poet

“There you are,” having fallen into helplessness,

confusions,

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

thinking, weighted

yesterdays forge

into serenity

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

little tree.

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