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

There was a time,

when the canvas was plain.

Clean brushes we picked up to

dip into the colors of youth,

Choices of hope

to build masterpieces

for tomorrows.

Now we try to patch the

old paint, and sit in front

of a canvas cluttered…

©  CMM  2014

I think it was chocolate mahogany

                 large rounded carved ornate legs

                 coming down under the broad leaf table.

Grandma made the green gingham tablecloth spread across

over a protective plastic lining beneath.

Seven places for the family in the evening meal,

               three generations of grandparents, parent, children,

              head of the table Granddaddy sat quiet, not saying much.

At the other head, was Grandma; she would talk about the day.

Who did what when, and “lord, it is hot today.”

Mother sat in the middle of my little sister and me.

               She often didn’t say much, when she did, it was measured.

               My older sister sat across from me with her light brown hair,

blue eyes that never smiled.

Next to her, my brother, with his dark hair and light eyes,

glancing often to the criticism that came his way.

There was a lot of pain at the table at Grandma’s house.

                The pain was from the very person who was not present.

                 It was a gift of my father before he left …

The sun would set in the evening over the table of love.

But it didn’t take away the darkness that no one spoke about.

©  copyrighted:   2002 CMM

There are barns that reek with cruelty,

with white washboards of dirty gray decay.

They stand barren against the bleakly sky

broken and worn from another day.

The wind now blows through them,

making sounds when the boards vibrate.

The barn keeps rhythms of the past,

whether good or whether it forsaken.

The winter’s expressions slide down the eaves,

of snow and ice and barren ground.

Now alone with all the memories,

making cracking gray barn sounds.

The crystal clings with toast of things remembered from the year.

The wine pours red and we nod our head to loved ones we hold dear. 

A kiss held softly an embrace held tightly all to say I love you.

That moment of kindness of auld lang syne with feelings of old and new

Brace the old man who now lifts his staff among the stars of time

As we pray to the mystery of luck and fortune let’s sing to old lang syne.

We will remember and not forget and hold  all unforgotten with years.

We will laugh among us, and cry for the lost ones  all remembered in tears…

©  CMM   2014

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2014 annual report for this blog.

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A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 1,100 times in 2014. If it were a cable car, it would take about 18 trips to carry that many people.

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As the chickadee finds its nest,


among the prickly leaf…


The labored Mother sighs


as birthing finds relief…




Then nature joins a chorus,


among the star they sing…


Humanity realized His birth


of the Resurrection King…




He came among the world


in quiet winter’s rest…


Chickadee without notice


continues to make his nest…




Copyrighted:  CMM 2003