Poem

The hurt is as deep as you let it be
and when you’re not looking
it takes whatever direction it wants

-M. Taggart

Poem

I don’t worry about the past-
But,

I write about it

and that’s what worries them

-M. Taggart

Poem

I’m struggling this morning
even pushing the cat away

everywhere I look
something needs to be done

and I don’t care
don’t know what to do about half
of it anyway

Gotta fight this
not gonna let it stay this way

No way in Hell am I letting this win
Not then, not today, not ever

And here’s the cat again

-M. Taggart

In case you were wondering

I look back at my childhood and pull the good from the not good. There was plenty of both. Somehow I’ve become a success in life. To me, happiness is success. But to much of society, prosperity is the measure worth looking at. I wish it wasn’t like this. Reading a book outside with the sun touching the pages while listening to Spring-time birds, all while thinking nothing other than the book and the sun and the birds, that is a measure I use to gage my happiness.

Yet, somehow, even with my bad portions of my childhood, I am a success on other levels as well. I am a father. A husband. A business owner. A college graduate. I have been elected President and owner of a new company set to explode. We are building a new building in a city which contains Maine’s second largest population. I picked the city. It’s diverse. I like diversity. My company will bring new jobs to this city. As I told the city officials, my goal is to enhance the community we enter. I will do exactly that. Our store will open later this summer.

I bring these points up because, based on only my writing, it’s possible for someone to assume that I am hobbled in a dark hole spinning around in circles. That isn’t the case. It’s simply easy for me to remember the bad and to write about the bad. Just as easily as it is for me to write about morning coffee.

When I was a teenager I wanted to be a writer who lived in Maine. At that point I lived in Massachusetts. I’ve lived in a few different states, however, I am now a writer who lives in Maine. I always wanted to be a father and husband. And while sitting in a jail cell in my early twenties, I knew I’d be a loving father and husband. My will was never broken nor in question.

My childhood trauma does not define me. I use it as motivation. And through my freedom of expression that motivation lives nearly in tangible forms. I set my goals long ago and now I’m setting new goals to will into being.

I can’t wait to see what the next ten years will bring. I am blessed. I am thankful. And please keep in mind, I may write about some awful situations, some of the darkest of places, and of thoughts no one wishes upon another- keep in mind that I am fine. More than fine. It’s important the bad is not forgotten with my abundance of good in the now. Much like the photo below. Taken a month before my father’s passing. I knew he was dying. I was on a bender, I look beat up, tired, real. I remember taking the photo and staring at it, taking in all of its reality. I know I don’t look my best, but I feel the thoughts that I had during the moment, simply by viewing the photo. This game of life is something to cherish. All of it.

Matt

ps- Thanks for being here.

Cowardly Doors

I loathe racists

have I ever mentioned that?

like an unstoppable  drip

that I want to

run over

Their judgmental eyes

and fake faces

All of them

are better

than nothing

 

I hope they know this

But I know they don’t

 

I want them to speak the words

they say behind closed doors

in the streets of Springfield Massachusetts

they’ll be killed

and I love Springfield for that

-M. Taggart

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poem – Grit

I don’t ask permission to be myself.

That Bothered an old man

who once put his hands on me.

Doesn’t any more.

Sky looks nice tonight.

-M. Taggart

poem-

There’s something about pain

and anxiety

that opens the truth

of the burden.

 

-M. Taggart

it just is

Being a writer doesn’t mean
you need to write about rainbows and pretty things
Nah, there’s a lot of anger and there’s nothing wrong with that
there’s nothing wrong with any of it
The envious horizon of the gorgeous sunset
It’s not about right, or wrong, it just is

-M. Taggart

Goose Shit- A True Story

Goose shit was everywhere.  When looking down, at your feet, you saw shit.  If you looked to your left, shit.  Right, shit.  Alright, that’s complete exaggeration and a lie, but, now we all know I’m talking about a lot of shit.  The rest of this story is true.

We were at our parents’ friend’s home; it was a farm.  Fences; wooden fences with lots of barbed wire to keep animals tucked inside the property.  We kids, liked to play next to the large oak tree with the tire swing.

I was six.  My brother was eight and a half.  The tire swing was wide open and we weren’t about to let the opportunity slide on by.  Our parents were inside, doing things, and laughing far too loud for the jokes that were being shared.  Our parents’ friends had two girls.   Both were near our age.

The oak tree wasn’t far from the house.  Sitting on top of a small hill, overlooking the property, there it hung.  The swing of all tires swings.

The one small issue, between us and the tire swing, was the geese.

I know we all see them flying South, or North, apparently never being able to make up their minds; proving they’re not consistent within the walls of their own skulls.

Anyways, to the swing we mother-fucking-go!

My brother and I charge the hill.  Well, we didn’t exactly charge it, I certainly didn’t.  He may have.  He was much bigger.  It’s possible that in my head, I charged the fuck out of that hill, but in all honesty, I probably waddled a bit and barely make it to the tire swing.  Walking in goose shit.

Which, made me easy prey, for the asshole Geese.

They watched, with dick head eyes, and we took notice, but not to a great degree.  My brother was nice enough to let me jump on the swing first.  I was in tire swing heaven. I’d like to say he even pushed me, but that, I don’t remember.

So there I was, swinging, things are great.  Ice cream great.  I can see the house, down below, and the fences that line the property.  I can see horses and a few sheep.  I’m not sure how my parents know these people, but I don’t care because I’m on a tire swing and I’m a six year old.

My brother said it was his turn, so I jumped off, slid a bit, and came to a stop.  I turn to look back at him and I see an asshole running at me.   I don’t wait to see how fast it might catch me, I turn and run.  I’m running, with everything I’ve got, which was a far cry better than my charge up the hill, but it wasn’t enough.  I know a monster bird is behind me, I can hear it, I can even smell it.  I slip, fall, and slide in goose shit.  Probably from this very bird.  It’s laughing at me.  No, not really, I’m not sure if birds can laugh.

The large man of prey is nearly upon me, it’s biting and flicking it’s wings.  No joke, I get bit.  The asshole nipped me and I slid further down the shit hill.  My jeans are a waste.  Even at six I realize I should probably not continue wearing these.  My face was now sliding down the hill, I was tasting it.  It wasn’t good.

My face looked like that of a war-time Marine.  As though I had meant this to have happened.

I was bit again and now the large bird was tearing into me, stabbing at me with it’s beak.  I cried out.

I saw my big brother snap that asshole by its long neck, wringing the beast slightly, and tossing it out and away from me.   The bird let lose a vocal note that’s not always witnessed coming from a goose and then I watched my brother chase it, further, away from me.

He saved me.  I wasn’t the last time.

Yes, I had to go inside and cry-explain myself to my laughing parents and yes I had to take off my shit jeans and replace them with girl jeans.  Yes.  That all happened.  To this day I’m still ashamed to tell people that I wore girl jeans.  It just wasn’t right.  But, my brother saving me was.

Thanks Chris.

True occurrence- my childhood.  Thank you Big Brother.