Wrote of love and how he felt…
Yet he seemed to be confused,
even in his witty muse.
He loved a lady fair with scarlet,
yet he often called her harlot.
He loved a young male of letters wrote,
but begged him times a sorrowful note.
His mind of genius and of words,
repeated times are often heard.
In plays and sonnets and in verse,
Thespians memories do rehearse.
So, his creative thoughts of madness,
the soulful writer’s joy and sadness.
A birthday we do with rememberance,
and seek our own Shakespearean semblance.
Copyrighted: CMM 2009
Dandelions, fields of weeds and scattered seeds,
these golden pollen spread.
The flower sweet,
the pollen wreak,
this lovely enemy of my head.
masking ranting weed.
so strong in resistance.
Please tell me, what is your need?
© CMM 2009
Voices came in sizes and inflections
telling their lives in all directions.
Stories of anger, mothers and life,
sexual encounters and academic strife.
Nationalities were all represented,
each as they stood an presented.
Works of art in a smoke filled room,
coffee ordered and quickly consumed.
Listeners listened and interpreted the verse
some as a blessing, some as a curse.
Emotions were heightened as one gesticulation
stood on the edge of suicide or elation.
Others subdued in memories of war,
while others recalled the evenings they scored.
Readers and audience like me were all strange,
as we take words and life and uniquely arrange.
Then step to the mic, they gave up their soul,
from the very young to the seasoned and old.
My hair caught the smell of smoke in the air
while I listened and captured the love and despair.
I turned in the end and stood to see
they all were a fraction of reflection of me.
Copyrighted: CMM 2004