I often wonder what he wrote the day he came upon
the stoning of the woman, the men that said she wronged…
He came up quietly and without pause, looked and said aloud,
“Any many without sin cast and cast it now.”
He then knelt a humble stance, and reached among the sand
with his finger began to write something with his hand.
He wrote until the he looked back up to see who was left to throw,
not one man had tarried there; they all had chosen to go.
He stood from where he had knelt and wrote upon the sand,
and the woman remained, to listen to this man.
The man that said, “Go sin no more” freedom now was hers.
I wonder what he wrote that day he knelt among the scores.
Was it their sins he knew so well and they in spirit heard,
and dropping all the stones they had, they left without a word?
Traveling to African jungles,
traveling to embassies beyond,
only to return to the tower
two hours in the fields of Lyon.
Yet, he picks up his armor of sport,
to hunt what is conquered by few,
as within the evening of solitude,
he reads Hardy and Keats through.
What core of mystery maintains,
a will for the isolated soul?
The energy that tempts the restless,
the warrior time cannot hold.
If life is embraced and cherished,
he treasures it with esteem.
He sees his fallen comrades,
and the sword that always redeems.
© CMM 2007
I was running and keeping pace,
when up on a hill I saw a special place.
One I had seen and recognized,
It even fit and the perfect size.
This place on the hill set under the leaves,
in hidden brush and comfort sleeves.
Hills and branches and rocks and cliffs
wind so cold and trees that shift.
Leaves piled high and much debris’
but still revealed this place to me.
I wondered if that I should knock,
to say hello would be such a shock.
This place where no one dared to go,
this pooh’s place was hidden so…
to allow the passerby’s to see
a believer of this Pooh’s Place’; me.
Copyrighted: 2002 CMM
the summer breeze blows the curtain
from the window pane.
He has become unaware of the snapping of the clothes
on the line from the hot dry Midwest breeze.
The distant trains breaking
the sounds as they clack through town.
He fingers his baseball glove, following his imagination,
of diamonds that glitter from home runs,
and glistens from sunsets after loaded bases.
The smell of leather takes him to locker rooms,
sounds of cheers with
the snapping of the baseball bat hitting the ball.
Symphony sounds that make up dreams
that feed the body and soul of the little boy
at his desk, freckled face…looking past.
Past the ‘hopalong cassidy’ lamp sitting on his desk,
past the plaid sheets spreading his bed,
past the books that pile in waiting for homework.
He imagines all sounds real with promises;
“What a homerun that was!”
“What a pitcher I am.”
Swirling winds of dreams of a little boy
at his desk, in his room…
in the Midwest, dreaming baseball.
RIP April 2012
The Light House
I dared to climb
this Baldhead light
with stones and only stairs
The rickety stairs
the rackety sounds
was I brave enough to dare
Her open belly empty
from years gone by,
smelled dampen, musky old.
The ripened stilted wood stairs
went on forever,
dirt and mossy mold
One height, two
the stairs went on
ceaseless they seemed to grow
Two height, three
the rickety sounds,
the top, where did it go
Four height, five
reaching into the sky
I could only see more ahead
Six height, seven
Light has appeared
Given way from the feeling of dread
Finally when all seemed
the light reached atop
Globe, the bulb
the watchful eye,
we had summit the final stop
The island was seen
from miles around,
with sea in each direction
From fields and houses
beaches and mounds,
the island of varied sections.
We left the Baldhead Island
that day, sensing the past
and the sights
But the beauty one
could not see, were times gone
of channel lights
sailors and seamen
who knew when she signal
they were home and soon a shore
The welcoming of
the Baldhead Light
given safety; we ask no more.
© Summer 2004
the ground was wet, the carpet now laid
the day of your interment I hold dear.