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

Sticks and Stones

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

Four Poster Bed

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,

were all we had known.

Grandparents adjusting

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

Santa Came Too Soon

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


Missing Christmas

Christmas lights flicker

   into colors, green and red.

The silence of the season

   hangs in what is not said.

img_9294It is the knowing you are not here

   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

You Do Not See

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