Cloudy whispers sank near the window asking for more. We held our mind under steam filled moments screaming. No more doors without locks. No more drawers to be pulled. The brushes and combs were dead while everything else looked on.
Let’s endanger each of our thoughts-
To produce another – Which –
Might be the best of them all-
copyright 2015 -M. Taggart
Our unforgettable forever-
Perched as a bird with words-
To repeat only one thought-
copyright 2015 -M. Taggart
I awoke myself remembering to be free. -M. Taggart
I read this again this morning and wanted to share. Originally posted on November 24th, 2014.
I’m coming home-
The morning hue spewed-
We were children pulling shades-
Outside our shared bedroom door-
Breakfast was happening-
Coffee – Cocoa – Eggs and bacon with toast
First though – after the shades-
Christmas stockings were at our feet-
Having found their way to our bedroom floor-
Then when stockings were emptied-
We’d – all of us – be headed home-
Where Grandpa and Grandma were waiting-
Grandma will have decorated-
The house would adorn all colors-
Popcorn would be hung on the tree-
And presents would overflow
It wasn’t that though-
Which kept our legs restless-
It was Grandpa and Grandma
It was Grandpa picking us up-
Nuzzling our faces with his gristle-
Then calling us Honey
We’d watch the man in the kitchen-
His large frame and forearms welcoming us-
The smell of Ham – Pork and Turkey-
His sweet drink venting through his pores-
His heavy walk which we can no longer see-
We were coming home-
Gone now though- It was the safest place to be
It’s the warmth of December-
And it’s now-
An infant watches his mother-
As she adorns the house with all colors-
And decorates the tree-
The father holds the infant near-
Watching as his son reaches for a bow-
Tears flow freely – his son is home-
The man sees his wife – Truly sees her-
He thinks of his Grandfather and Grandmother-
Missing the heavy walk and his sweet smell-
Knowing it’s more than fine now-
It is December-
It is Christmas time-
I am home.
copyright 2015 -M. Taggart. Share freely. Give credit. Merry Christmas.
‘I’m Coming Home’ is a poem I wrote about Christmas. Kathy accepted the poem and has displayed it within her Christmas post on her blog. (Roughly in the middle) Kathy constantly updates her blog with active agents looking for submissions. Merry Christmas.
BOOK GIVEAWAY WINNERS:
Angela Turner – Susan Detwiler’s FINE LIFE FOR A COUNTRY MOUSE
Barbara Kupetz – Marlo Berliner’s THE GHOST CHRONICLES
Nancy Furstenger – Laurie Calkhoven’s WOMEN WHO CHANGED THE WORLD
Brooke McIntyre – Lauren Mill’s MINNA’S PATCHWORK COAT
Kary Lee Illustrator Coordinator, SCBWI Inland Northwest www.karyleeillustration.com
Please visit my blog at http://rosihollinbeckthewritestuff.blogspot.com
In a cold Christmas season
View original post 355 more words
‘The best people posses a feeling for beauty, the courage to take risks, the discipline to tell the truth, the capacity for sacrifice. Ironically, their virtues makes them vulnerable; they are often wounded, sometimes destroyed.’ Ernest Hemingway
Don’t let beautiful be destroyed by what was. Christmas is my least favorite holiday. Often bringing my spirits low where I then find myself headed for a silent room. Alone and not wanting company. Now though, much has changed and I look forward to Christmas. I even look forward to Christmas Eve. What makes it beautiful are the people you have directly near you. Not the presents, not the TV commercials with noise asking to purchase, purchase, purchase. Not the ornaments. Not even a decorated tree. What makes it beautiful, to me, is knowing the people with you truly care for you without pause. Without changing of mind. I’ll do my best to not let beauty be destroyed by what was. I hope you’re able to do the same.
Let’s drop forever off-
A beaten suitcase
Smiles its welcome-
The death of honesty began with an adjective. -M. Taggart
The bar was full with people easing themselves into their next moment. He sat in the seat nearest the wall and felt comfort knowing the wall supported him. He rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand. His fingers flared out slightly while he did this. He felt shame. His father would often rub his forehead the same way, telling the world how irritated he was. He closed his hand into a fist and set it on the bar. The rumbling of the men and women drinking and talking, seemingly without care, eased him. Looking at his closed fist he counted the scars on his knuckles. Remembering clearly where each came from. His beer was empty but he wouldn’t ask. He would sit and wait until the bartender asked if he’d like another. It was always this way. The rumbling went on and the wall wouldn’t leave him.
Thank you for reading and Cheers!
I invite you to learn about my self published book.
Or, read the reviews via the amazon link below.