poem

consistency is brilliant

a kid can learn from that
the thing is

many adults

are full of shit

fake-ism
brought on from childhood
by adults who were

full
of
shit

And here we are

consistency is brilliant

-M. Taggart

poem

Got a bit drunk the night before my surgery.
Paperwork said not to drink.

I thought, if I don’t wake up,
and don’t visit my favorite pub and have
at least one Manhattan, what’s the point
of not having a damn drink.

So we went to the pub.

The next morning I told the anesthesiologist,
“I had a beer last night.”

“Yea? What time was that?”

“Around seven.”

“You’ll be fine.” He smiled.

“And by a beer I mean a few drinks.”

“Eh. You’ll be fine.”

And I was.

I don’t ask permission to live my life.

-M. Taggart

Cheers. To thine own self be true.

Charlie

I can touch my head again.
It’s nice being able to reach.
Charlie, our nine-month-old
12 pound Maine coon cat,
follows me around.
I can bend down and
pick him up again.
I place Charlie on my shoulder
and walk him to the window.
Surgeon said I’m healing so well
that I don’t need physical therapy.
Soon I’ll have full range of motion.
Maybe Charlie can help.

-M. Taggart

Meet Charlie. Nearly 8 months in this photo.

And Said… #Poem

It was a stone
like any other stone
except it had a mouth
and spoke
of pine needles
and quantum therapy
and about how a few
fingers could cross the world
if only for eyes
to see
and a heart
to feel
It told about how the heavens
rained down so hard that the
stone’s eyes were worn away
and while it admitted it never
had fingers, it felt it nearly
could have while sadly
its soul drifted away, quickly even,
then slowly as the rain lessened
Eventually the stone lay still
with a bit of sun and less self
and more thoughts with less sight
until it was found by a frog
hopping around laughter
lit by courage
and carried by a young girl
wearing a yellow hat
She dabbed the stone with
a dry towel and said

-M. Taggart

Odd Walking Thoughts – Judge us Not

I like to look at the sky without a voice in my ear. A simple thing, fingers on wood, a thing in a word, while an eye watches a few others. It’s nothing that needs to be remembered, other than the memory itself, and the one who took hold of creation. Isn’t it nice when you sit on a step, alone, at night, and see whatever is given without judgement.

-M. Taggart

I originally wrote this on 2/27/20 and find it rather fitting to post it again. Somehow the words are more true, for me, than one year ago. I published this just before my book signing last year, which was an incredibly fun time. And then, our country was shut down. It’s time for another book signing.

Have fun today,

Matt

poem

I remember the shower had mushrooms
growing on the wall
Much of the ceramic was busted
The water fed them
I was young

Sometimes
I ran across the street
and hid in the ravine

it was better than
being at the house

Mushrooms grow
things grow

-M. Taggart

Poem

The trees are a bit different today.
Only slightly, but it’s there.
One less shred of bark.
A whisper of height more.
In the corner of our mind
we store the newness of change.
But what for? Are we waiting
for our reflection to speak.
And who’s newness is this.

-M. Taggart