Keats spoke of a rose and how it would not wilt.
This rose came only once and was not made of silk.
PIcked among a garden this one unique rose,
taken from the thorns, this flower she chose.
Sat upon his desk, and nurtured from the stems,
drenched in water, cut in a vase, and looking back at him.
He called the rose loveliest of any in his fences,
this rose compared to others, they had no defenses.
However the secret of this rose was not from one attending.
The secret of its beauty was truly from its sending.
This rose he said was more because a friend gave way,
now the beauty of the perfect rose was given to him today.
Swelling powdered scents flowed in the house and settled,
crimson velvet sculptured rose, green stem among the petals.
Beauty in its temporal form in nature’s moment bloomed,
eternal rose, deep within was nurtured to the tomb.
copyrighted: © CMM 2004
Walk on Campus
I climbed each step as if to say
I have volunteered to
Set my journey on this quest
I step each step to do my best
The wind picks up and starts,
It wraps my scarf in separate parts
I hold it as if to say
Turn on wind, I am here to stay.
Blowing warmly on my face
Across the walk I finally turn
Down the walk I smile to know
I have made it this far, however slow.
CMM. copyrighted: 2023
It was a cold frosty day
sitting at a small table
just inside the café.
A generation apart
she sat with coffee
in one hand and hope,
Hopes of tomorrow.
While I sat with
Coffee in one hand,
of more yesterdays…
Menu stretched from
fried chicken to
eggs and breakfast meats
without a calorie counter.
The Winter’s sun glared
into the room
brought warmth and conversation.
We spoke of poetry, hearts, women.
Confidences shared in trust,
wisdom and knowledge
was the spice as time flew
spent in a diner called
copyrighted: CMM. 2023