poem – into the drain

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

Poem – the promise

If time showed its age,
I question what it might look like.
As we sit waiting for this
Brave New World
to flourish
it continuously
tosses shadows
and plays games.
I never did enjoy
Cloak and Dagger,
but I do love
to watch the seasons change.

-M. Taggart

 

(Brave New World. Written by Aldous Huxley.)

poem – tiny little times

My memory works in images
I see them, replay them, feel them
This is how I find things that are ‘lost’
I hope I never come to be without myself
that might be a bit of an issue
For now though, I’ll continue
wondering if I’m truly getting older
or if the days are getting longer
stretching this matrix into oddly shaped
happenings, placed, filed, and organized
into tiny little images to review later on.

-M. Taggart

cheers everyone

poem

While kayaking on the Connecticut River
in Sunderland, Massachusetts, I floated
nearly silently along with the current.
I was alone as I peered down into the water.
I could see the bottom of the river, silt and sand
with a few smooth rocks. It was as if the river held,
below its water line, an entire world and that
it wasn’t actually water. Instead it seemed to be
a type of gas and somehow I was there, on top,
nosily viewing an otherwise unseen world. It
was so stunningly beautiful that the moment
was etched into my memory, and soul, with love
and admiration to have witnessed this particular
portion of time where time itself paused to partake
in our viewership. I believe we both remember this.

-M. Taggart

Poem

Memories are like fine gifts
of images stored by you,
for you, to enjoy at any time.
Let’s try and retrieve the best
of them today to help build
on our brilliance to be.

-M. Taggart

Sent from my iPhone

I’m a terrible comment maker

Howdy! I’m awful at finding time to comment on your blog. Pretty much for all of you. I suck. I know that I do, so at least there is that.

A few days ago I was shoveling our driveway. The storm was an ice/sleet/snow mix. It was eight degrees outside and I needed to get the driveway cleared before it was too late. For my snowy friends out there, you know what happens when it’s too late. Having a driveway of solid ice isn’t exactly what I want. However, I stopped to read a blog post written by a writer who was wondering why more people weren’t commented on their posts.

I really wanted to comment, but I was literally outside shoveling. It was terribly cold and windy. Yet, I did read your post. And you write well and Please don’t think that you don’t. I wonder if it’s like this for a lot of us. I have so little time to comment, that I find I don’t. I won’t sit here and make a profound statement proclaiming to become a frequent comment creator, because that would be a lie. I like honesty. I’ll do the best I can. I read as many posts as I can. Even in snow storms while my nose is dripping and my hands are shaking. I like to read. Hence my little saying, Read on. It’s good for the brain.

I’m thankful I didn’t write, “Comment on. It’s good for the brain.” My brain would have shriveled and turned off.

For those of you who are gifted at commented, I cherish you. I have seen many of you. I don’t have that gift.

Cheers everyone.

Matt