Once Was
Summer in the south
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.
© …
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Dandelions
ah spring
Dandelions, fields of weeds and scattered seeds,
these golden pollen spread.
The flower sweet,
the pollen wreak,
this lovely enemy of my head.
Dandelion flowers,
pastel fields,
masking ranting weed.
Dandelion flower,
so strong in resistance.
Please tell me, what is your need?
© CMM 2009
Remembered
An hour of time,
a lifetime,
a pause,
a moment,
a second,
memories
measured,
by who
remembers
the times…
copyrighted by: CMM 2017
A Great Lady
Her face, was like a road map of all special places,
her eyes the ocean of knowledge and strength.
Yes, her words spilled out of time, joy and sorrow
asking for someone to listen, love and remember; she was here.
Copyrighted: CMM 2017
International Women’s Day
I entered my garden of Gethsemane,
with the shroud of my womb
choking closely on my shoulders.
Weeping across my soul the red stain
flows into the vine now twisting into my
human flesh of pain and sorrow.
Mother of Mothers, whose loneliness
and desperation sheds the crust of my body
calling out for the new bread.
New bread for the generation left
from a Mother’s tears,
at Mary’s feet; the world weeps.
copyright: CMM 2009
3:00 A. M. Whistle
3:00 a.m., the whistle blows hauntingly through a thick still night.
I thought, how it is a reassuring sound from the past to the present,
Makes everything seem normal or at least safe as normal should feel.
The darkness allows you to pretend the sound is being made fr
om anytime.
Time of the little brick house with wasp escaping through the stone fireplace.
Or, an infant crying to be fed and nurtured back to sleep.
Or, the present time, the darkness allowed my thoughts to travel.
The sound allowed my mind to go on into the memories of any time before.
Sounding one last time, it disappears into nothingness and all is quiet.
Just the darkness. left from minutes past 3:00 a.m.
Copyrighted: 2017 CMM
Lost Valentine
Before the pain,
there was laughter
sharing of wits
the morning after
before the pain
there were smiles
all night conversations
lingering for a while
before the pain
she felt safe to know
he was there
they would grow
before the pain
all was everything
no needs
before the pain
Copyrighted: 2017 CMM
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
Profane Professor
The middle aged professor with half a balding spot
stands upon his desk yelling expletives and nots’.
The ‘f’s’ and the ‘f’s’ don’t you understand,
‘malfunctioning world, is as I explain of man.’
After all I am brilliant and have a degree,
some call me elitist, some a pedigree.
You are the fools that sit here in your desk,
as I postulate and rage without your protest.
I have lost my semblance of professional and poise,
you will hear me teach and it only sounds like noise.
Where do we get these educators yelling at the youth,
claiming this is intelligence and pretending it is couth.
Disorganized and frayed, they walk late into the class,
wasting money called tuition, they bleed from the mass.
So please Mr. Professor, get down from your chair,
try to get outside yourself and pretend you care.
Try to think we have value and a few little brains,
impart your wisdom and learn to pronounce our names.
Copyrighted: 2006 CMM
Eagle and Child Inkling 