Shirt? Let me wriggle-

Parenting is trying to remember what shirt you have on without looking down.

Since you don’t want to cheat, you wriggle your body to try and determine which shirt it is.

People looking at you think you’ve developed a nervous twitch.

This is no nervous twitch. You think/say a portion of that thought out loud, ‘Nervous twitch.’ Is all that comes out.

No, this is being awake most the night for three nights in a row because your two year old has croup and can’t sleep unless they are propped up. On you. And because you can hear the stridor in their breathing, you don’t care how many nights they will need your shoulder, or how many shirts you’ve mentally misplaced, or how twitchy you’ve become.

 

intuitive itching – poem

thickly layered fog had settled in for some time-
having put to bed all feelings of restlessness,
only a few felt an intuitive itching of the mind
while sitting upright in the  middle of the night

-M. Taggart
copyright 2017

 

A Grand Morning – Flash Fiction

A light snow had fallen overnight leaving a half an inch for a small gathering of black-capped chickadees to hustle and frolic in. The small birds seemed to enjoy the season’s first snowfall as they exhibited a style of energy that suggested pure happiness. The morning sun beamed into the fresh snow and gathered itself in a glowing of the land that illuminated the birds as they flitted from snowy ground, to tree branch, back to snow. The birds left tiny marks where they had landed and hopped. From his porch, he whistled to them in their particular bird song. They didn’t call back. Not yet anyway. And that was fine too. He had his morning coffee in hand and this view of life to observe. The coffee, a bit too hot, steamed mightily, adding to the perfection of his morning.

-M. Taggart
copyright 2017
As always, thanks for reading and feel free to share.

Flash Fiction – Where’d I put that book..?

I searched for the book I was reading with a feeling of annoyance toward myself for having misplaced it. Found it. Under a pile of useless kiddle. Now that I’ve found it, I no longer want to read it. I stare at the cover with a feeling of annoyance toward myself for having found it. It’s written by a famous author. It’s not good. It doesn’t translate. It’s not relevant. Only the timeless ones can do that. They write content that will give for hundreds of years. Think that’s not possible? One word. Bible.

-M. Taggart

Cheers.

p.s..

poem – to become

Oh yes- It does roam-
It does wander-

Who am I to become in the way-
Freedom is an un-strangulation of thought
when held in place-

Silent is the coming of my soul-
I can fall asleep knowing

**

 

-M. Taggart copyright 2017
Thank you for reading. You are welcome to share this. To whomever shared a recent poem of mine on Facebook, thank you. I treasure that action as a great compliment.

That poem is-
https://mtaggartwriter.wordpress.com/2017/10/25/poem-15/

three lines – poem

We’re not here for nothing-
This is the paradox of life
Don’t you see-

-M. Taggart copyright 2017

poem – those walls though

Have you ever searched the walls
for yourself
Careful
they speak louder than you

-M. Taggart

Cheers!

You only get this Thanksgiving once. Cheers, everyone!

Matt

odd walking thoughts – can’t come in

Doors that won’t lock and steam that rises not enough. A smile pressed upon the see through door. What happens when a nothing of a thought dies. Begging to begin again with the same thought. Asking again with the same question. Can I come in. Still is the heart that sees.

-M. Taggart

poem- behind closed doors

poem- behind closed doors
Written by -M. Taggart

a humbled home feeling malevolent
peering from its worn sills
locks its doors
and wishes goodbye to footprints

-M. Taggart