I was running and keeping pace,
when up on a hill I saw a special place.

One I had seen and recognized,
It even fit and the perfect size.

This place on the hill set under the leaves,
in hidden brush and comfort sleeves.

Hills and branches and rocks and cliffs
wind so cold and trees that shift.

Leaves piled high and much debris’
but still revealed this place to me.

I wondered if that I should knock,
to say hello would be such a shock.

This place where no one dared to go,
this pooh’s place was hidden so…

to allow the passerby’s to see
a believer of this Pooh’s Place’; me.

Copyrighted: 2002 CMM

A little boy sits quietly at his desk
the summer breeze blows the curtain
from the window pane.

He has become unaware of the snapping of the clothes
on the line from the hot dry Midwest breeze.
The distant trains breaking
the sounds as they clack through town.

He fingers his baseball glove, following his imagination,
of diamonds that glitter from home runs,
and glistens from sunsets after loaded bases.

The smell of leather takes him to locker rooms,
sounds of cheers with
the snapping of the baseball bat hitting the ball.

Symphony sounds that make up dreams
that feed the body and soul of the little boy
at his desk, freckled face…looking past.

Past the ‘hopalong cassidy’ lamp sitting on his desk,
past the plaid sheets spreading his bed,
past the books that pile in waiting for homework.

He imagines all sounds real with promises;
“What a homerun that was!”
“What a pitcher I am.”

Swirling winds of dreams of a little boy
at his desk, in his room…
in the Midwest, dreaming baseball.

copyright: 2000 CMM
(dedicated to a friend who dared to dream)

The Light House

I dared to climb
this Baldhead light
with stones and only stairs

The rickety stairs
the rackety sounds
was I brave enough to dare

Her open belly empty
from years gone by,
smelled dampen, musky old.

The ripened stilted wood stairs
went on forever,
dirt and mossy mold

One height, two
the stairs went on
ceaseless they seemed to grow

Two height, three
the rickety sounds,
the top, where did it go

Four height, five
reaching into the sky
I could only see more ahead

Six height, seven
Light has appeared
Given way from the feeling of dread

Finally when all seemed
hopelessly high,
the light reached atop

Globe, the bulb
the watchful eye,
we had summit the final stop

The island was seen
from miles around,
with sea in each direction

From fields and houses
beaches and mounds,
the island of varied sections.

We left the Baldhead Island
that day, sensing the past
and the sights

But the beauty one
could not see, were times gone
of channel lights

sailors and seamen
who knew when she signal
they were home and soon a shore

The welcoming of
the Baldhead Light
given safety; we ask no more.

Christine McNeill
© Summer 2004