poem – to hell with rules

when no one’s there to pour a sonnet down your throat
easing your expressions of pain as your scorching metallic rage
sets itself against its blade-
wait
shiver first with an angle and propel thy teeth against a hue from the heavens
**
-M. Taggart
copyright 2017

more poems
https://mtaggartwriter.wordpress.com/category/poem/

more odd writing
https://mtaggartwriter.wordpress.com/2017/09/28/odd-walking-thoughts-dont-keep-up/

enjoy.

Odd Walking Thoughts – Don’t keep

We walk into the shadow of death to pull one wounded child from its depths, to find another daft man standing in the corner. Leaves are shuffling outside my window. A man with a golden heart is gone. Another stands in a room looking. Don’t block me. I am here and at least I have my fingers. The man in the room standing, looking daft, asks for silence because silences never questions. Never says a damn word. The girl with the golden brow would have cared for a word. And the boy with the covers pulled tight would have cared for the same.
**
copyright 2017
-M. Taggart

Odd Walking Thoughts –

Anger is freedom. Tell this to a peaceful mind who’s never known, or literally felt the hand of abuse, and you’ll find a child tossed like an outcast. Alone, habitually, alone. Anger will rise- showing a path. A path the child absorbs and carves larger because no one else would. The mouths now turn toward the audience, wide open, spilling secrets of lies. And they preach, always, this emotion is wrong. You are wrong. Anger is wrong. You are unwanted. The mouths preach this untruth to the child. The lies grow from one perfectly peaceful mind to another. And the child sits alone. Carving their path. Having learned to read the most important story of all.

-M. Taggart

Thanks for reading.

Here’s another ‘Odd Walking Thoughts’
https://mtaggartwriter.wordpress.com/2016/08/04/odd-walking-thoughts-again-the-frog/

Can I Be – Flash Fiction

Can I Be
Flash Fiction
Written by -M. Taggart

Can I Be

As seen in the nine years old boy’s diary before his death-

‘I didn’t know I was bad. I felt it once but I made it go away. Jan 14.

I found out I am not bad. I saw bad today. That is not me.  Jan 21.

I had a good day. My uncle took me to a movie. When I came home he told me he was sorry. Feb 6.

I think I’d like not to be here anymore.  Feb 22.

I did what I was told. I don’t know who else to tell. Feb 28.

Today was good. I was told I could go to school again. I want to go to school again. I want to learn and read books. March 3.

My covers aren’t enough.  March 4.’

The boy was found dead March 5. The boys diary contained notes and drawings.

(edited timeline error.)

A Poem – Permission

Avoid eye contact-
Be somber-
Smile nicely when you wish-

Have a drink
Take a shot
Pull

Your music plays-
They climb a fence to see
A moment is

Your face is nothing-
Pressed to the floor-
Uncovered

The corner tastes so nice
We aren’t alone any longer-
They are back and speaking

Why let go-
we can’t forget to be-
Is to please

Please – we beg all
In every one of us and the more-
Don’t ever not be

If we give permission for you-
Than let me be-
To be given permission to us

To be exactly who we are today

copyright 2016 -M. Taggart

Odd Walking Thoughts

I dislike the means in which another removes a true thought. A bad mood, having stolen a good mood. The interruption of thought because of selfishness. I’d rather listen to the laughter of a toddler than talk to the adults who destroy free will and pat themselves on the back when having won a manipulative moment.

copyright 2016 -M. Taggart

An Uneven Unity – A Short Story

An Uneven Unity: Fiction

Written by -M. Taggart copyright 2016

 

‘Hun, why are you stomping?’

‘I’m not stomping. I’m trying to put things away.’ She said with a tone.

His wife generally stomped when she was busy. She also seemed upset and almost angry. Her eyes were tense and she gave one word answers. A few minutes earlier he had heard her car door close. He was excited she was home. He’d put his boots on and opened the door. She had an arm load of groceries. He smiled wide and asked how her day was. She pushed through the door and passed him. ‘Good.’ She had rushed into the kitchen and put the bags on the counter and immediately went into the bathroom. He thought about asking her if she was alright through the door, but knew it wouldn’t go well. Instead, he brought in the rest of the groceries.

Now, as he read at the table, he watched her stomp. ‘How was your day Hun?’

‘I told you. Good.’ And again she rushed passed him stomping as she went.

He felt the familiar twinge of disappointment spreading. ‘Well, did anything exciting happen?”

‘No. It was work. And why do you always start a conversation with me by saying something like I’m stomping. That puts me in a bad mood. You know it does. You’re like the men I work with. I’m sorry to tell you, but not all women walk lightly. That’s sexist. I walk how I walk and it’s not stomping. I’m busy and getting things done so I can relax like you.’

‘It wasn’t sexist. Calm down. From my point of view, it was a fact. You seem to be stomping. And you seem unhappy. I want you not to be unhappy and I want to help, but I don’t know how.’ Now his body was fully and completely disappointed. He’d gone too far and now it was his fault. He could have let her finish with her mood on her own, but instead he needled because he was not a sexist and he felt he needed to defend himself. But, to what end, he thought.

‘Don’t tell me to calm down!’ She snapped. ‘Now I am unhappy and it’s because of you.’ Her eyes were full of anger. She seemed to look at him as though she didn’t enjoy him and wished he were gone.

He tried to find his piece within his book. He knew to not reply. To leave her alone. He’d apologize later.

‘You know what?’ she said, ‘It would be nice if you’d have a conversation with me instead of reading all the time. I get home and your face is stuck in a book. You don’t talk to me. It’s as if you don’t even know me.’

The light was fading, the day was nearing to an end. Soon it would be dusk and then dark. Eventually he would walk upstairs to their bedroom. His wife would already be asleep. He’d slide his jeans off as quietly as he could and slowly get into bed. He’d think about putting his arm over his wife and pulling her close and whispering he loved her and kissing the back of her head. He wouldn’t do this for fear of waking her and becoming angry with him.