An American Poet: M. Taggart

First thing Matt Taggart is going to tell you about himself is that he is a loving husband and father. His accomplishments as an author always come second. Taggart is an award winning American author. His piece, “Bodies in the Basement,” was selected publication of the year (non-poetic) at SpillWords Press in 2019. His poetry was published in several anthologies among which the #1 Bestselling Anthology, “Pain & Renewal,” Vita Brevis Press, and “Wounds I Healed: The Poetry of Strong Women,” Experiments in Fiction. His work was also published in various poetry journals and sites.

Why does Taggart start his bios with: “I am a loving loving husband and father?” I can only speculate. Perhaps because he always carries his childhood with him. Perhaps because as Graham Greene contended: “There is always one moment in childhood when the door opens and lets the future in.” Regardless, Taggart’s poetry is a poetry of high caliber. In the writings below the talent of maturity shines through the eyes of a child.

The Abandoned Dawn

He wished the door wouldn’t again open;
knowing he’d be forced to become another
version of himself. Placed unto him from a
variation of life not meant to be seen, or felt,
or lived. Now- the footsteps, so very light,
unheard by the household so late at night,
but felt by the boy, each and every vibration,
knowing it would be soon time to close his
eyes and beckon the rising moon to please take
him along with its translucent majesty high
above where his being felt the covers being lifted.

The Dawn

The ravine leading to the brook was steep
and beautifully built by nature. The oaks,
birch, pines, and maple trees did their best
to provide cover from prying eyes. The path
leading steeply downward was just on the
right hand side of a mostly hidden oak tree
and once passed the initial arms of the welcoming
foliage, a peace settled inside his body, having
started with sight but becoming deeply more
while traveling through to his heart and mind.
As he rushed, and slid, the young boy grimaced
a grimace meant for the gurgling brook. Now,
standing here, by the moving stream, he was alone,
free, and well. And didn’t it seem that it was always
this way.