Poem

My 90-year-old Grandmother commented
on a poem that I dedicated to my father-

She wrote,
“No comment–Not sure what to say.”

Which was brilliant.

Though my father was not her son,
she felt my agony. She knows the man
her daughter had married
and loved at one point,
is now dead.

And she is not.

I found my Grandmother’s comment
to be oddly comforting.

Above my office window, stand three letters.
I placed them

As if they don’t matter and can be
moved at any moment.
to be hidden.
Or to charm.

DAD

My son picked them out while
visiting my mother in Masshachussetts.
He painted them blue and red.

It was father’s day weekend.
We dropped Gavin off at my mother’s house.
And drove away,.

while I and Megan went to my father’s celebration of life.

I was sick that weekend. I’m not sure what it was.

But I do like looking out my office window and seeing
DAD

as I look up

-M. Taggart

I will not let you down, Gavin.

#Poem – An Original Bee

I heard an original
and beautiful song today.
There’s a bee in our new shed
swinging around, looking for its life.
I thought about killing it.

I thought about killing it.
Like I thought about my life.

-M. Taggart

(No worries, I’m not suicidal. Just how the words came out
and I prefer to leave them alone once they are here.
I have a lot going on- including my father’s celebration
of life in a few days.)

In case you were wondering

I look back at my childhood and pull the good from the not good. There was plenty of both. Somehow I’ve become a success in life. To me, happiness is success. But to much of society, prosperity is the measure worth looking at. I wish it wasn’t like this. Reading a book outside with the sun touching the pages while listening to Spring-time birds, all while thinking nothing other than the book and the sun and the birds, that is a measure I use to gage my happiness.

Yet, somehow, even with my bad portions of my childhood, I am a success on other levels as well. I am a father. A husband. A business owner. A college graduate. I have been elected President and owner of a new company set to explode. We are building a new building in a city which contains Maine’s second largest population. I picked the city. It’s diverse. I like diversity. My company will bring new jobs to this city. As I told the city officials, my goal is to enhance the community we enter. I will do exactly that. Our store will open later this summer.

I bring these points up because, based on only my writing, it’s possible for someone to assume that I am hobbled in a dark hole spinning around in circles. That isn’t the case. It’s simply easy for me to remember the bad and to write about the bad. Just as easily as it is for me to write about morning coffee.

When I was a teenager I wanted to be a writer who lived in Maine. At that point I lived in Massachusetts. I’ve lived in a few different states, however, I am now a writer who lives in Maine. I always wanted to be a father and husband. And while sitting in a jail cell in my early twenties, I knew I’d be a loving father and husband. My will was never broken nor in question.

My childhood trauma does not define me. I use it as motivation. And through my freedom of expression that motivation lives nearly in tangible forms. I set my goals long ago and now I’m setting new goals to will into being.

I can’t wait to see what the next ten years will bring. I am blessed. I am thankful. And please keep in mind, I may write about some awful situations, some of the darkest of places, and of thoughts no one wishes upon another- keep in mind that I am fine. More than fine. It’s important the bad is not forgotten with my abundance of good in the now. Much like the photo below. Taken a month before my father’s passing. I knew he was dying. I was on a bender, I look beat up, tired, real. I remember taking the photo and staring at it, taking in all of its reality. I know I don’t look my best, but I feel the thoughts that I had during the moment, simply by viewing the photo. This game of life is something to cherish. All of it.

Matt

ps- Thanks for being here.

Poem

A man
once told me
there’s nothing
when we die

That’s funny
nothing

I find nothing sitting next to me
often

And I found nothing next to his ears
and eyes
and mouth

His mind was lost
trying to lead me

God apparently left few traces
for few to follow

Spread throughout
every morning sun
and sunset

There’s nothing

-M. Taggart