poem / short story

My father passed on October 14, 2020.
I’ve put off writing. Something he himself
loved. My parents were divorced when I was two.
My earliest memories are not good.
I remember the phone call my brother and
I received, which stands as the pivotal
hardship to hamper my father’s talents to the
point of failure. Not that his creativity was a failure.
Rather that his determination to break through
dimmed. I may have been twelve, or so, years old.
My mother answered. She called for Chris and then
held the cordless phone toward us and said, “It’s for you.
It’s your Dad.” Chris looked at me and said, “Uncle Darrell
is dead.” Our uncle had lived with my father and his wife
for roughly 3-years. My father asked him to move out.
Lack of productivity concerning finding
a job and motivation to live well. My father gave his love,
and his home, to his brother long enough, he believed, and
it was time. A few months later Uncle Darrel hung himself
outside a three story building in position for morning traffic.
My father told us that he felt his brother’s soul go through him.
My father, very slowly, stopped trying. His talent landed him
on stage playing guitar with Aerosmith as a very young man.
It’s possible everything seemed so very easy to him with his gifts.
But it wasn’t easy. He had children. Hardship after hardship found
him and somehow I became published multiple times while my
father had not. Yet, he was the master story teller. I can’t tell
stories. I haven’t the ability. But when I sit to write it’s there.
I shut the writing off on purpose. To read is to think and to write
is to feel. Feeling is an easy thing. And while I don’t need permission
to live my life, I feel too much lately to write. Anyway, that’s what I
tell myself as I drink too much and step forward every day toward
a success I never saw coming as I call upon my father more now
than ever.

-M. Taggart

Love you, Dad.

Poem-

Without the ability to feel,
to understand the foot
of another, their pangs fall short
of the Institute of Empathy.

And with their wickedness they prosper,
and with their roots they grow,
searching, and locating the souls
of the slipped, and onward, and lower
they fall.

Oppression is their sudden spasm.

-M. Taggart

 

Rustic Wednesday – Ascend

“What can burn your thoughts, can burn your soul.” -M. Taggart: Screaming Hills.

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Published Short Story, Screaming Hills, Fiction. Written by, -M. Taggart, can be found in America’s Emerging Literary Fiction Writers: Northeast Region. The book and reviews can be found here:

poem – awaken

What’s an awakening but the moment one realizes
self, with ability to stretch into another’s soul without
having caused injury, or cast judgement; instead
understanding the completeness of individuality,
and where we fit? Born, alongside ourselves, always.

-M. Taggart

Poem – The List

Can we add sections to our soul?
If we think of it, and give it a name,
is it now done? The clicking in our
throat is inadequate. To this old and
dusty book, we give our time. For a
sensation without claim has nothing,
and a morning without feeling is lost.
In a chest, sits a satisfied possession
of misunderstood; awaiting the hand
which will open every deliverance.
Come one, come two, and three.

-M. Taggart

About Ghosts

I’ve never seen a ghost. Although I believe they are among us. Much like premonitions hidden within dreams. Now those, I’ve had. Forewarnings that have come to pass, some of which were uncomfortable. It’s all there. It’s only a matter of seeing them.

Have any of you seen a ghost?

Matt