Light House
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
hopelessly high,
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.
Christine McNeill
© Summer 2004
Tears
Round
and
warm,
falling softly with
emotion. To come with plenty,
only to quickly go away. The taste is
as salty as the sea; the nature as unpredictable,
understood only by you. It is not your duty
to carry the burden, nor light of joy.
Moist blessing to each of us—
You are important,
You are
My
Tears.
copyrighted: CMM 1998
Awarded: Honors, Fields of Earth Symposium
Cape Fear Writers
Pantry
Keeper of my pantry,
throw away my key.
throw away my key.
For this is to be kept,
and only for me.
Preserving the fruits
of love are here.
Seasoned just right,
so they would be near.
So keeper of my pantry,
throw away my key.
So no one would enter,
but God and me.
copyrighted: CMM 1998
Early Fall Morning
Sitting quietly at my desk,
the cool breeze from Autumn’s start
and the warm summer’s rest…
In awe as song bird breaks silence
tunes the mind in quick reply
feeling my soul start to comply…
copyrighted: CMM 2010
9.11 Remembered
The moment within good and evil
has no time or space.
The yes or no, the right or wrong,
stares down decision ‘ s face.
It flew upon a twisted hope
with promises untouched.
The well spring was rooted up
and covered by evil ‘ s rut .
The moment quietly waits
around the fate of death’s will.
History changed because of a few,
the whole world lay in still .
A pause before the precipice ignored,
a cry from time will not erase.
What comes but from the moments world-stage,
the deepest part, the darkest place.
© CMM 2001
Forgotten Poem
I wrote a poem yesterday,
I don’t remember the words
Or what it had to say.
I scribbled it and jotted down
upon old paper
I picked off the ground
Writing quickly so not to forget
It came flowing
The sonnet set.
I found a place
Behind the books
Stuffed it where no others look
Later I promised I would read
The poem of the heart
A now forgotten seed.
© CMM 2012
Sassafras
An ole’ tree, yawning in the ground,
grown deep in the slow south.
Children back then knew it to be
sweet in taste and sugary in tea.
While old black pots were stirred all day,
seasoned with grounded leaves of sine quo non.
to make that jambalaya to steam away
the colorful savor is still not gone.
Copyrighted: CMM 2004
Grandmother’s Handkerchief
Hanging on tiny pegs deep within the ole’
country store, filled with scents of Autumn.
The replica’s of the past preserved in rust
and weary wood lean against white wash walls.
There in the middle of the vast array of
yesterday’s wears and pickled pears
I looked over to see the wonderful
handkerchief made of white organdy.
I was without protest taken to a place
so long ago within a southern church.
With deacon pews made of hard wood
and curved at the ends where I sat.
Sitting next to my grandmother,
her scent of lavender and Jergens
Lotion, combined with the seasons
brought in from the open window.
The handkerchief was wrapped around
her fingers as they wove into one another.
Her hands laid in her lap of a homemade
dress, with tatting and laced collars.
Her thumbs were covered with the lace
handkerchief as she circled them around
and around, (as I watched), never breaking
rhythm the handkerchief would go.
The choruses were sung from ole’ gospel songs,
and the preacher would change his sermon about
one thing or another and the people would often come and go.
However, not this constant memory of
the organdy lace handkerchief with painted
flowers and lace on the tips always
in her hands, covering and keeping timing,
with timeless memory sitting next to Grandma…
© CMM 2011
Eagle and Child Inkling 