New England Talking Trail – A Poem

A wooded trail in New England is different than any other-
For it speaks to you while you walk

The gray squirrels announce your arrival
while playing tag in the under brush-
The chipmunks chirp their warning
and now every woodland creature is aware-

The blue jay shrieks its boastful bellowing call of territorial command-

The wind rustles the drying leaves –
Readying themselves to drop to the ground-
They sound like evening whispers while sitting on a porch

A bend in the trail beckons you – though it is getting to be dusk-
Now the sounds of the path are darkening-
and have taken a tone of daring

Moonlight is seeping through the canopy of New England-

While you walk you hope the light of the moon will brighten the trail-
Just a bit more-
For you hear the same gray squirrels and rustling leaves-
But the squirrels are much larger now, and the whispers are no longer friendly front porch speak-

copyright 2016 -M. Taggart

 

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In The Grip – Anxiety

I wrote this for something but that something didn’t matter. A Poem.

In The Grip – Anxiety

There – in the corner-
Our Life Died-
With four walls watching-

Unable to breathe-
Breathing too quick-
We cannot stand-
Or find safe ground

We were sure-
We’d certainly be gone-

Only- our four walls-
With their cracks and stains-
Wouldn’t let us go

Coupled with deathly thoughts-
We lie in our waste-
Abandoned by comfort-

Alone is measured
In our minds-

There – A crack-
Within one of the four walls-
We’ll climb in and pray
And finally feel nothing

-M. Taggart copyright 2016