Oh yes- It does roam-
It does wander-
Who am I to become in the way-
Freedom is an un-strangulation of thought
when held in place-
Silent is the coming of my soul-
I can fall asleep knowing
-M. Taggart copyright 2017
Thank you for reading. You are welcome to share this. To whomever shared a recent poem of mine on Facebook, thank you. I treasure that action as a great compliment.
That poem is-
We sit, listening to ourselves breathe-
A delayed day happened again
With our most clear window
Showing us everything
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.
Thanks for reading.
Here’s another ‘Odd Walking Thoughts’
As soon as you ask permission, you’re fucked. Do what you need to do.
What’s sickening is our freedom of speech being ripped from our throats. That’ll not be me. -M. Taggart
This conduit shut-
copyright 2016 -M. Taggart
I awoke myself remembering to be free. -M. Taggart
I read this again this morning and wanted to share. Originally posted on November 24th, 2014.
And this I believe: that the free, exploring mind of the individual human is the most valuable thing in the world. And this I would fight for: the freedom of the mind to take any direction it wishes, undirected. And this I mist fight against: any idea, religion, or government which limits or destroys the individual. This is what I am and what I am about. I can understand why a system built on a pattern must try to destroy the free mind, for that is one thing which can by inspection destroy such a system. Surely I can understand this, and I hate it and I will fight against it to preserve the one thing that separates us from the uncreative beasts. If the glory can be killed, we are lost. – John Steinbeck. East of Eden.
I found this to be the most powerful paragraph in the book. Much later in the book he followed this thought up with-
Can you think that whatever made us –would stop trying?
Some writers write to re-read their own words. Others write humbly then hope and pray another will find them useful. I find Steinbeck’s words most useful and I wish I could shake his hand.
Our freedom showed well-
When December became warm-
And hope tingled all-
I have your brass Railroad Maintenance Shop plate hung on display. It’s on a beam in the basement. I’ve hung many other antiques around it. I try and choose mostly cast iron. I think the color of the iron helps to represent my thoughts. The entire beam is covered with items and I’m still searching for more. Often I’ll pray underneath your brass plate. I’d say I miss you, but that wouldn’t be telling it all. I miss your physical form. I do not miss your presence. You’re still here and you still guide me.
You called us honey and you’d pull us in and hug us. You did this every time we saw you. I still remember how you sound when you breath. Your hands were massive and I could see strength in your fingers. For two summers you looked after us three. We’d run around your backyard while you worked in the garden, or in your shop. You’d break off pieces of rhubarb and give them to us and watch us squirm while trying to chew the bitter tasting plant. Then we’d turn on the hose and drink from it and wash away the after taste. We’d watch you pounding with your hammer or cutting wood planks while you were working in your shop. Your suspenders made your large frame look to be among the most solid of all men. You could create anything and you knew everything without boasting. Us three would ask questions without limits and you never tired of us.
There was a pile of bricks you wanted moved from the backyard to the plot of land across the street. You parked the tractor with it’s trailer next to the pile of bricks and told us to fill the trailer. We filled the trailer. It was summer and it was hot. We were sweating, as children do. It starts on top of the head and drips from the brow down the nose and off the body. Our hands were dirty with lime and dust. You drove the tractor, slowly, and we followed running and shuffling behind. Now, you said, line the bricks up like this and then stack them neatly. We had crossed the road and were in the second plot of land.
We lined the bricks and we stacked them neatly. It was still hot and we were still sweating. After we finished you peered at our work and said it looked good and to put the bricks back into the trailer. Then, drive the tractor back to where the bricks came from and lay them back in the yard.
We three didn’t mind stacking the bricks again. We three wanted to drive the tractor.
If only you had us each summer. I often write of you within a story. I think of you every day. I’m realizing that with your actions you have shown me something of the utmost value. I remember asking you who had built your house. You did. It started as a very small house. The bank wouldn’t give you a loan to build more. You then built the house steadily in sections. You did this when you had the money to purchase the supplies. Board by board. Your house is beautiful. I visit Gram; she says she still loves the house and we do too. The interior is hard wood with thick beams lining the ceiling. That’s why I put your brass plate on a wooden beam in the basement. I spend much time there. I remember all of the moments we shared and I wonder how you had so much time to spend with us.
Freedom. I see now that freedom isn’t what we were taught in school. Freedom isn’t getting up when a bell tells us to because we’re part of a group and aren’t we lucky. Freedom isn’t having things to show others, and look at us, we’re lucky and we’re good. Freedom isn’t climbing a ladder of success to then peer down from the top and pat oneself on the back. So many are left behind and forgotten in the wake of these illusions. You allowed me to witness that freedom is owning your time. And now I have an idea.
Thank you Grandpa.
I woke early this morning with these thoughts of my Grandfather. Megan and I leave for Maine shortly. I knew I had to write this or lose it. Good morning.