Professor Doo-Wop


Your music stopped today,

the doo-wop of the music box.

Professor from the era of the

60s and 70s.

You decided to say good-bye,

quietly without notice.

The songs no longer find

you to lullaby your soul

of rock and roll…

Your smile, and spill your wit,

your philosophy of time.

Your reason is now silent in your books,

your mastery of words and oratory.

All is quiet now with the sound of memories,

the music, the readings, the author.

I don’t understand why time closed

your chapter…

©  CMM  April 6, 2012

Firefly Dance


 

 
A hushed moment
just before
the dance that soon
begins.

A quiet now fallen,
pitch black still,
the movement
will now ascend.

The fireflies come
one by one, and together
the crescendo
enchants

Their pattern of
light. In a mystical
night they blink 
round and around

The flicker and
twirl, circle and
whirl, never to make
a sound

So come with me to
the firefly dance
Let their charming
become your own. 

Let them take you
where others have
tried, but few
have ever known

Copyrighted: 2004 CMM

 
 

Coffee Cup


My favorite cup broke today,

sad to say, sad to say…

It was about a year ago,

I lost the one with Emily and Poe…

But, that is life, it is to be,

cup now cracked no purpose I see…

However, when I think of it,

and ole’ Shakespeare’s written wit…

I will not think of the crack it did,

but, good times, with my coffee instead.

 

©   CMM  2012 

Sweet Tea


Image
Sweet Tea, with a Lemon Twist
The ice clanking in crystal goblets,
glass mason jars and paper cups.

Sweet Tea, poured in the flavors
of the past with mint julep,
and lime slices split on glass sides

Sweet tea with sweet smiles
big eyed girls of wonder
with lace and skinned knees

Running through mud puddles 
Looking for their prince
in shinning armor to ride in on a wooden horse

Sweet tea served on innocent
trays of make believes and summer eves
of stars and moon dust 

covered with paper umbrellas 
of butterflies and sugared rims
to sparkle on her smile when drank

sweet tea glasses of memories
and kept in storehouse of
yesterday’s dream for tomorrow’s 

sweet tea…

Copyrighted: 2002, CMM

Father’s Day


I sit on the frozen metal chairs, serving to brace my back,
but not my feelings.
Whipping sounds of the cold wind
carries the wet tapping’s on the tent.
Smells of spring are muted by the unearthed hole
covered now with artificial turf
and mounded piles around the edges.
The box, the gray silver box
suspended over the receptor dug for it.
‘Stars and Stripes’ reminiscent of wars
fought in the past, and forgotten not.
Forgotten days of heroic acts
of wars not forgotten and now
remembered; this daughter remembering not.
Six foot and oh so many tall inches
my brother, sitting close by; silent.
He looked past me sometimes and sometimes noticed
with a reassuring nod he was there.
Not saying too much as people approached him,
this the only son and namesake of the departed.
Deep into his blue eyes and the stark black hair
quickly graying prematurely, I saw volumes not being said.
A southern preacher, friend of the family,
began the eulogy saying blessings over and over.
Dried eyes of the few remaining in black, some standing
some sitting, the wet canvas swayed in the storm.
We all listened, thinking silent thoughts not to be repeated.
Histories of misunderstanding hung in the damp
heavy air, brought by the remnants of winter’s farewell.
The flag now folded is awarded to the oldest
daughter with honors, she trembling in response; cried.
The ” Our Father”, started with the eventual joining of all,
while my earthly Father lay there,
deep within a coffin of ‘no memories.’
I heard this echo, this voice hardly recognizable over the phone,
one of the few times we spoke, “I love you”, he said.
Remembering his words was my eulogy to him
in my unspeakable thoughts.
The blessing, a song, the familiar “Amazing Grace”
a final prayer being said, I never heard.
People stood to speak to the other, and others couldn’t get
through crowded yesterdays; keeping them still.
Stronger spirits pilgrimage with hellos, and talk of the weather,
and “my how you have grown” and “time sure passes.”
Glancing I turn to see the workmen began to drop the coffin
of a man I never knew, they say, “He was my Father.”©  CMM  1994

Tombstone


A desert town—

Winds burn past dry skin

blistering by  barren sands.

Whirl in motions from movement

crusted by heat.

Cactus offers moist reprieve

if dare you pass the thorny skin.

Opened into wet relieve

from the hot and desert wind.

Echoes sound of failed attempt ,

haunt the nights when all is quiet.

From the pilgrimage of the others,

fleeing in the darkest night

What will, what force, was set in place

among the ash and brown terrain.

The rivers names speak of a time

that now has little semblance remain

©  CMM  2012