’ and they replied, ‘He’s not to decide.’
I write these in a few short minutes. I do not edit.
These echoes paste my mind. -M. Taggart.