“Garbage in, Garbage out.”

Her Grandmother
repeatedly stated this.

Garbage in, garbage out.

Meaning what you put into your body.

She also told me that her Grandmother
loved her, but her mother did not.

Or at least, she never felt loved.

I didn’t know her Grandmother

I’m thankful for her timeless
piece of advice.

-M. Taggart


On the other side of thought
sits where it came from

And in the middle-
are white picket fences
rows and rows of them

One thought
and then there were woods
and woods
and woods

-M. Taggart


It’s always nice on a dirt road.
Windows down-

As strong wind pushes leaves into song-
pebbles pop and grind.

In the middle of summer the foliage
is think and the sun finds difficulty
making it to the ground.
You drive through streaking moments
of blinding light and back into the
shadows- repeatedly, like a drumbeat.

It’s easy to be lulled into salvation if the
road it long enough and the mountain
deep enough- each bend brings
another world, each world a new beginning.

-at least a new thought, if a new world isn’t
easily accepted. But then again, that’s an
individual mindset- one meant for unending
growth, another for a self-inflicted stockade.

For me though, I crave each curve-

It’s always nice on a dirt road.

-M. Taggart

Poem up. Heart wrenched out.

And back again.

The Birth (Renewal)

by M. Taggart, Monthly Contributor
site: https://mtaggartwriter.wordpress.com/

It worked. He reached in back of his kayak,
felt the cool neck of a beer, pulled it from its
cardboard six-pack holder and placed it in his lap.
He liked the way the droplets slowly slid down the
glass bottle. He opened the beer and swallowed.
The current of the Connecticut River was guiding
him directly to the island beach where he would
sit in the warm sand and read his book. The mountain
was barely in view, he could just make out the cliffs.
The summer greenery on each side of the river banks
was full and beautiful. He was the only one on the rive



read the entire poem here