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

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 )

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