What can be done
with a wild imagination
other than change the world
What can be done
with a wild imagination
other than change the world
I’m doing laundry and don’t remember what I found
while checking the pockets of my jeans
I checked again and this time I found nothing
I’m thinking I may have found nothing the first time
But, being unable to trust my first time checking
I can’t fully trust my second time knowing that I didn’t
know much about the first, So hell with it
I check a third time and now I’m confident that the second
time was spot on. Nothing in the pockets.
It’s a confusing thing to look at a moon. There were no footsteps helping to be heard. Hush little..Don’t say a word. -A young child holds onto the moon from a place within they fear not know again. -Hasn’t it been a nice day. Hasn’t it not yet rained. Haven’t we all had a wonderful time. -While the smiles walk on.
Wasted space happened in our thought. I filed it away. Listening to no music while thinking of it. Want to keep your self. self. It’s the strangest thing when you leave. We walk in the smell. The leaves this time of year are rotting on the soles of our boots. We carve your remanence with a knife.
‘Great ideas come and go. Execution hardly happens.’
I’ve spoken these words thousands of times. At one point I taped the quote on my computer. Forcing myself to take the book I was writing seriously. To ensure I wouldn’t fowl my intention. I did finish the book. And since that time I’ve written two additional books. I know one of them is not good. I also know the other is very good. However, I’m learning it doesn’t fit the current market.
I’m now on chapter five of a new project. And yesterday morning I pushed myself to again submit a batch of poems to a publication. The only shame would be if I hadn’t. I cannot be that man who says and never does. I cannot. I will not.
Finish your chapter. Finish your poem. Let it live. Once you’ve found completion you can relax. Submit your work. And submit it again. The feeling of rejection is art.
If interested, below is a link to the only book of mine that’s available online.
Or you can visit this-
Thanks for reading,
Fiction: The Thought of Summer
Written by -M. Taggart
The Thought of Summer
The barn was dank. Inside the bull’s stall was worse. It was dark and he’d left the lamp at the house. He couldn’t always see what he was digging his shovel into, but it didn’t matter it was all the same.
His friends were in the ravine. He imagined Nick fishing in the large pool near the road and Pete walking barefoot further downstream. Pete wouldn’t be fishing, he’d most likely look for bait and return what he scavenged to Nick. Nick would catch a few trout and gut them there on the road. Then he’d wrap the trout in tin foil and put them in his pocket and head for home, or he’d put them under a rock in the brook to stay cool.
The bull’s waste smelled ripe. He didn’t mind the smell. He didn’t mind working the stall. He’d do this for his grandfather every time it needed to be done. He only thought of the ravine because it was the first day of school break. He remember telling his grandfather he’d clear the stall, but he wasn’t sure why he’d selected the first day of break. He knew Nick and Pete would be waiting for him. He’d forgotten to tell them he wouldn’t be there. It wasn’t a problem, other than that he’d forgotten to tell them and that didn’t feel right to him. He should have told them.
He dug his shovel deep into the manure and let it stand on his own. He walked out of the dark stall and into the open area where hay was stacked before being lifting into the loft. The sunlight, coming from the open barn door, looked as clean as anything he’d seen. It cut through the shadows of the barn and brought with it a smell of fresh air. Outside, he squinted his eyes hard. He could hear the chickadees talking back and forth and crows cawing just as they took flight from a large oak.
He noticed the wind playing with the leaves on the oak. The leaves were flipped over forcefully. Then all leaves on every tree were flipped and pushed in the same direction. The wind picked up dust from the corn field and come toward him. He looked from the leaves, to the corn field, back to the trees. Just behind the row of oak, maple, and pines was the entry to the ravine.
The first clap of thunder was so loud he ducked and then squatted covering his head. The sky became black and purple. He wasn’t sure when it had happened, but it had and now it was. A strap of lightening struck the oak the crows had flown from. A large branch crashed its way down into the ravine. He crawled to the barn. Rain was mixed with hail and had beaten him in the few short feet he made his way through the field on his stomach back to the barn. He was drenched and covered in mud. He felt his body running into the barn but his mind wanted to know about Nick and Pet. He thought he had seen tops of trees flying through the air. He’d never seen anything like that and he wasn’t sure.
And now he hunkered in the same stall he’d been working in. He’d made a small indent in the manure which was not level with the rest of the floor and he felt safest there, with his face in bull waste. He felt the need to pull the manure over him like a blanket. His ears popped. He could feel the barn moaning. It creaked loudly and he heard what sounded like a portion of the barn roof ripping away. He covered his neck and breathed the moist air and tried to pin himself as deep as possible into his small sanctuary.
What of Nick and Pete, he thought. The storm raged and they were in the ravine. He’d seen the lightening hit the oak. And seen pieces of trees in the air. If he had told them he’d be working in the stall they wouldn’t have gone to the ravine to wait for him today. They always meet on the first day and now this. He promised himself to never forget how he felt. To always remember. But, would they have still gone? Maybe, he thought. None of that matters though, he told himself. Because now he’s stuck to the thought of it and that can’t go away, not matter what. He created this, the thought of it, the remembering and now he’s here in the stall waiting.
For my self published shorty story please click the link below.
Let us understand this triggered silence-
And bow our head no more-
It is time to see the mirage of solid words-
copyright 2016 -M.Taggart
We like the wind. It changes everything from itself. It’s sameness hasn’t gone unnoticed. A wondering spirit watched the clouds sputter along, and never knew to feel it’s pressure. The cloud will never be duplicated and it cannot control this. The spirit wished to understand why it had all been done before, and the cloud with the wind, changed and changed.
copyright 2016 -M. Taggart
The late sky came and we breathed it well. We struck out through the mess of brush and trees and listened to the wind. We found him dead on the opposite side of the ravine. His eyes were not closed and one of us asked why not. The wind answered, ‘Because this was the best moment never to close them.’ -copyright 2016 M. Taggart
As from the earth the light Balloon
Asks nothing but release—
Ascension that for which it was,
Its soaring Residence.
The spirit looks upon the Dust
That fastened it so long
As a Bird
Defrauded of its song.
-Emily Dickinson. A complete book of poems by Emily Dickinson.
There’s something about starting a day reading a poem by Emily that pushes my morning into a positive light.