I lived until I realized I couldn’t. It was the knowing that killed it.
-M. Taggart
Month: October 2017
work in progress – home
A man sits on a wooden bench
unable to know home
and with all of his knowledge
He is dead
He sits alone
The bench, surrounded by forest-
Listens for him
as the wind rushes along the tops of the trees
while the man rests his palms on his knees-
His dried knuckles have cracked and wrinkled
for the man lived lived and lived-
They had begun on the coast
wearing large smiles
eventually finding this forest
where a bench begged to be built
along the edge of a soon to be
orchard
She had picked their bench
a nicely fallen oak
and asked for it to point
here, toward the slope,
where they could sit hand in hand
and listen to the wind
as it passed along the tops of the trees
bringing sounds of the ocean again
Now she was gone
and he sits all alone
looking at the forest
knowing he’d never
be home
thought drop
Your thoughts will lead If you give yourself permission to let them.
**
-M. Taggart
over there
We sit, listening to ourselves breathe-
A delayed day happened again
With our most clear window
Showing us everything
-M. Taggart
poem
morning I’ll not survive
and each evening I’ll be there
for it’s your turn now
take this crumpled mind
-M. Taggart
poem – three lines
I can hardly swallow
preaching away at the howling
seething structures grimacing at me
-M. Taggart
OWT
‘People think I’m crazy. I think a lot. I think when I think. If my eyes seem volatile, they may be, or I’m lost in a non-linear perpetual sliding thought and when I break my mind I come out of it.’ So the frog hopped, asking the young girl to repeat herself. ‘Never mind with you,’ she said skipping away flicking at the long grass. She wore a yellow hat.
-M. Taggart
thought drop
It was better when I thought so hard I couldn’t speak.
-M. Taggart
death as it stands
Death has a sound unlike any other-
listen! The same melody plays in the early hours
We know this song
Let Prometheus spark again-
a sip of fine wine
a bit of our favorite scotch
a taste from the most velvet soft lips
the scent of the back of her neck
26.2188 with delivery
this is true
this Is true
but who am I to ask
Death is more than a balcony’s plot from which we grieve. Death is not evil. An echo inside spewing a self-made matrix without end. Have we touched the sun today. Have we given thought to the mirror behind. So many rules to place our hearts on shelves.
for others to dismantle.
Death as it stands
has a sound like no other
and yet I’ve never heard it
My favorite cigar is the one left overnight in the rain. The next morning it’s billowed with intelligence. A thing to know. It’s more wet than not. and it doesn’t want to dry, but it does because. Eventually the sun reminds the cigar of its now and we are again reunited. I’ll take my life left to light that cigar and see it live again.
- M. Taggart
three lines
In a moon-locked sky the final drop of a great rain falls-
a singular form last to perish
giving birth to organized life
M. Taggart
mtaggartwriter 