I like my morning.
It’s crisp with a rawness from the approaching storm.
Sleet, ice, some snow and rain
are in the mix for the next 24 hours. So they say.
I watched, as Megan walked Gavin down our driveway
to wait for his bus. If the storm is bad in the afternoon,
we’ll jump in the truck and pick Gavin up at his school.
I like to do that for the bus driver on bad weather days.
We live on the side of a mountain and the road is steep.
Megan has the day off.
I don’t know what we’ll do today, but clearly, I’m already
ignoring ‘work’ and writing about simple things instead.
I like simple things. Maybe we’ll go to the movies, a simple
and random thing to do on a Monday.
And maybe we’ll go for a drive on a dirt road and listen
to the sound of the sleet as it pangs off the windshield.
Maybe I’ll take a photo to share, something rustic and wild.
That’s the thing about being a self taught writer/poet-
It’s All poetry to me. The waiting for the bus, the watching
out the window, noticing a slight breeze, the thinking of what to do,
the enjoyment of the matrix of life. It’s all right there,
in front of me, waiting to be seen.
A joyous half-thought uplifted the remaining-
Having slothed meaninglessly about,
Until an overspill of the joyous half became to be-
A chain reaction of overcoming the slothful
triggered an alarm of discontinuation
which was heard, and felt, and seen; a rise
was born from the mouths of echos.
I’m addicted to my son’s safety.
I think it’s possible that I’m constantly
thinking about his health and safety
because of my own childhood trauma-
of which he does not have.
Maybe it’s time I let images
of him laughing and running,
with his gleaming eyes and bouncing hair,
flood my thoughts. My trauma is not his.
I need to remember this and to be
better about it. I have such a deep
connection, and love for my son, that I can’t
fathom how any parent or guardian
couldn’t. And there I go, not being
better about it. Back to him running,
and laughing, and being loved.
A boy sits in his hectic mental lane waiting for the nothing to come. Where finally his mind is released and feels empty but not alone. Weightless and gone from the everything. The wind blew, shuffling the branches, he, hardly noticing felt the oncoming of the nothing and the wind was in the way. -M. Taggart