my grandsons and me
Walk free among verdant grass
Present will be past
Copyright © 2018 CMM
the emerald fields
Give way to play for children,
Copyright 2018 CMM
Is it the hunger of children
that brings the beast to prowl.
Crying out the souls of poverty as
sticks and stones lay down their head.
Salty tears drying just below
the eyes of today’s forgotten,
dripped onto the little feet
without footprints to follow.
Callused soles of traveled miles,
rubbed into the distain of nothingness,
from thick leather boots stepping
on the fear of the lost children.
Copyrighted: 2018 CMM
That four poster bed and me at the foot…
was the beginnings of beginnings
and the irony it took.
My Mother’s plight to come back home,
when our Father’s fights,
and opening their doors,
no one needed to sleep on the floor.
The nights we laid, kittens in bed,
me at the foot,
as they snuggled at the head.
Quilts laid busy acoss us just right,
four poster jammed,
with three quite a sight.
As we grew older and given each a bed,
I will never forget the four poster bed,
me at the foot and they at the head.
I wonder in life when all things askew
and the trials I endured
whether old or renewed.
If being at the foot of this bed
gave me the will to survive,
in keeping my head.
© CMM 2002
I was born with a cowlick,
as they say in the South
It is nowhere related
to parts of a mouth.
If you looked real close
nothing laid down.
Hair stood up everywhere
even the crown
People would notice
then look away.
See only the pretty girls
no cowlicks, got to stay.
But, even born with a cowlick
isn’t too bad.
Cause it won’t make you happy
and it won’t make you sad.
That’s got to come way deep inside
learning to take cowlicks all in stride.
© CMM 2012
A voice so loud, I do remember,
Early evening, in late December
“Ho ho ho”, with a thunderous caugh,
Waking from slumber, we began to laugh.
Why was he here and we not asleep?
As our grandfather yelled, “kids come take a peep.”
“It looks as though Santa has come too soon,
You are awake and giggling in your room.”
We tip toed and peered around the hall to see,
a bearded man, red suit, looking back at me.
“Ho Ho Ho”, he winked and continued to sound.
“You are awake and wide eyed, I have found.”
We stood there in awe, and not a word said,
He hugged us, “Now get back to your bed.”
I remember the night, Santa came too soon.
As I tried to fall asleep, that night in my room.
Copyrighted: 2016 CMM
Christmas lights flicker
into colors, green and red.
The silence of the season
hangs in what is not said.
your smile I miss the most,
The quiet way you made it so
a holiday Christmas toast.
I will miss our first Christmas
with you not around.
I will miss all the other Christmas’
in memory do resound.
Copyrighted: 2011 CMM
What You Do Not See
You do not see the tears left deep inside.
You do not see the smiles from years gone by.
You do not see the pain from labored days.
You do not see the restless night always
Waking in the early morning and staying late
Praying for a good day and avoiding fate.
You do not see so much in photos shared.
You do see however, how much we cared.
Copyrighted: CMM 2016
The Sound I Did Not Hear
The summer was hot for my brother and me.
only in the 3rd grade, stringy hair, and bone skinny.
Sent to help my uncle on his farm in the panhandle
we woke in the morning watching the sun rise
and fire ants crawl across the back yard picnic table.
We spent long hot hours on the screen back porch
shelling peas and shucking corn looking at the full baskets.
We were children, wanting to play, but could not.
Given allowance only enough to buy candy to rot our teeth,
we were forced to share the candy beads with others.
My brother and I would hide under the wood shingled house
where spiders and darkness surrounded the old yard dog escaping the heat.
The sun baked the Florida sand between the rows of corn
as we trampled quickly so not to stand long enough for our feet to burn.
We were children, responding to a situation we did not chose.
So cleverly we hid some of the beans that needed shelling into a basket;
a basket of hulls already shelled by our tire-sore child-like hand .
I will never forget the summer on the panhandle not because
of the hard work imposed on us…
I will never forget the sound of my brother in the room beside mine.
The sound of a belt being taken to him by my uncle without a pause;
a sound that made my skin crawl and my ears hurt.
Equally I will not forget the sound I did not hear.
I did not hear my brother —the sound of never hearing him cry—
copyrighted: CMM 2016