Poem- To be seen

I’m looking at a picture of us
I didn’t like it at the time
There was something too real-
I felt ugly about it
But now I love it
You were trying to tell me something
And now that you don’t want to be seen
I’ve figured it out in the photo
While I was off mentally having fun
You were telling me you loved me
and that you were sick
They say a picture says a thousand words
What about emotions

-M. Taggart

poem

We aren’t all equal,
says men
women too

You’re nothing but a fucking drunk
As she cheats

Eat your vegetables
or no inheritance for you
Says both
to the children
of nine
seven
and
none

Rolling around the dishes
the old man splits his finger,
thinks of telling her,
It wouldn’t matter,
hasn’t for a long time

Kid picks up a rock
and tosses it through the window
of his father’s car

Doesn’t much matter
hasn’t for along time

time
was nothing
but a dribble

then,
dribble
found
a few things

-M. Taggart

I’d rather lift an artist up than crush their dreams.

I admire artists who have the talent and skills to sketch, paint, and draw. I don’t have the ability to do any of those things. For me, it’s a pleasure to view the creations of others.

And to think of an artist being told, in some form or another, that their art isn’t valuable…well that pisses me off. And that’s what happened to my friend, Melissa.

Please, jump on over to Melissa’s blog for me and check out her incredible image of a face with its watching, caring, deep set eyes, and let her know how valuable her art is. I can’t stand seeing someone put down when sharing their expressions with the world.

Here’s a link to the painting (scroll down to the end of the post)

https://melissalafontaineblog.wordpress.com/2020/05/04/status-report/

I hope you all have a good day,

Matt

poem- new desk.

My fingers are strong,
so I think I’ll type a bit more.

Set up my new desk this evening.
Having scotch to celebrate.
Blue Label.

The old desk was tied
to my abuse.

Told myself it was OK.

How many years did I write on that?

How many rain drops fell.

Life is what we make it.
Unless you’re a child without a choice.

-M. Taggart

 

My Poem “Our Self Embrace” Read Live on Stage in NYC at Bowery Poetry by SirCharlesThePoet.

Recently I was blown away by a kind and generous man. I approached him about reading a published poem of mine, on stage, in NYC. Charles Joseph (aka SirCharlesThePoet) has an energy about him which I admire. Charles had, from my point of view, very little reason to do this for me, but he did. Because apparently, that’s how he is.

When Charles first sent me the video I couldn’t watch it. I tried, but needed to shut it off each time he started to read the poem. Not only because of what the poem means to me personally, but because of how large I view this moment-  his act of kindness reached through my screen.

Please visit and participate with Sircharlesthepoet:
His About page: https://sircharlesthepoet.wordpress.com/about/

“Charles “Sircharlesthepoet” Joseph is a poet living in NYC, although he was born in Haiti. At 11 years old, Charles discovered America. Soon after his discovery of the States, at the age of 12, Charles started writing.”

Here is a link to the video. I am so very thankful for this. For Charles to read this poem on stage in NYC is a dream come true. I’m in shock that you did this for me, Charles, I will not forget. You are a talented, intelligent, creative mind. I’m happy to know you.

YouTube Video:

 

Our Self Embrace, orginally published on SpillWords Press:

Our Self Embrace

Cheers, Everyone! I do hope you are lucky enough to know Charles.

Matt

 

Odd Walking Thoughts

Passion breeds. Listen to the crickets, walk in the cornfield, alone. Smell the stalks and the earth below your feet, come home and relish in the thought of doing it again. Without passion we are lost and wandering among smiles that have never counted for anything other than self.

-M. Taggart

 

 

Impact

I received a phone call this morning.
the kind that lasts all day.

You can push it aside,
but it’s there, sitting in your stomach
and slowly climbs through your heart
and eventually into your head.

Where, either you deal with it,
or it deals with you.

 

-M. Taggart