Ah! I’d like to share the rest of this. I can’t. If I do, I’ll not be able to submit it to the publications I have in mind. I do find pleasure in posting this tidbit. Enjoy.
A Poem-
Wake up loved one-
a haunted whisper looks for you
And the clock ticks
words built on truth
don’t need facial expressions
and the eyes listening always know
-M. Taggart
copyright 2017
wandering in the cage
‘on writers: I found out that most of them
swam together.
there were schools, establishments,
theories.
groups gathered and fought each
other.
there was literary politics.’
-Charles Bukowski, The Last Night Of The Earth Poems
This is a small withdrawal from the complete poem. This tiny bit speaks to me very clearly. I am self taught. And, now that I am finally submitting properly to publications, I am finding his words are incredibly accurate. And I am so damn thankful to be self taught. I belong to no club. No writing politics or policies take any portion of my writing mind-set. Maybe this will also help you.
Matt
Listening to ruined roads again?
The stained cup is waiting-
Acidic aroma rises with our sun
-M. Taggart
More Poems:
https://mtaggartwriter.wordpress.com/category/poem/
My sunken soul is deep within me because my face is no more. We’re walking. Soon, leaves, wind, summer, ocean, sun, more wind and then rain. Mud runs with rocks down the mountain and here we are. and what the hell are you doing here.
-M. Taggart
We, who never danced-
Danced upon death-
As smoke fled-
From our shivering mouths-
-M. Taggart copyright 2017
Make a thing. Put it there. Next to the stone. Have you ever seen such a a thing? The thing held all the knowing- Having been put next to the stone. Now the knowing wishes to be. Have you ever sat outside, on the deck, in the middle of the night, and listened to anything that was willing to be? And the knowing was the maker of the sounds?
-M. Taggart
A boy stood in the middle of the woodland. Picking ticks from his legs, arms, and even his neck. He wished he had brought a lint roller, or alcohol to light his body with. The ticks mounted a heavy advance. He’d counted over fifty. And that was only the ticks he could see. The boy started to walk, then run, toward a pond. He sprinted downhill, the sun, blazing through the canopy of tree tops, started to dizzy him; his shadow caused too much chaos. Landing hard on the ground and letting go a grunt, which spurted spittle, the boy asked the nearby pond, ‘Is this happening?’ The pond was soundly sitting and awaiting the boys arrival. And finally the pond did respond, ‘Why are you here?’
Every now and then 3 a.m. visits us at 5 p.m. the next day- and we can already feel ourselves going back. Sweat drenched thoughts running in circles. Is it only us, or how many more? it’s not fine, we take air, but never tell ourselves to think of the breathing. They say to concentrate on it. Rip another hole and climb as deep as you can and struggle within the new hole until the scratching pain of now relieves.
-M. Taggart
copyright 2017
In our silence grows a heavy foot-
Watch as minds bend-
Aggravated mortar wish to live again
mtaggartwriter 