Everywhere I go, I find a poet has been there before me. (Sigmund Freud)

I entered my garden of Gethsemane,

with the shroud of my womb

choking closely on my shoulders.

Weeping across my soul the red stain

flows into the vine now twisting into my

human flesh of pain and sorrow.

Mother of Mothers, whose loneliness

and desperation sheds the crust of my body

calling out for the new bread.

New bread for the generation left

from a Mother’s tears,

at Mary’s feet; the world weeps.

©    CMM   2009

new moon,

hidden moon,

full moon not seen…

the night,

You left just out of sight

under the stars gleam…

While  here

You hid your tears

Under a southern moon beam…

always in your heart

You danced from the start

a full moon, only you had seen.

© CMM   2012   

Yeats in his epitaph does say,
chiseled in the stone of gray,

If there is one left to cry,
“horseman pass me by.”

Trojan men painted clones,
equestrian power, chiseled stone.

“Oh, steed,” the poets cry,
witness to the final sigh.

The pen, the ride, united quest,
invites you near as their guest.

But, when the final blow does come,
please leave in open run.

And I will in spirit lope to see,
all the poets following me.

©  CMM 2011