“There you are,” having fallen into helplessness,
lost in the pile of life’s debri.
I pick you up, dust you off,
dear old friend,
but don’t leave again…
I smile down at my long lost pen.
copyrighted: CMM August 2010
flickering morning fire
quietly throws warmth
across the shadows
no sleep lifts me up
from my warm bed
to sit in the dark
praying in resolution
knowing the day
will be full
Copyright: 2018 CMM
I find myself (as I do every Christmas) thinking back to a
special lady who always made Christmas so loving. There was
one gift I always remember and treasure is the one from Grandma.
She was old and retired. She was living on a very limited
income. Each Christmas she would set up a tree no taller than
Two feet. It was artificial and set on a little table covered with cotton
from old boxes, replicating snow.
She would take the little money she had and buy each of her
grandchildren hose for the girls and socks for the boys.
Today I remember her going to the little tree. Her hands had
become old with swollen joints and trembled just a little as
she picked up the little gift wrapped in thin paper from the year
before. There was always a thin ribbon, usually red tied so carefully.
Handing me the little gift, she would say, “It’s not much.” I
would always smile to her and say, “Grandma, you have no idea
how much I needed hose.” She would smile and sit next to the
Today that gift keeps giving back to me. It was love.
copyrighted: 2012 CMM
I looked past the window pane and saw the gray bleak sky,
and felt the chill left in the house where all the quiet abides.
I’m not sure which bird I heard but off in distance it sings,
And I listen until the quiet resumes, then hear him once again.
Ice has passed and snow’s to come, blanketing frozen ground,
as I walked among the woods a breaking crunching sound
of frozen earth reminds me of the labored year has passed.
We look for good news to come, and hope that will surpass.
This hope was birthed among the timbers and quiet baby born,
yet the world goes on the same, even after Christmas morn.
Listen, even as the year ends, Father times bids us farewell,
while the story remains anew among the promised tale
of birth and baby, poverty persist and still it overcomes,
rage and war and even death as life brought by a son.
Copyrighted: CMM 2008
Literature and Art Studies
- CHRISTINE McNEILL-MATTESON, A Walk among the Brushes. A Personal Reflection
of Anna-Teresa Tymieniecka: The Poet