Month: March 2015

I see the rise beneath the darkness

a silver dress of light and day.

An old chapel lays in waiting

before the morning draped in gray.

Lil’ Chapel in early morning sunrise

The Recipe Box

Opening up the old rubbed wooden box

I smelled time lingering from recipes of the past.

Shoved into in a hurried way of schedules and life

I pulled a hand full of recipes tattered and unorganized.

Sifting through in hopes to find a recipe to add to a menu

for a friend who is sitting in a hospital room with her mate.

A mate of 50 years now succumbed to life and cancer.

I look to see which one will do, and as I do, I see names.

These were the names of friends from a lifetime,

friends who shared a moment and then left a recipe to remember.

Friends much like the ones who are holding the hand of each other

waiting for life to say good-bye until another time.

I look at the names and realize the box has become a eulogy of friends,

the recipes reflecting their personality, their smiles, their life.

I feel as though it brought me to a sacred place, of time, sharing,

a holy place of scents and smells forgotten, but not their presence.

© Copyrighted:   CMM  2015

There was a time,

when the canvas was plain.

Clean brushes we picked up to

dip into the colors of youth,

Choices of hope

to build masterpieces

for tomorrows.

Now we try to patch the

old paint, and sit in front

of a canvas cluttered…

©  CMM  2014

I think it was chocolate mahogany

                 large rounded carved ornate legs

                 coming down under the broad leaf table.

Grandma made the green gingham tablecloth spread across

over a protective plastic lining beneath.

Seven places for the family in the evening meal,

               three generations of grandparents, parent, children,

              head of the table Granddaddy sat quiet, not saying much.

At the other head, was Grandma; she would talk about the day.

Who did what when, and “lord, it is hot today.”

Mother sat in the middle of my little sister and me.

               She often didn’t say much, when she did, it was measured.

               My older sister sat across from me with her light brown hair,

blue eyes that never smiled.

Next to her, my brother, with his dark hair and light eyes,

glancing often to the criticism that came his way.

There was a lot of pain at the table at Grandma’s house.

                The pain was from the very person who was not present.

                 It was a gift of my father before he left …

The sun would set in the evening over the table of love.

But it didn’t take away the darkness that no one spoke about.

©  copyrighted:   2002 CMM