Bare Feet
Summer sand and heat will rise,
school was out and no surprise.
We dropped our books in the door,
kicked off our shoes to go explore.
Sand spurs caught us as we ran
in the weeded fields or in the sand.
It never mattered we played all day
the heated storms would start to sway.
Huddled under the porch we would wait,
lemonade in hand for the storm to abate.
But, never once did we think about
putting on shoes, cause school was out.
Father’s Day
It will soon be Father’s Day, and often that is viewed differently by so many.
I sit on the frozen metal chairs, serving to brace my back,
but not my feelings.
Whipping sounds of the cold wind
carries the wet tapping’s on the tent.
Smells of spring are muted by the unearthed hole
covered now with artificial turf
and mounded piles around the edges.
The box, the gray silver box
suspended over the receptor dug for it.
‘Stars and Stripes’ reminiscent of wars
fought in the past, and forgotten not.
Forgotten days of heroic acts
of wars not forgotten and now
remembered; this daughter remembering not.
Six foot and oh so many tall inches
my brother, sitting close by; silent.
He looked past me sometimes and sometimes noticed
with a reassuring nod he was there.
Not saying too much as people approached him,
this the only son and namesake of the departed.
Deep into his blue eyes and the stark black hair
quickly graying…
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Hills of Memory
In remembrance of Memorial Day
The morning sun rose in cool softness over the gentle Missouri hills,a morning announced with the calling of the geese as they fly over.
A special gathering is beginning deep within the hills
speckled with white uniform tombstones…
Tombstones all a certain size, all to match the other,
rowed to follow the curves, the sloping grass.
Gentle hushed people walking, stopping to look,
stopping to look for, hoping to see…
See the familiar name, the identity of the one,
the lone one they once knew and shared life…
Flag markers are diligentlly pierced in the grass,
the grass that carpets each gravesite.
Cutting through the cemetery a road lined from one end
leans with motorcycles representing a special war.
Significant of the era it was fought in; tumultuous times,
the confusion so related to the war of Southeast Asia.
Elderly men reminiscent of the World Wars and foreign fields
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Good Friday
When the wind crossed over time
and the wood left stains behind
rumbling into all tomorrows
paradox of man and divine
© CMM 2015
Morning
I see the rise beneath the darkness
a silver dress of light and day.
An old chapel lays in waiting
before the morning draped in gray.
Lil’ Chapel in early morning sunrise
The Recipe Box
The Recipe Box
Opening up the old rubbed wooden box
I smelled time lingering from recipes of the past.
Shoved into in a hurried way of schedules and life
I pulled a hand full of recipes tattered and unorganized.
Sifting through in hopes to find a recipe to add to a menu
for a friend who is sitting in a hospital room with her mate.
A mate of 50 years now succumbed to life and cancer.
I look to see which one will do, and as I do, I see names.
These were the names of friends from a lifetime,
friends who shared a moment and then left a recipe to remember.
Friends much like the ones who are holding the hand of each other
waiting for life to say good-bye until another time.
I look at the names and realize the box has become a eulogy of friends,
the recipes reflecting their personality, their smiles, their life.
I feel as though it brought me to a sacred place, of time, sharing,
a holy place of scents and smells forgotten, but not their presence.
© Copyrighted: CMM 2015
Eagle and Child Inkling 