She was listening
voices around her unaware
she lies in waiting
she was listening
to the tears
the consolations
she was listening
when someone whispered
to her, I love you.
listening to the voices
leaving the room for a moment
and then she left…
Copyrighted:  CMM   2017

Table of Love



I think it was chocolate mahogany


                 large rounded carved ornate legs


                 coming down under the broad leaf table.


Grandma made the green gingham tablecloth spread across


over a protective plastic lining beneath.



Seven places for the family in the evening meal,


               three generations of grandparents, parent, children,


              head of the table Granddaddy sat quiet, not saying much.


At the other head, was Grandma; she would talk about the day.


Who did what when, and “lord, it is hot today.”



Mother sat in the middle of my little sister and me.


               She often didn’t say much, when she did, it was measured.


               My older sister sat across from me with her light brown hair,


blue eyes that never smiled.


Next to her, my brother, with his dark hair and light eyes,


glancing often to the criticism that came his way.




There was a lot of pain at the table at Grandma’s house.


                The pain was from the very person who was not present.


                 It was a gift of my father before he left …


The sun would set in the evening over the table of love.


But it didn’t take away the darkness that no one spoke about.

©  copyrighted:   2002 CMM

Hills of Memory

The morning sun rose in cool softness over the gentle Missouri hills,
a morning announced with the calling of the geese as they fly over. 

A special gathering is beginning deep within the hills

speckled with white uniform tombstones.

Tombstones all a certain size, all to match the other,
rowed to follow the curves, the sloping grass.

Gentle hushed people walking, stopping to look,
stopping to look for; hoping to see.

See the familiar name, the identity of the one,
the lone one they once knew and shared life.

Flag markers are diligentlly pierced in the grass,
the grass that carpets each gravesite.

Cutting through the cemetery a road lined from one end
leans with motorcycles representing a special war.

Significant of the era it was fought in; tumultuous times,
the confusion so related to the war of Southeast Asia.

Elderly men reminiscent of the World Wars and foreign fields
while the innocent children play around Oak trees.

The children that have been allowed,
because yesterday existed and the brave stood tall.

Twenty-one guns… start to sound, one after another,
silent crowds stand in reverence, while children cry.

Taps of the lone soldier, a soldier remembered,
remembered by his friend in the civil war.

Haunting ricochets sound its memory for all that stood watch,
all that stood and listened.

Off in the distance,

the silence heard of tears that don’t cry out.
The tears of broken families, holding memories of their loved ones.

Morning wandered; again the geese call us back to the beginnings.
The lone jogger wipes the tears of a Father she never knew.

Copyrighted: CMM 2002
Photo Copyrighted: CMM 2002