death

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