I didn’t have any newspaper to help start the fire,
and with the amount of precipitation that has fallen
over the last number of days, most all of the sticks
that I use for kindling were saturated. I was determined
to sit next to a campfire. I retrieved gasoline from the
garage and poured it over the sticks that I had placed
in a tepee structure. I bent slightly, turned my head,
and reached with my arm as I sparked the lighter.
After some effort the fire burned hot enough to
make coals and I set a few more larger sticks on top.
I sat in our beach chair, which doesn’t match the forest
scenery, and admired the flames. The flames of a campfire
relax my mind. I’m able to enjoy the randomness and the
crackling sounds as I daydream. Gavin and Megan were
both asleep. It was late and very dark. I reached into my
pocket and took out my cell phone. I read a poem I had
written earlier. It was dreadful. So awful that I chuckled
at my failure. However, when I wrote it, I felt good. And
that feeling is partly why I write, even if the writing is bad.
And what’s more important was that when I gave myself
the permission to write for ten minutes I found my son,
Gavin, in my office sitting on my chair looking at the screen.
He had heard me say to his mother that I was going upstairs
to write for ten minutes and he beat me to where I would sit
to do the writing. As I sat near the fire watching the flames
dance, it warmed mo to think of Gavin wanting to be near me
while I wrote and I loved having him there.
..and look who just opened the door :0)
There’s an unfinished poem in my drafts file.
Apparently I wrote it last night.
I don’t remember writing it,
but while reading it, I remember having read it,
and that I was tired and was unable to finish it.
It reads like a crying child who was never
given the support they needed.
Which, makes sense.
Now, I don’t know if I want
to keep it exactly as it is;
to let it live the way it was born,
or to recreate the lines and ‘finish’ the work.
Maybe I’ll never read it again.
I don’t think that’s true though.
Something about it is already
alive and even if I don’t
publish it, the poem will still be.
Memories are like fine gifts
of images stored by you,
for you, to enjoy at any time.
Let’s try and retrieve the best
of them today to help build
on our brilliance to be.
Sent from my iPhone
What you are is a brilliant beacon-
Shifting nose-to-nose along asylum walls
Concrete has this smell
Especially when recently wet
They try and hide the dry
As they try and hide You
But the same smell is there
No matter who They Are
and instead of wanting to know you
They’ve chosen you as their supply
and hide away any light they find
Dedicated to Megan.
Watch as I take the trash out. My slippers are beaten and beautiful. I came from a shack much like a house. I smile. The heads wobble and click as I walk; my appearance, it isn’t much. My gums mash side to side and my eyes water. But I walk to the dumpster anyway.
More of -M. Taggart’s Odd Walking Thoughts:
Sometimes people make drinking
coffee look so good
that I become enraged with my own
and wonder- How the fuck
do I do this so badly
Slipping droplets between my lips
I pushed grotesque from the door
Fixedly- It moves
Knowing it’s not always always
The rain won’t talk anymore
There’s a face in the mirror
darkened, hollowed, soulless.
Sane is the night that shines-
It behooves intrepid eyelids
Never to stay closed
I chase hidden eyes
I find them in the floors
I even find them in my walls-
The only problem I have
is once I’ve found them-
I let them go-
and even though I know they’re there
they become gone