Smoked-filled room, choke the senses,
tenant’s visits heightens defenses.
Buried emotions, snuffed stale air,
vacant expressions with sunken stares.
All who come to the evening tomb,
cloud their lives within the room.
Clinking of glasses the flame of the lighter,
two strangers meet, become one-niters.
Reaching from trust now long failed,
hopes wrapped up now kept and jailed.
Speaking present, the buried past,
masking in drinks, in hopes it will last.
Long enough to help forget,
strangers, soon lovers, talk and sit.
She now with her tinted hair light,
sits as he listens throughout the night.
Each one look for their night of need,
knowing dawn their guilt will breed.
A different loss, a hollow space,
another night to seek; erase.
© CMM 2000
Mounting Pegasus under morning night,
we take to wings of running flight.
Among stars and constellations,
entered in morning night.
A falling star drops just ahead,
a silent wish is quickly said.
Into the mystic morning show,
Pegasus and I have nothing to dread.
Heralded by seagulls awaking,
the birds in faint light start taking.
To song and flutter as we pass,
all a part of the morning making.
This runner’s flight crossed into light
from a mystic morning flight.
Pegasus and I ride into red glow
dripping sun just in sight.
copyright: CMM 2010
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,
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
I was born with a cowlick,
as they say in the South
It is nowhere related
to parts of a mouth.
If you looked real close
nothing laid down.
Hair stood up everywhere
even the crown
People would notice
then look away.
See only the pretty girls
no cowlicks, got to stay.
But, even born with a cowlick
isn’t too bad.
Cause it won’t make you happy
and it won’t make you sad.
That’s got to come way deep inside
learning to take cowlicks all in stride.
© CMM 2012
There are secrets in my garden
You need but walk a piece
You will stumble on a flower
And a butterfly at ease
Walk but just a couple steps
You almost see them grow
The purple and the yellow
But please walk a little slow
There are secrets in my garden
A prairie dog you might see
A pansy or a daisy
However please be quiet
Not to disturb the frog so lazy
Or the fountains where angels sit
I invite you in my garden
Where joy is laid and kept
deep in reason, deep in thought.
No one to match his statistical mind
no one dead or alive, so far in time.
Mozart’s fingers crossed over the keys,
giving them melody and symphonies.
Practiced till his days were long
celebrated now in concert and song.
Freud who delved deep in the mind,
knew he had found the perplexed kind.
The id, Ego, and Super Ego distinct
put them together, the missing links.
Yet we look for original thought,
seeking harshly by scientist wrought.
Brilliant in their ways of thinking
only disappear among the sinking.
What is to say, what is smart,
if we only finish with what we start?
Or apply what is already known,
moving an inch from where its grown.
Time and space and Neanderthal man
has carried history from where it began.
Intelligent mind and the brain has grown,
yet still with intellect so little is known.