The 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
Near-by, of trees, and flowers.
The handkerchief was wrapped around
her fingers as they wove into one another.
Her hands laid in her lap of 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 sang from ole’ gospel songs,
and the preacher would change his sermon about
one thing or another and the people would often
come and go, but not this constant memory.
The organdy lace handkerchief with painted
flowers and lace on the tips were always
in her hands, covering and keeping timing,
with timeless memory sitting next to Grandma…
© CMM 2011
Bunce Road
I remember the dirt drive laden in gravel just
off the main asphalt country road.
named after generations of people,
who came before me;
We called family.
I wonder how many trips were
taken in and out,
and for what reasons
as we came and went to this place;
we called home.
Generations of successors grounded
into the beginnings of a southern family.
Two world wars and aromas in the kitchen
with Sunday afternoon get-togethers;
everybody knew everybody
An echo of memories sounds into the tomorrows,
old becomes new and the new often forgetting
the once was, just off the gravel road
leading back to the circled drive grounded into a name;
for generations now forgotten.
© CMM 2008
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,
were all we had known.
Grandparents adjusting
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
Moments Soup
It is the parsley speckles floating in my soup,
as I sit looking outside the French doors.
Winter’s drizzle leaves traces downward
as time has left the traces which bring me to reflect.
Warm soup lifts in the steam left over
from the heat of the pot recently served,
brings warm thoughts of a time
brought by the seasons of another time.
A moment on a still chilled morning,
browns from the outer doors,
the dripping from the roof makes
all else in the world un-felt by it’s nature.
In this morning’s nature of warm soup and rain,
I have sat my day’s readings aside written of women’s
conflict and strife to feel the privilege testimony
that only a morning of notice would allow.
I think of the histories of history and I go.
I go far back to the shadows of Grandma and Mother.
I feel their aroma in the warmth of my soup.
With a clandestine smile, I have realized the ingredients
which made them survive—
copyrighted: CMM 2005
revised: CMM 2012
revised: CMM 2012
Silver Sea
Silver lights surround fallen beams cast from summer’s full moon.
Sea is quiet and spreads like a lover in waiting for the ones-to-notice, to linger.
Linger we do, in the dust showered in the reflections of the midnight visit.
Women of generations, sit upon sands that are older than time itself,
Gathering thoughts of times to come, and times that passed as wisdom lingers.
Lingering in moments of contemplation, waiting to be heard.
© CMM 2012
(Dedicated to my Mother )
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
Once Was
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.
© CMM 2012
Eagle and Child Inkling 