Poem – Tiny Droplets

It’s windy and it’s raining outside
The storm has put me into a relaxed
state of mind and body
When the wind pushes on the window screen
it creates a rushing sound
It’s a type of white noise that’s making me sleepy
The tiny droplets of rain water stuck to the screen
are slowly and deliberately tracking downward
with gravity’s suggestions
causing me to think of the randomness of the
rushing wind combined with the downward
movements of the tiny droplets of water
And how maybe none of this is random at all

-M. Taggart


Poem- Metallic Rapture

I’m sitting outside listening to the approaching thunderstorm
The leaves on the trees are completely still
Even individual blades of grass seem to be stuck in time
There is no wind and the air is full of humidity
The vehicles driving by know nothing of this
I’m not in existence, just like the unmoving leaves-
As they drive, they create their own moving world-
Eventually the vehicles pass and again there is no sound
Other than the storm
Now the wind is picking up
The leaves are turning
The grass is moving like a sea full of life
The sky is darkening
Lit up only by a flashes of lightning
Birds are rapidly chirping before settling
Tops of trees are bending at the will of the storm
Claps of thunder are becoming mountains
rolling and booming for miles. Some clashing so loudly,
after crackling strikes of lightening, that I am forced
to stand inside the doorframe
with the realization that the storm is indeed alive.
More so than any moving vehicle
with its created world sitting in ones matillic rapture.

-M. Taggart

A Poem – It’s Not Nothing

I’m upstairs. Writing. Drinking beer.
Outside the leaves are turning over,
I read we may see a storm tonight.
I hope we do.

You’re downstairs. With our son.
I can say now that I know it’s not nothing.
I’d like for my college English teacher to read that line.
I wouldn’t care for his opinion now, just as I didn’t then.

But! If you want to talk about my fifth grade teacher,
now that was a teacher and a great man.
When answering him you better reply correctly. Exacting.
Or, the eyebrow up, head down and the pointing of the finger
toward the hallway.

Anyway, I know now it isn’t nothing.
I wasn’t sure I’d ever know about it because I didn’t
understand if it truly was. Or, if it was another collected
thought process to hitch and wind all persons into the smallest of places.

When you come home, I watch him run to you. I am not a soft man. I feel soft when I see this. I release myself from anything but watching him and you. His little feet running,
arms swinging, with a toy shaking violently. I say, ‘Mamma’s home.’
The door doesn’t need to make a sound, he’s off to greet you.

I guess I can remember when I coached baseball for my brother. I guess I can admit to myself that these things took place, the things being feelings, took place and helped me to step closer to my understanding of this.

The wind is picking up outside. I don’t think it’ll storm. I hope it does. This beer is good and I’ll need another soon.

when i was young
things weren’t
i left that word alone

and all the world left me alone
when i needed it the most
and the trees can push back
against the wind

and a boy can hope

My beer is gone. It’s time I go downstairs and see why I’m fighting tears.
It is true. It isn’t nothing.

-M. Taggart
copyright 2017

The Cabin – A Poem

The strong need to write
Crawl into the cabin
Close the pine door
Start a fire in the small wood stove
And listen

The mountain has its own voice
Deep snow softening sounds
Christmas trees covered in white
Blessed creatures living in the smell of evergreen

You can hear them at night-
Scurrying, chasing, playing

The wind adds either calm, mystery,
or even severity-

They can’t find you here-
They can, only if you let them in-
Are they coming close?

No matter,
The cabin allows us to shut them out.
The ones who find any means-
means to bring negativity to all situations
stealing momentum, stealing serenity,
taking self-

Don’t, let’s not let them-
Find the cabin
Close the pine door
Light your fire


copyright 2017 -M. Taggart

(photo taken by my wife.)


Goodbye 12/9/14

On Wednesday evening I returned. I was driving through the lights and noise and cement. All of which I dislike. The storm was a mixture of rain and sleet. New England is gearing up for another winter. I’m stuck in near gridlock traffic while traveling one of the major corridors through Hartford, CT. I’m traveling south east, toward the beach where I live.

This weather and traffic mirrored my internal conflict. I’d left my best friend alone. He lost his father unexpectedly. I spent the night on his couch after the service. The service was outside in a New England ice storm. Many people were again without power. We stood soaking wet and watched as his father was laid to rest. Death becomes us all. I’m unafraid of death. I watched as my friend struck the dirt with a shovel in hand and flung it down onto his father. It landed loudly on the coffin. He is the only son and he was the first with the shovel. I watched his sister do the same, then others. When I held the shovel I said ‘you son of a bitch’ and dropped the dirt. I feel he’s never gone, we’re never gone.

I had more to say to him, face-to-face. As did everyone standing in the storm. We weren’t done with him. Now we speak to him in our minds and at our symbols.  He could be a chair. We sit on him and make him listen.  I needed to tell him that he’s in my book and that I see the best of him. I don’t see the needle. I don’t see the self harm. I don’t care. I see the man that we all loved, still love and still talk to. I called him a son of a bitch because I am selfish and I wanted to tell him he was in my book. Now he knows. I’m on a chair and I’m making him listen.

His son held his drink high. He wanted to cheers our friendship and his father.  It was left over spit from chew. He asked what was wrong with the whiskey. We said nothing, drink the rest fast. He asked why the whiskey smelled odd. He son doesn’t drink. He doesn’t needle. He works with children and is a Saint.  His son is my best friend and just drank the spit of chew that was left behind by another. Now he wants to know what’s wrong with the whiskey and we laugh harder than possible and cheers his father because his son is now running for the toilet to be rid of rotten whiskey that isn’t whiskey and we know this moment will be forever. His father is gone but watching. His father knows his son is a Saint.

I’m driving through a New England storm to return. My friend is home, alone for the first time since the service. I’m thinking of him and of life and death. I reach out the window and take a picture. So many lights. Some are already dead.