Bleached white and muted grey wood line
Covered with spots of unthawed snow,
Patches of green grass left from summer.
The smoky grey morning clouds hang heavy
As the morning light breaks into a shadow cast.
Winter has taken hold into arctic temperatures
And still nature stays attentive to coming storms.
Sitting at my desk I am taken aback as one brave
Bird dares to break the silence and sing of spring
Friends For LIfe
I shared with her my plans and schemes,
she shared with me her hopes and dreams.
Together we grew and then apart,
but apart we never forgot the start.
The start of what would one day be
a friendship for life, as we look back to see.
Mistakes we made and mountains we climbed,
didn’t take away the precious times.
We had when we were young and foolish,
dressed in hippie and rock style goolish.
Play house tucked between two trees,
went from ‘make believe’ to club house fees.
Cokes spilt as it fizzed to the top,
not being able to find the mop.
Burning pots in our effort to cook,
parents stood and trembled and shook.
The skating rink, and many a miles
as we skated and danced with youthful smiles.
The teen club, with all its rocking songs,
giving us a sense that we belonged.
Belonged of a generation confused from war,
with racial strife the turmoil we bore.
Our days became families and then children to rear,
the days we lived, the battles we feared.
From growing up in uncertain times,
didn’t seem to change or deter our minds.
From returning to what was always to be
a friend close in time we’d see.
The treasures of childhood, the journey or strife
is always best accompanied by a friend for life.
copyright: CMM 2005
Father’s Day
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 prematurely, I saw volumes not being said.
A southern preacher, (friend of the family),
began the eulogy saying blessings over and over.
Dried eyes of the few remaining in black, some standing
some sitting, the wet canvas swayed in the storm.
We all listened, thinking silent thoughts not to be repeated.
Histories of misunderstanding hung in the damp
heavy air, brought by the remnants of winter’s farewell.
The flag now folded is awarded to the oldest
daughter with honors, she trembling in response; cried.
The ” Our Father”, started with the eventual joining of all,
while my earthly Father lay there,
deep within a coffin of ‘no memories.’
I heard this echo, this voice hardly recognizable over the phone,
one of the few times we spoke, “I love you”, he said.
Remembering his words was my eulogy to him
in my unspeakable thoughts.
The blessing, a song, the familiar “Amazing Grace”
a final prayer being said, I never heard.
People stood to speak to the other, and others couldn’t get
through crowded yesterdays; keeping them still.
Stronger spirits pilgrimage with hellos, and talk of the weather,
and “my how you have grown” and “time sure passes.”
Glancing I turn to see the workmen began to drop the coffin
of a man I never knew, they say, “He was my Father.”
© CMM 1994
Yeats
Yeats in his epitah does say,
chiseled in stone of gray
“If there is one left to cry,
horseman pass me by.”
Trojan men, painted clone,
equestrian power, chiseled stone.
Oh, steed the poet’s cry,
witness to the final sigh.
The pen, the ride, united quest,
invites you near, as their guest.
But when the final blow does come,
please leave by in open run.
I will in spirit lope to see,
all the poets following me.
copyright: CMM
Broken
A slip, a footing,
both pent against the wedge of panic’s doom.
A slice of electrical surge
crippling my stance.
Yanking the distorted foot
out of its pitted doom,
it stops me,
I wait.
A balance of consciousness,
a throbbing searing surge,
I step broken
one in front of the other.
Stepping into the climb,
one step, then two; more.
Top of the stairs,
a morose pause, then endurance—
I continue on to class.
© Christine McNeill-Matteson 2000
Hills of Memory
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 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
while the innocent children play around Oak trees.
The children that have been allowed,
because yesterday existed and the brave stood tall.
Twenty-one guns… start to sound, one after another,
silent crowds stand in reverence, while children cry.
Taps of the lone soldier, a soldier remembered,
remembered by his friend in the civil war.
Haunting ricochets sound its memory for all that stood watch,
all that stood and listened.
Off in the distance,
the silence heard of tears that don’t cry out.
The tears of broken families, holding memories of their loved ones.
Morning wandered; again the geese call us back to the beginnings.
The lone jogger wipes the tears of a Father she never knew.
Copyrighted: CMM 2002
Photo Copyrighted: CMM 2002
The Book
A couple of springs have passed since you left, but your memories remain.
I picked up your book,
left behind as a gift.
I thought how nice.
Now you have left,
and I think so nice I have the book .
I have the letter you wrote with such eloquent words,
full of philosophy and reason.
Now you are gone and the reason seems mute,
and the philosophy unfulfilled.
Combing my fingers over the checkmarks,
bringing me to attention to the tributes
you made to me, and us, and our friendship.
I feel you presence pour inside of me
and I know.
There is no book, no letter of reason,
no quote of philosophical works
that replace your having died without reason.
© CMM 2013
Sweet Tea
To my children on Mother’s Day, with love…
Sweet Tea, with a Lemon Twist
The ice clanking in crystal goblets,
glass mason jars and paper cups.
Sweet Tea, poured in the flavors
of the past with mint julep,
and lime slices split on glass sides
Sweet tea with sweet smiles
big eyed girls of wonder
with lace and skinned knees
Running through mud puddles
Looking for their prince
in shinning armor to ride in on a wooden horse
Sweet tea served on innocent
trays of make believes and summer eves
of stars and moon dust
covered with paper umbrellas
of butterflies and sugared rims
to sparkle on her smile when drank
sweet tea glasses of memories
and kept in storehouse of
yesterday’s dream for tomorrow’s
sweet tea…
Copyrighted: 2002, CMM
A Visit
Happy Mother’s Day Mom, (in memory)
I walked slowly over to see your name,
the ground was wet, the carpet now laid
A Visit
It has been six months since I was here,
the day of your interment I hold dear.
No headstone has yet been set,
your little sign has your name erect
A holy ground I pause to kneel,
it feels like church, the moment unreal.
I know they say, you are not here,
but, the truth is, your intimacy I feel.
For all in this world that was a part of you
lays in shroud below the morning dew.
Pinning the roses I brought today
I remember the flowers I sent Mother’s day.
A lifetime ago, a year has passed, so quickly now,
I place your roses on the dew, above your shroud.
Copyrighted: CMM 2012
Eagle and Child Inkling 