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
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
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
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
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
Happy Mother’s Day Mom, (in memory)
the ground was wet, the carpet now laid
A Visit
the day of your interment I hold dear.
Eagle and Child Inkling 