I like scars, and would rather them being on the outside. -M. Taggart
“Pain & Renewal” #1.
Even the book itself is gorgeous.
Two days ago, Brian, the editor and founder of Vita Brevis Press, was kind enough to lend me a direct quote, “Vita Brevis’ first anthology held the #1 spot for bestselling new poetry anthologies for 5 days! It’s been a great launch, and it looks like we’ll rank in the top five for the remainder of the week.” -Brian Geiger
There’s a reason book sales did so well. Sharing with the wold personal pain and how to heal from the scars isn’t something that is easy to do. To open a wound once again, express to the world, and walk with head down..for a bit longer, is a challenge. I’m honored to have two poems published in this anthology and I’m thankful to participate.
Cheers, everyone, the purchase is worth it. The read is great.
“To be alive at all is to have scars.” -The Winter of Our Discontent. John Steinbeck.
This line stopped my reading promptly. A clean, impactful, line of literature has that affect on me.
We drove to Mount Washington yesterday
and while driving we passed an abandoned building
At one time it may have been a convenience store
Its roof is caving in, the walls are pushing outward,
the paint is badly peeling leaving scars from weather
It looked tired and sad. I felt a strong feeling of nostalgia
As though the definition of the word was tangible-
as I literally felt the building’s pain of memory, and how it grasped
at the driving vehicles to help push it back to when it was healthy.
Back when trucks stopped, letting out footsteps that walked into
its doorway to view its craft, but that was then, and so we too
left it behind, yet I thought about it and carried a portion
of it with me. Maybe it’s just rotting wood.
Maybe next time I won’t pass. Maybe I’ll stop and walk into
its failing structure to feel anything else it might want me to feel.
Don’t ask someone to be kind
Ask them to be real
And let them find their kindness
Sometimes the world crumbles
And forces us to watch
Comfort belongs to the burned soul
Who fought to become alive again
We see their smile before their scars
It’s happened. The leaves are hush. We walk with sound brushing souls at our feet. Isn’t this how we imagined it to be? We found the tree with many faces while sliding down our steep banking- snapping small branches and carving scars into the earth as we slid. Standing, with mud in hand, we reach for the calmest face. ‘Can’t we be?’ The calm face replied, ‘Isn’t this just as you imagined?’
I use to judge a kid by the scars on his knuckles. I still do. This was after being told by my grandfather my hands were soft.