Once Was


Summer in the south

Eagle and Child Inkling

It is so easy to look back and think,

coffee on the stove, dishes in the sink.

Clothes lapping in the wind outside the door,

floors being swept with straw brooms stored.

Yelling at the children as they begin to play,

telling them ‘stay close’ throughout the day.

Lazy brown dog, sniffing for the shade,

underneath the porch, his bed he made.

Summer heat a rising and clouds begin to form,

nothing more cleansing than an afternoon storm.

Deep within the south, families all know the others,

where Sundays congregate, sisters and their brothers.

Not much left deep within summer’s south,

most of the families are scattered about.

But, if you drive down an old country road,

where there is only dirt, listening to the crickets and toads.

You might in the distance look down path to see,

a barefoot child, stick in hand, chewing on a weed.

©  …

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ah spring

Eagle and Child Inkling

Dandelions, fields of weeds and scattered seeds,

these golden pollen spread.

The flower sweet,

the pollen wreak,

this lovely enemy of my head.

Dandelion flowers,

pastel fields,

masking ranting weed.

Dandelion flower,

so strong in resistance.

Please tell me, what is your need?

©  CMM  2009IMG_3611.JPG

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She and the Sea


Her soul needed refreshing 

she returned to the sea

when the waves came, her troubles leave

her hair played with the wind

her smile swept across her face

she felt the universe give back her grace

early morning from darkness to light

rise into colors of orange, pink, reds 

she nodded and watched, no words said

Her soul needed refreshing 

she returns always to the sea

where the waves come, her troubles leave 

Copyrighted:  2017 CMM

International Women’s Day


I entered my garden of Gethsemane,

with the shroud of my womb

choking closely on my shoulders.

Weeping across my soul the red stain

flows into the vine now twisting into my

human flesh of pain and sorrow.

Mother of Mothers, whose loneliness

and desperation sheds the crust of my body

calling out for the new bread.

New bread for the generation left

from a Mother’s tears,

at Mary’s feet; the world weeps.

copyright: CMM  2009


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 frimg_2958-2om 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