Poem-

I lay at the bottom
of ferns
near the roots
smelling earth
listening to insects crawl
while the sun stands over
I watched an ant carry
the wing of a dragonfly
toward home
Home to me as
a young boy
was a confusing place
to love
so I laid with the ferns
hoping to understand
why alone feels
like home
-M. Taggart

Odd Walking Thoughts

Listening to the rain. I’m home. The sands of time can go fuck themselves. Each of them. Home wasn’t always a thing I knew. Home was a faint whisper about Honesty and relief. Home was a deepening hole begging you to never tell. Never tell. As hushed mushroom grew in the shower. A blistering mouth spewed throbbing beginnings. – Listening to the rain it’s hard not to love. Now that I am home. And I am home.

-M. Taggart

My Closet – Poem

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

work in progress – home

A man sits on a wooden bench
unable to know home
and with all of his knowledge
He is dead
He sits alone

The bench, surrounded by forest-
Listens for him
as the wind rushes along the tops of the trees
while the man rests his palms on his knees-
His dried knuckles have cracked and wrinkled
for the man lived lived and lived-

They had begun on the coast
wearing large smiles
eventually finding this forest
where a bench begged to be built
along the edge of a soon to be
orchard

She had picked their bench
a nicely fallen oak
and asked for it to point
here, toward the slope,
where they could sit hand in hand
and listen to the wind
as it passed along the tops of the trees
bringing sounds of the ocean again

Now she was gone
and he sits all alone
looking at the forest
knowing he’d never
be home

 

 

No way home – Poem

 

lying face down-
with vomit spilling from his mouth

we let him be

We tried to tell him with words-

Hard top roads
are all the same-
only this one-
is yours

Tomorrow-
after the stench has cleared,
He’ll speak with a clean tongue-
And tell you everything you want to hear

**
copyright 2017

You feel like home – A Poem

It was summer and I was driving alone – windows down – wind blowing
From the rear view mirror I watched dust thickly fly-
I needed this- the dust and leaves dropping – flying so uniquely for themselves-
I didn’t know you then
But I knew I would
You see – it’s hard for me to say – but you see-
You feel like home

copyright 2016 – M. Taggart