Sunday mornings lighten the heart.
It wasn’t always like this,
but has somehow found itself
nestled in place with the morning dew
and first glimpse of sunrise.
Through the New England mountains,
covered in forests, and lined with old rock walls
long ago forgotten and found again;
like a palpitating mind, not full of fear,
but of growth and hunger having transferred
any heaviness of chest to logic of the mind.
-M. Taggart
Good morning, everyone.
The frog hopped along walking sideways with thoughts, asking the young boy to please share his, ‘it wasn’t me. i’m not much anyway, but if i were, it wouldn’t matter.’ the frog stopped hopping, ‘what matters is you. you don’t know this yet. i pray you will.’ the boy stepped along remembering. always remembering.
-M. Taggart
A heart’s twisted realization
may lie within the mirror
it most often views.
As it sits without sound
accepting lusting pangs
of curious voyeurism,
feeling that maybe,
just maybe,
this will be enough.
-M. Taggart
Not all skies are the same-
Some drift a little closer
to your heart, your mind,
and your soul.
-M. Taggart
His soul slept
His heart did not
And we watched
-M. Taggart
Sent from my iPhone
Some tear hearts to watch them bleed.
They are weak, simple minded, Focused on only what they know.
It’s the hurt of the health that stands to walk again which leaves them in graves wishing forgiveness.
-M. Taggart
Sent from my iPhone
Footsteps. A bitterness of breath. Pinned in the corner of the bed. Pillows on top. ruffle covers. You weren’t there. never were. heartbeat quickened and slowed with reality knowing from life- heart is strongest when abandoned by reason and left alone. The darkness wasn’t so bad. it wasn’t so bad when the sun was out and the fish were biting. Unless the bees swarmed and landed on you. It was easy to lose your fishing rod that way. It was a beautiful summer day where the sun seemed to create a humming sound which started in the ground and made its way to your ears. When you didn’t think of it, it was still there. still there. still there.
-M. Taggart
copyright 2018
A Poem
Written by -M. Taggart
1/21/18
For years I opened my closet door to see nothing
but my own jackets, sweatshirts, boots, shoes, crap.
Eventually my closet and I didn’t get along.
Why bother opening a thing that gives back
only the same memory with no hope of progression.
My boots became more worn. My jackets changed
positions and eventually those too become useless to me.
Five years into being a hard core bachelor
-nothing could control me. Not a thing,
except for my fucking closet.
I specifically remember opening my brother’s closet
during a family event. It was the twins birthday.
I was among the last to leave. I had ruffled their hair,
told them I loved them- they ran off into another room
and I opened their closet door to find my jacket.
This was my brother’s home and my brother’s life.
In his closet hung children’s jackets. Some of which
had little ears. And on the back of the closet door
hung shoe and boot holders and in the holders were
little shoes and little boots. I wanted to cry. I wanted
to do more than cry but instead I closed the door and
walked out of my brother’s house and got into my truck.
I shut the door, turned the radio on, and drove. I drove
through farmland and shut the damn music off because I
never listen to music and it was nothing more than a mask
for having looked into another closet that was not a closet
at all, but a life. A home. A real home. I had my four walls
and my closet that I didn’t get along with waiting for me.
-Now though..I sit here thinking of that asshole closet of mine
and about how somehow, someway, it’s still there. And now
It’s the one who is alone because I am no longer alone and haven’t
been for a long, long while. Even before I met Megan. Something
happened. Something that propelled my being into what I was
meant to be, to live, to see. And now when I open my closet, it isn’t
my old boots. It’s life. It’s beautiful life. Megan’s fluffy jacket’s that
I couldn’t possibly understand how to wear, it’s her boots that I couldn’t
possibly walk in, it’s her smile hiding in the hood of her jacket, I open
my closet now and I see my son’s winter jacket puffing out at me, begging
me to put it on him. I see tiny little ears. I see little boots. And little shoes.
This is my closet, and this is my most favorite closet that I have ever had.
-M. Taggart
We walk into the shadow of death to pull one wounded child from its depths, to find another daft man standing in the corner. Leaves are shuffling outside my window. A man with a golden heart is gone. Another stands in a room looking. Don’t block me. I am here and at least I have my fingers. The man in the room standing, looking daft, asks for silence because silences never questions. Never says a damn word. The girl with the golden brow would have cared for a word. And the boy with the covers pulled tight would have cared for the same.
**
copyright 2017
-M. Taggart
Two babies cry, one is fed. -M. Taggart
It’s no secret that Ernest Hemingway is my favorite author. This is my first six word story. When I feed Gavin I find myself thinking of little ones going without. Their cries shredding the night, falling on ears without care.
My grandfather was orphaned as an infant. I’m proud to say I see a bit of him in Gavin.
