On the other side of thought
sits where it came from
And in the middle-
are white picket fences
rows and rows of them
One thought
escaped
and then there were woods
and woods
and woods
-M. Taggart
On the other side of thought
sits where it came from
And in the middle-
are white picket fences
rows and rows of them
One thought
escaped
and then there were woods
and woods
and woods
-M. Taggart
What if we’re on replay
-M. Taggart
Sometimes you can reach for a thought-
much like finding yourself
-M. Taggart
My treehouse with a thumb
talks with an image less than itself.
It mesmerizes mischief with Mayhem,
like a tree watching its own growth
on a ledge. Waterfall below. Thoughts
in between. Taking longer than expected,
the zipper of life made for a humble tremble.
-M. Taggart
And old thought can try
to twist and bend itself
into a new thought.
Sometimes it works,
but mostly it sticks out.
-M. Taggart
I wonder if a bird
cares about the loss of a tree.
-M. Taggart
saw a trapped window inside our mind
there was no one to open it
caught in the construct of a thought
-M. Taggart
Where does an epiphany end and a thought think. -M. Taggart
Sometimes I’m so cold
that I can’t fathom how bones
can feel that way
but then I jump in the shower,
make it real, real hot,
the steam fills the room,
and my skin prickles and becomes red-
I’ve become so hot that I force myself
to remember the deep cold that pushed
me to the shower, the cold that buried itself
into the marrow of my being and imprisoned thought.
I wonder if this is how a caged mind thinks, or feels,
or if it even has memory at all if only bars serve as an observation point.
As the last drops of water skim down our legs and drip toward the drain.
-M. Taggart
The unfortunate part of a thought, is sitting on it. -M. Taggart