Poem

I enjoy reading books at pubs.
I enjoy the atmosphere, the noise,
the celebration of life via
conversations over drinks.
I’m comfortable hearing the
constant commotion while filing
through the lines of whatever
book that is in my hand.
I love the smell of the different
foods being prepared in the kitchen,
and the visual of the steam following
the order to the table where it’ll
be enjoyed. I can squint my eyes
and barely see the words I’m reading,
or I can leave them wide open and
take in the moments my peripheral will
provide. Either way is fine with me,
though sometimes it depends on the book.
As though they demand somehow an
existential variation concerning a costume
they wish me to wear, and though I shake it
off, at times it drapes and I do don it for
a small while to satisfy their needs.

-M. Taggart

poem-

Wake up
I did
And that’s something I’ve never done
because I’ve never known this morning-
So that means we’ve both just done
something we’ve never done on the same
morning which can never be done again-
Now go be what you talk about.

-M. Taggart
copyright 2018

Buk – A small sample of his writing

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

It Hides Itself with Seasons – New England

It’s crisp with crunching leaves then humid with summer nights.  Its snow is deep and winters long with flowers growing wild in the spring.  It hides itself with seasons.  New England.  -M. Taggart

Shelburne Falls, MA, across from the famous bridge of flowers. This hidden town is worth a visit. Photograph courtesy of Robert Ford. http://fineartamerica.com/featured/fall-colors-shelburne-falls-massachusetts-robert-ford.html
Shelburne Falls, MA.  Home of the famous bridge of flowers. This hidden town is worth a visit. Photograph courtesy of Robert Ford. http://fineartamerica.com/featured/fall-colors-shelburne-falls-massachusetts-robert-ford.html
Westerly, RI. A well known path by locals.
Westerly, RI.  A well known path by locals.
Hills of CT- Roughly 30 minutes from Mystic, CT.
Roughly 30 minutes from Mystic, CT.
Montague, MA. Long before this old mill was transformed into a rustic pub it was among my father's favorite fishing holes.
Montague, MA.  Long before this old mill was transformed into a rustic pub it was among my father’s favorite fishing holes.
Rangeley, ME. You can't get there from here.
Rangeley, ME.  You can’t get there from here.
Somewhere near Greenville, ME. A bit of a hidden spot where George has taught me to fly fish.
Somewhere near Greenville, ME.  A bit of a hidden location where I was taught to fly fish.
Ninigret Park. Charlestown, RI. Photo taken from one of the paths overlooking the salt water pond.
Ninigret Park.   Charlestown, RI. Photo taken from one of the paths overlooking the salt water pond.
Gill, MA. My home town. Tom Brady once sent his Realtor to view the estate on settled on top of this hill.
Gill, MA.  My home town. Tom Brady once sent a contact to view the estate settled on top of this hill.
Block Island, RI. Where I accidentally fell in love.
Block Island, RI. Where I fell in love with a silhouette.

copyright M. Taggart.  Feel free to share this article by forwarding the link.

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Odd Walking Thoughts – He had forgotten he was crazy.

For a long time he had forgotten that he was crazy.  He remembered when-  A friend told ‘her’ about another ‘him’ and being told about this helped him to remember that the two are one and the same. He wasn’t sure he should believe himself because he knows there can’t be two.  It’s a bit like this-  It’s dark and you feel a large stone.  You sit on this stone.  As you touch the stone you feel bits of dirt crumbling off. The dirt falls onto the ground and you’re no longer sitting on the stone.  You’re now looking up.  At another. The ground is your new home and above is a lie. It never happened. There was no stone and there wasn’t a ‘her’ and there isn’t any darkness nor any crumbling dirt.  And there was one. -M. Taggart