A Poem

There – On the Shelf
Stored so nicely-
We’ve placed our thoughts-
All of them

And now they wander-
Restless
Hurt and abandoned-
They will search on their own

copyright 2016 -M. Taggart

A Purposeful Life – Fiction

Written by Matt Taggart aka -M. Taggart

Copyright 2016

A Purposeful Life – Fiction

 

And the children were happy because they loved their uncle and love was a smile.  He reached lower to ruffle each of their heads.  His nephew ran after his twin sister through the doorway leading into the living room and both were now gone.  Only the sounds of their footsteps racing upstairs were left for him.

He was alone.  His brother and wife had already said goodbye and were also upstairs.  Now, all that was left was to open the closet door, find his jacket, and leave.

Hanging on hooks, on the back of the closet door, were coats with little hoods that had animal ears.  On the closet floor were tiny boots.  He told himself not to think about it, but it was too late and he’d already started.  He reached out and touched a red checkered coat that belonged to his nephew.

No, he thought.  This is their happiness and it isn’t right to think of this now.  He closed the front door behind him, walked down the porch steps, and into the driveway.  He opened the door to his truck and got in.

Opening the windows, feeling the wind, and listening to music while he drove didn’t help.  He turned the radio off.  The winding New Hampshire road led him through farm land.  Cow pastures and corn fields were on either side of him.  Beyond the fields was woodland leading to a deeper forest.  Maybe he ought to stop his truck and walk in as deeply as he could and not come back for a long while or ever.  It seemed it was now always like this.  Each time he visited his brother- to see family, he was forced to remember and now it was overwhelming and he couldn’t not think of it.

It was difficult for him to look forward to his empty studio apartment containing walls which mocked each of his thoughts.  He would pace his small apartment and view the same cracks each time he passed them as not to tip the balance one way or the other.  Then he’d sit on his one chair he owned and read.  Sometimes this would help.  Other times it would only open him more to what he’d been trying to escape.  He was reminded that scars of this nature won’t heal with any one word from any one mouth and most likely won’t heal at all.  No matter how many words he’ll hear or read.

He knew deeply he needed change.  The cow pastures on the winding road wanted him to settle here, with them all, but he couldn’t.  He continued to drive, although he wasn’t truly in this moment.  He was nearly already pacing in his studio wondering which Hemingway story to read to find peace.  He wouldn’t think of it though, he told himself.  He’d only try and think of how they had smiled with love and try to learn it all again.  The sun was bright.  His mind split while trying to give permission to live with purpose.

 

I invite you to learn about my self published book.

https://mtaggartwriter.wordpress.com/my-book/

Or you can skip directly to the amazon page and read the reviews.

Thank you for reading.

Matt

 

Mind Your Obstacle

A Poem by Emily Dickinson.

The Missing All – Prevented Me
From missing minor Things.
If nothing larger than a World’s
Departure from a Hinge-
Or Sun’s extinction, be observed-
‘Twas not so large that I
Could lift my Forehead from my work
For Curiosity.

Final Harvest, Emily Dickinson. Page 228, (985)

Emily D

I especially enjoy Emily’s use of punctuation as she saw fit.  Fitting her needs of expression.  I don’t ask why she capitalized some and not others in a judgmental manner.  As I was judged recently on a poem I wrote.  No.  I ask why because I’m pushed internally to know more and better learn her state of mind.  Why judge an artist when it’s their creativity that drew your eyes to begin with.

Emily is a master.  She was then also.  It wasn’t Emily’s fault it took decades for understanding to catch up.

Cheers.  Post written by -M. Taggart.
https://mtaggartwriter.wordpress.com/category/poem/

The Exaggerator – Odd Walking Thoughts

He walked farther into the Forrest with his son. He wanted to tell of the tree with the face. He could’t find it. As they searched he told the boy of how the tree must have uprooted itself and moved on because it was alive enough to have a face and speak and could certainly move about the woods as it pleased.  The boy listened and took notice of the tone his mother had warned of. It took on a note of story telling and mistrust grew from each story.  His father crossed a brook then hurried up a slight ravine and happened upon an eleven. See son, these two fallen branches make an eleven and they are showing us the way to the tree face. These were put here as a marker for you and I. There’s no way for them to simply be. They are for us, his father said with great seriousness. His son looked at the Forrest floor wearing a look if sadness. What’s wrong, his father asked. The boy replied, do you ever want to tell and not describe? What do you mean, his father pressed.  That’s maybe not an eleven put here for us, the boy replied. No? He looked at his son with an irritable glance.  Then what is it?  His son answered, two sticks not laying down.

 

 

A Moveable Feast – The Restored Edition

‘When spring came, even the false spring, there were no problems except where to be happiest. The only thing that could spoil a day was people and if you could keep from making engagement, each day had no limits. People were always the limiters of happiness except for the very few that were as good as spring itself.’ -Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast.

It matters not which end of the spectrum–  early Hemingway, later Hemingway; I always find his words to be exacting and important to me.

I’m reading the ‘Restored Edition’ of The Moveable Feast.  Hemingway wasn’t finished writing this story when he died.  It turns out a chapter was added that he hadn’t written and the first published version contained that chapter and edits that ought not to have been made.  Sean Hemingway, Papa’s grandson, obtained a copy of the original manuscript and again published the work in the proper format.  This edition contains a personal foreword by Patrick Hemingway, the sole surviving son of Papa.

Read on, it’s good for the Brain. -M. Taggart

EH 2723P  Milan, 1918 Ernest Hemingway, American Red Cross volunteer. Portrait by Ermeni Studios, Milan, Italy. Please credit "Ernest Hemingway Photograph Collection, John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, Boston".
EH 2723P Milan, 1918
Ernest Hemingway, American Red Cross volunteer. Portrait by Ermeni Studios, Milan, Italy. Please credit “Ernest Hemingway Photograph Collection, John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, Boston”.