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.
Keats spoke of a rose and how it would not wilt.
This rose came only once and was not made of silk.
PIcked among a garden this one unique rose,
taken from the thorns, this flower she chose.
Sat upon his desk, and nurtured from the stems,
drenched in water, cut in a vase, and looking back at him.
He called the rose loveliest of any in his fences,
this rose compared to others, they had no defenses.
However the secret of this rose was not from one attending.
The secret of its beauty was truly from its sending.
This rose he said was more because a friend gave way,
now the beauty of the perfect rose was given to him today.
Swelling powdered scents flowed in the house and settled,
crimson velvet sculptured rose, green stem among the petals.
Beauty in its temporal form in nature’s moment bloomed,
eternal rose, deep within was nurtured to the tomb.
copyrighted: © CMM 2004
Love According to Shakespeare
Shakespeare in his bloomers svelte
wrote of love and how he felt.
Yet he seemed to be confused
even in his witty muse.
He loved a lady fair with scarlet,
yet he often referred her harlot.
He loved a young male of letters wrote,
but begged him times a sorrowful note.
His mind of genius and of words,
repeated times are often heard.
In plays and sonnets and in verse,
thespians memories do rehearse.
So goes his thoughts of madness,
the soulful writer’s joy and sadness.
A Valentine’s Day of day’s remembrance
seek out your own Shakespearean semblance.
Copyrighted: 2007 CMM
Photo Copyrighted: 2003 CMM
Sterile Winter’s Return
Cold the sun
which days now come,
a frozen still breath,
a summer now done.
to watch and listen
a quiet sublime.
Oh, but the promise
of summer’s youth,
is lost among dried
leaves now mute.
No wind, no breeze,
does not remain
as time has come,
winter’s season now reclaimed.
© CMM 2012
Winds burn past dry skin
blistering by barren sands.
Whirl in motions from movement
crusted by heat.
Cactus offers moist reprieve
if dare you pass the thorny skin.
Opened into wet relieve
from the hot and desert wind.
Echoes sound of failed attempt ,
haunt the nights when all is quiet.
From the pilgrimage of the others,
fleeing in the darkest night
What will, what force, was set in place
among the ash and brown terrain.
The rivers names speak of a time
that now has little semblance remain
© CMM 2012