Poem

How’s life I wanted to know.
I asked the pacing doors.
The hallway wasn’t the same
and the smells were changing-
found a grievance filled with
letters floating around my head-
I wonder if I’ll see him again,
even if just inside a dream or two.

-M. Taggart

poem

You don’t need to
use dense vocabulary
to tell a good story.
I had this dream
about what I should do,
but I didn’t do it.
Hundred bucks to
the painter who best
depicts a dream I had.
It’s that simple.
Tell about the dream,
offer a hundred,
and wait. That’s
all I’m asked to do
and I’ve yet to do it.
And I will pay.

-M. Taggart

 

Dreams – And The Creative Process

I’ve literally been ‘given’ lines of poetry in my dreams. I wake up, do my job, and write them down.  -M. Taggart

This thought was spurred into being by an intriguing post written by Angel Zuma. It appears that Angel is a relatively new blogger.

Please, let’s flood Angel’s blog with support! Visit Angel’s post here:

https://theangelindistress.wordpress.com/2019/11/29/the-higher-power-that-is-responsible-for-the-creative-process/

Dreamscape

It sings with the birds
Early in the morning
Lurking and churning
With the wind, inching closer
To your sleeping self
Finally entering
Through your parted lips
Without sound-
Only your dream noticed

-M. Taggart

Sent from my iPhone

It’s just a dream

I had a very disturbing dream last night. I was unable to fall back to sleep. Instead I looked at the bedroom door, wondered what might be on the other side, and for the first time that I can remember I thought of Hell as an actual fact.

To the best of my daytime memory it went like this:

I was jogging in the inside of the circumference of a tennis court. The tennis court had a gate made of wood built around the entirety of it. The wood planks stopped roughly two feet from the ground. I noticed two homeless men sleeping under the two foot gap. They both wore blue jeans. Their faces were haggard. The men appeared to be sleeping off a large affliction of some kind.

I jogged to the exit of the tennis court where a third homeless man awoke as I came near. His eyes had dark circles under them. He meant to speak to me, but I jogged passed him and down the hill to the building below. I entered the building. The building resembled an old YMCA and was empty. I stood near the entrance desk. The form of a man I knew appeared, squatting, with his back against the wall on the other side of the desk.

“Hello, Matt.”

He looked healthy. He looked good.

I don’t remember everything he said. I wish I did. I asked him about the three homeless men. He told me they are stuck in a cycle and that they will be stuck. The three men were him, but not him. This was a healthy him.

The dream fluttered and I found myself outside of the YMCA look-a-like building with the man’s son. My best friend.

“I just saw your father.”

“What?”

“I saw your father’s ghost.”

His smiled. “Show me where.”

I took him into the building and showed him exactly where his father had been squatting against the wall. The dream developed into the oddity of being that it is, his father reappeared with a bit of a halo. Now though, he was standing, and his eyes shown a deep imprinted knowing.

“There he is.” I nodded my head toward his father’s ghost.

“Where? I don’t see him?”

“He’s standing right there looking at you.”

Scott was speaking, I can’t recall what he was saying.

“Why can’t I see him?”

Scott replied to both of us, “Because he’s still dead.” Only I heard.

“What did you say, Scott?” He replied. I can’t remember what he said. I wanted to know how I was dead. Scott then shook my hand and said something similar to, “I’m going now.” He then turned toward the wall and opened an unseen door. As though it was a portion of time, or fabric of time, itself.

I thought I might see the entrance to heaven. Scott stepped inside the most pitch black tunnel heading steeply downward that I’ve ever seen, dream or otherwise. He was gone.

 

-M. Taggart

 

 

 

Do you dream this too?

I can’t be the only one having these dreams. I was standing on a bluff a few hundred feet above the ocean. The approaching wave was  level with my head. The wave behind that was trying to block the sun. The people on the beach below are oblivious. No one ran. In this dream there was a mountain behind me. -I can’t be the only one.

Matt

Twenty plus years for me.