Coffee Cup
My favorite cup broke today,
sad to say, sad to say…
It was about a year ago,
I lost the one with Emily and Poe…
But, that is life, it is to be,
cup now cracked no purpose I see…
However, when I think of it,
and ole’ Shakespeare’s written wit…
I will not think of the crack it did,
but, good times, with my coffee instead.
© CMM 2012 
Sweet Tea
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
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
The best voice over … take a listen.
Page of Time
They have unfolded one page at a time,
rubbed edges, the users have not been kind.
Tattered into frayed brown and grey edges.
Marked pages with comments, deep into wedges
of favorite places, some they did not like.
Pages keep turning, the story in spite
of critics and injections, that seem to not count
either way, they are offered
and will easily mount.
© CMM 2012
Haiku/Bottom Country
Haiku/Bottom Country
Shrimp, grits, spiced gravy
Okra fried, all savory;
bottom country good.
© CMM 2012
Haiku/Sweet Moments
Haiku
Southern grits, mud pies,
made of chocolate surprise,
sweetest of moments.
©
CMM 2012
CMM 2012Water Lilies
unlikely blooming
of the white bouquet of
lilies waiting …
Renaissance from the darkened
dregs of life’s bottom…
© CMM
Garden of Gethsemane
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.
© CMM 2009
Eagle and Child Inkling 