I wrote a poem yesterday,
I don’t remember the words
Or what it had to say.
I scribbled it and jotted down
upon old paper
I picked off the ground
Writing quickly so not to forget
It came flowing
The sonnet set.
I found a place
Behind the books
Stuffed it where no others look
Later I promised I would read
The poem of the heart
A now forgotten seed.
© CMM 2012
An ole’ tree, yawning in the ground,
grown deep in the slow south.
Children back then knew it to be
sweet in taste and sugary in tea.
While old black pots were stirred all day,
seasoned with grounded leaves of sine quo non.
to make that jambalaya to steam away
the colorful savor is still not gone.
Copyrighted: CMM 2004
country store, filled with scents of Autumn.
I looked over to see the wonderful
However, not this constant memory of
I found the ole’ wise owl’s place of ease.
In my world you represent the time
of a Saturday evening of laughter and wine.
I saw you at a carnival game,
we won, and home with me you came.
Sitting in my room on a special chest,
cheering me as I lay to rest.
You’re large and you’re furry, nice to own,
stuffed softly without a single bone.
But a heart you have, for it is mine,
a fondness of you to remember the time.
The Saturday Night of carnival fun,
bringing you home at the setting sun.
copyrighted: 1988 CMM
Seeing the independent sight
tide splashing, rocky shoreline
lone poet stays watch…
Copyrighted: CMM 2000
I often wonder what he wrote the day he came upon
the stoning of the woman, the men that said she wronged…
He came up quietly and without pause, looked and said aloud,
“Any many without sin cast and cast it now.”
He then knelt a humble stance, and reached among the sand
with his finger began to write something with his hand.
He wrote until the he looked back up to see who was left to throw,
not one man had tarried there; they all had chosen to go.
He stood from where he had knelt and wrote upon the sand,
and the woman remained, to listen to this man.
The man that said, “Go sin no more” freedom now was hers.
I wonder what he wrote that day he knelt among the scores.
Was it their sins he knew so well and they in spirit heard,
and dropping all the stones they had, they left without a word?
© 2004
Christine McNeill-Matteson
Eagle and Child Inkling 