Life in a cardboard box

Women eat in parking lots
at grocery stores.
I recently watched an old women
hurriedly strip her gloves
from her hands,
and rip at the cardboard entrance
of her treat.
Eventually she pulled the pastry
from its home and unwrapped it
from its plastic coffin.
Alive again, she nibbled.
The old women didn’t notice me.
I was sitting in my truck.
I like to watch parking lots.
I see a lot of men sitting in their trucks.
We’re all waiting.
What the hell are we doing.

-M. Taggart


It doesn’t take much.
A flip of a few words.
Blank pages turned different,
with the imprints of thought.
Think of the voices running
along every crevice of every mind
and remember about how a furrowed
brow tossed off a difference
only because it had been seen by another.
Sleep with the breeze just enough to embrace.

-M. Taggart


Some people Love.
Some hate, choking on vile they created.
A few dance in and out,
looking at things that look back.
I like to think, maybe, about a laugh
I didn’t know, then speak it into being.
For the ones who hate without knowing-
That’ll be for them to solve.
Death is but stitch in the side.
It doesn’t end.
But our memory will be there.

-M. Taggart


I like my morning.
It’s crisp with a rawness from the approaching storm.
Sleet, ice, some snow and rain
are in the mix for the next 24 hours. So they say.
I watched, as Megan walked Gavin down our driveway
to wait for his bus. If the storm is bad in the afternoon,
we’ll jump in the truck and pick Gavin up at his school.
I like to do that for the bus driver on bad weather days.
We live on the side of a mountain and the road is steep.
Megan has the day off.
I don’t know what we’ll do today, but clearly, I’m already
ignoring ‘work’ and writing about simple things instead.
I like simple things. Maybe we’ll go to the movies, a simple
and random thing to do on a Monday.
And maybe we’ll go for a drive on a dirt road and listen
to the sound of the sleet as it pangs off the windshield.
Maybe I’ll take a photo to share, something rustic and wild.
That’s the thing about being a self taught writer/poet-
It’s All poetry to me. The waiting for the bus, the watching
out the window, noticing a slight breeze, the thinking of what to do,
the enjoyment of the matrix of life. It’s all right there,
in front of me, waiting to be seen.

-M. Taggart

Home Again

Everything Changes, once in a while.
I’m not a fan of the word every(thing),
every(time). Not everything is an every anything.
It’s a bit like when someone tells me that, “I always…”
when in fact I don’t always anything.

I drove down a little dirt path, covered with leaves,
to this old, dilapidated, and left-behind mill. At some
point, it’ll not be crumbling. It’ll be gone; traveling with
the current of the lake toward the small stream leading
into the forest and back home again.

It’s possible that we all go back home again.

-M. Taggart



(photo credit- Matt’s cell phone.)

Words are dead

A word is dead
When it is said,
Some say.
I say it just
Begins to live
That day.

-Emily Dickinson. Final Harvest, (1212).

Thoughts? Is a word ever dead? I think not. Besides that, notice the capitals. Ignore rules and write how it is.




Poem – Until Then

It’s no longer a serendipitous storm
while we breathe its nature
through filtered gates
as these mirrors please themselves
attempting to gaze back with an
untrue sense of veneration
placed within itself for yourself-
push away this falseness
until faith becomes you

-M. Taggart

Poem – The List

Can we add sections to our soul?
If we think of it, and give it a name,
is it now done? The clicking in our
throat is inadequate. To this old and
dusty book, we give our time. For a
sensation without claim has nothing,
and a morning without feeling is lost.
In a chest, sits a satisfied possession
of misunderstood; awaiting the hand
which will open every deliverance.
Come one, come two, and three.

-M. Taggart

Poem – Sunday

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.