death

Sisters


Valentine’s Day

I tried to cry but the pain was there

I felt the hour of our shared despair

Sisters bleed as time turned gray

Mingled tears from another day

A mother gone so much not said

A wilted memory and sadness shed

A soft word in a written note

A longing shared our grasps  remote

Sisters bleed as time turned gray

Mingled tears for another day .

Copyrighted:  2016 CMM

A Poem


 

 

If I wrote among the willows would the earth receive my tears ?

Would the roots gather moisture and return the pain of years ?

If I dry my tears with ashes and wipe my anguish with moss,

would the day seem less melancholy and the passing less a loss ?

Be with me a moment and  I will gather in the rain

All the earth of my humanity and the lightening of my pain …

copyrighted:  CMM  2014

Yeats


Yeats in his epitah does say,

 

chiseled in stone of gray

 

 

“If there is one left to cry,

 

horseman pass me by.”

 

 

Trojan men, painted clone,

 

equestrian power, chiseled stone.

 

 

Oh, steed the poet’s 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 by in open run.

 

 

I will in spirit lope to see,

 

all the poets following me.

 

 

copyright: CMM

I Will Never Forget


 Washington DC putting flowers on Mom's gravephoto
Touching the ground, wet grass, and still morning.
You lie beneath my feet, feet that feel  as though
they are sinking into the very void of your presence.
Leaving barren ground to follow without you,
holy ground,  hallow feelings of yesterday.
You do not exist in temporal tomorrows of living everyday.
I kneel, to keep from swaying in the feelings of uncertainty.
I want to lie and sleep near you, to feel you again.
A fragment of time, going and gone, and soon to be gone again,
I mix the moisture of the day with the moisture of my tears.
In the passing of life as I seek to find reason,
I bow my head to pray. I feel the swelling of life and death
fertilize the ground inside my grounding, so that I may never forget.
© CMM 2011

The Last Poem


(written by a friend who lost his battle with cancer)

(RIP  Jan. 2011)

I have started to cry

causing tears up over my eyes,

but few come out.

A silence spreads

a bit of waiting for new breath,

my face looks up again.

It passes,

tears wiped away,

it passes.

© July 17, 2009

The Book


I picked up your book,

left behind as a gift.

Professor Doo Wop's PoemphotoI thought how nice.

Now you have left,

and I think so nice I have the book .

I have the letter you wrote with such eloquent words,

full of philosophy and reason.

Now you are gone and the reason seems mute,

and the philosophy unfulfilled.

Combing my fingers over the checkmarks,

bringing me to attention to the tributes

you made to me, and us, and our friendship.

I feel you presence pour inside of me

and I know.

There is no book, no letter of reason,

no quote of philosophical works

that replace your having died without reason.

©  CMM  2013

Coffee Shop Poetry


Voices came in sizes and inflections
telling their lives in all directions.

Stories of anger, mothers and life,
sexual encounters and academic strife.

Nationalities were all represented,
each as they stood an presented.

Works of art in a smoke filled room,
coffee ordered and quickly consumed.

Listeners listened and interpreted the verse
some as a blessing, some as a curse.

Emotions were heightened as one gesticulation
stood on the edge of suicide or elation.

Others subdued in memories of war,
while others recalled the evenings they scored.

Readers and audience like me were all strange,
as we take words and life and uniquely arrange.

Then step to the mic, they gave up their soul,
from the very young to the seasoned and old.

My hair caught the smell of smoke in the air
while I listened and captured the love and despair.

I turned in the end and stood to see
they all were a fraction of reflection of me.

Copyrighted: CMM 2004

Lost Letter


Cleaning my desk,

I opened an envelope stuffed

with keepsakes, cards, letters.

Crinkled against time, some tattered

with wear, I saw an old familiar address.

Pulling it from the pile was like pulling

a friend from the reservoirs of memories.

I opened it, the dust had settled on his words

as ashes and sand settled on his grave.

He had written to tell me that he was diagnosed

with cancer …

He reflected in ink, spilling his frozen moments

of time on the paper, as he waits for the rest of his treatments.

Slipped in the envelope was a picture he had taken

of a seagull taking flight.

It was this, the lost letter, I had looked for

from the past.Hans Seagull photo

©  CMM  2013

Sterile Winter’s Return


 

Cold the sun

which days now come,

a frozen still breath,

a summer now done.

Barren limbs

widows time,

to watch and listen

a quiet sublime.

Oh, but the promise

of summer’s youth,

is lost among dried

leaves now mute.

No wind, no breeze,

does not remain

as time has come,

winter’s season now reclaimed.

 

©  CMM  2012