3:00 A. M. Whistle
3:00 a.m., the whistle blows hauntingly through a thick still night.
I thought, how it is a reassuring sound from the past to the present,
Makes everything seem normal or at least safe as normal should feel.
The darkness allows you to pretend the sound is being made from anytime.
Time of the little brick house with wasp escaping through the stone fireplace.
Or, an infant crying to be fed and nurtured back to sleep.
Or, the present time, the darkness allowed my thoughts to travel.
The sound allowed my mind to go on into the memories of any time before.
Sounding one last time, it disappears into nothingness and all is quiet.
Just the darkness. left from minutes past 3:00 a.m.
Copyrighted: 2017 CMM
Four Poster Bed
That four poster bed and me at the foot…
was the beginnings of beginnings
and the irony it took.
My Mother’s plight to come back home,
when our Father’s fights,
and opening their doors,
no one needed to sleep on the floor.
The nights we laid, kittens in bed,
me at the foot,
as they snuggled at the head.
Quilts laid busy acoss us just right,
four poster jammed,
with three quite a sight.
As we grew older and given each a bed,
I will never forget the four poster bed,
me at the foot and they at the head.
I wonder in life when all things askew
and the trials I endured
whether old or renewed.
If being at the foot of this bed
gave me the will to survive,
in keeping my head.
© CMM 2002
The middle aged professor with half a balding spot
stands upon his desk yelling expletives and nots’.
The ‘f’s’ and the ‘f’s’ don’t you understand,
‘malfunctioning world, is as I explain of man.’
After all I am brilliant and have a degree,
some call me elitist, some a pedigree.
You are the fools that sit here in your desk,
as I postulate and rage without your protest.
I have lost my semblance of professional and poise,
you will hear me teach and it only sounds like noise.
Where do we get these educators yelling at the youth,
claiming this is intelligence and pretending it is couth.
Disorganized and frayed, they walk late into the class,
wasting money called tuition, they bleed from the mass.
So please Mr. Professor, get down from your chair,
try to get outside yourself and pretend you care.
Try to think we have value and a few little brains,
impart your wisdom and learn to pronounce our names.
Copyrighted: 2006 CMM
The Day of Valentine
Oh, but the heart that has labored love
in laced valentine’s of past.
Cutting out the ribbons of red,
to give in hopes that love will last.
The confectionaries create their wares
and boxed in all heart’s and sizes.
As anticipation builds in
the expectant heart she prizes.
The day will wear and waiting passes.
How will the promise come?
The time for many and then a few
but, from the hopeful one?
© CMM 2012