poem- about a morning

There’s a thing about a morning
The way it settles in
How the mist moves slowly
How we feel
I wonder if anyone else watches
like me
about how the leaves look
That’s the thing about a morning
Each one is slightly different

-M. Taggart

I hope your day treats you well.

Poem – One Morning

I like this morning.
It seemingly proves
that I am still here.
Outside my window,
some fifty feet down
our sloping front yard,
is a tree that has been
snapped in half by a storm.
It has no branches and no leaves,
standing naked, producing no defense.
This tree is beautiful in all the
morning light I have ever seen it,
as it has seen them with me.
We, the tree and I, intertwined
within the fellowship of time
are reminded of a man from the
past who needs constant evidence
of existence; who am I to know
I am me with here and now
if only for liking one morning.

-M. Taggart

Cheers the Morning

Some mornings are better than others.
Hell, some are so good that I think it’s
important to cheers the morning and to
tell it it’s one of the best you’ve ever had.
That way it might just want to come back again
and again and again.
Mornings are funny like that.
Especially when you control them.

-M. Taggart

Cheers

Sent from my iPhone

And so it goes

I woke this morning thinking of how somewhere
A mailman will walk the same route
and smile at the same dog in the window-
A diner cook is frying eggs for a woman who’s shaking from grief
Needing comfort
The hot coffee was the first warmth she’d been given
A school bus driver swings open the doors and greets two children
One of which didn’t have breakfast but will soon because the doors just opened and the bus always takes them to school where the cafeteria is
And their school teacher thinks
about how some children have parents who make breakfast and some don’t
And about how some children care
And some don’t
All While the mailman walks whistling as he goes saying hello to Spring flowers

-M. Taggart

 

Sent from my iPhone

Smile – It’s a good day

‘Great ideas come and go. Execution hardly happens.’
-M. Taggart

I’ve spoken these words thousands of times. At one point I taped the quote on my computer. Forcing myself to take the book I was writing seriously. To ensure I wouldn’t fowl my intention. I did finish the book. And since that time I’ve written two additional books. I know one of them is not good. I also know the other is very good. However, I’m learning it doesn’t fit the current market.

I’m now on chapter five of a new project. And yesterday morning I pushed myself to again submit a batch of poems to a publication. The only shame would be if I hadn’t. I cannot be that man who says and never does. I cannot. I will not.

Finish your chapter. Finish your poem. Let it live. Once you’ve found completion you can relax. Submit your work. And submit it again. The feeling of rejection is art.

If interested, below is a link to the only book of mine that’s available online.

 

 

Or you can visit this-
https://mtaggartwriter.wordpress.com/category/dont-be-a-sally-based-on-true-events/

Thanks for reading,

Matt

Gone Fishing – Flash Fiction

The birds chirped. It was 4:07 AM. He knew his grandfather was up and double checking their fishing gear. Rods, life vests, water, tackle, bait, and extra gas. He could see in his mind his grandfather’s large hands patting each item as he checked them off. He’d wear a slightly grim look, almost worrisome, but when done his face would relax.

The sheets were warm where he lay. He stretched his legs and let one foot breach and enter the morning air. He liked the crisp feeling. It felt as though his foot was detached from his body. He pushed the blankets off. He could smell coffee and bacon. Soon eggs would be frying and they would eat a good breakfast. Then, they would take the drive to the lake, put the boat in the water, and fish until noon.

-M. Taggart

 

I’ll Tell You How The Sun Rose – Emily Dickinson

I’ll tell you how the sun rose, –
A ribbon at a time.
The steeples swam in amethyst,
The news like squirrels ran.

The hills untied their bonnets,
The bobolinks begun.
Then I said softly to myself,
“That must have been the sun!”

But how he set, I know not.
There seemed a purple stile.
Which little yellow boys and girls
Were climbing all the while

Till when they reached the other side,
A dominie in gray
Put gently up the evening bars,
And led the flock away.

-Emily Dickinson

An excellent poem to read when starting a Sunday.