I go to the ocean

To listen

I go to the sea

To find the lost me

I go to the shores

To hear the waves pray

wet sand caress my feet

The wind to lift my hair

I go to the place

My beginnings to renew

Whirling around me free

I have missed you my friend; the sea.

Copyright:   CMM  2016

We speak of evil,

We speak of guns,

We speak of radicalism,

With political puns.

Science defines the mind

with no choice.

Telling us within ourselves

we have no voice.

We are drones captured

by our determination,

DNA, physiology

no ability to decide our own inclination.

Those of science say we cannot choose

will see the rise of wrong

blend into a cesspool reused…

Copyright:  2016 CMM

She remembers the clothesline just off the kitchen window.

Lined against the bushes of lilacs all blooming in the spring.

Straight lines of coiled wire touching brown decaying wood post.

Each week she would see the lady of the house hang lovely colors,

different shapes and sizes of shirts and pants and little girl’s dresses.

Blues would mix with the pinks and reds, but the whites were always

separate from the others so not to allow the dye to run on them. 

Deep in the summer south the hot wind would bend and sway

against the flag of colors left out to dry until right before afternoon sun.

She then would gather them and fold and lay them in a straw basket

bringing them into the house; the smell would be of the out of doors.

copyrighted:  2016 CMM

What You Do Not See

You do not see the tears left deep inside.

You do not see the smiles from years gone by.

You do not see the pain from labored days.

You do not see the restless night always

Waking in the early morning and staying late

Praying for a good day and avoiding fate.

You do not see so much in photos shared.

You do see however, how much we cared.

Copyrighted:  CMM  2016

The Sound I Did Not Hear

The summer was hot for my brother and me.

only in the 3^rd grade, stringy hair, and bone skinny.

Sent to help my uncle on his farm in the panhandle

we woke in the morning watching the sun rise

and fire ants crawl across the back yard picnic table.

We spent long hot hours on the screen back porch

shelling peas and shucking corn looking at the full baskets.

We were children, wanting to play, but could not.

Given allowance only enough to buy candy to rot our teeth,

we were forced to share the candy beads with others.

My brother and I would hide under the wood shingled house

where spiders and darkness surrounded the old yard dog escaping the heat.

The sun baked the Florida sand between the rows of corn

as we trampled quickly so not to stand long enough for our feet to burn.

We were children, responding to a situation we did not chose.

So cleverly we hid some of the beans that needed shelling into a basket;

a basket of hulls already shelled by our tire-sore child-like hand .

I will never forget the summer on the panhandle not because

of the hard work imposed on us…

I will never forget the sound of my brother in the room beside mine.

The sound of a belt being taken to him by my uncle without a pause;

a sound that made my skin crawl and my ears hurt.

Equally I will not forget the sound I did not hear.

I did not hear my brother —the sound of never hearing him cry—

copyrighted:   CMM  2016