It is your birthday
We cut the cake
We shared a memory
For old time sake
I am not sure if cake is there
Or parties or birthdays
But today Steph and I share
A piece of cake on this day
Your birthday 🎂
We were young
Music was in our feet.
My older sister and I
left with the chores
of the evening after dinner
to clean the kitchen.
We would wash the dishes
And as we did, we danced.
Rock and roll
And beach music,
the shag was the rage,
Our grandparent’s home
and white wash cupboards.
a small kitchen table
With a swinging door to the dining room.
A door we kept closed
So we could dance to the radio
Sitting on the yellow table
Loud enough to get by …
not loud enough to get caught
Elvis, the Beatles and Buddy Holly
Transformed into our bandstand
As we found ourselves dancing
In grandma’s kitchen …
CMM © 2022
I remember the light
In my grandmother’s kitchen
Something you notice,
then later you remember
how refreshing her presence.
© CMM 2021
I heard an owl outside my window
Breaking dark and morning flight
Then another answers soon after
Together harmony hooting quiet
A leaf is heard falling softly
Autumn speaks a gentle sound
Lagging song bird breaks the silence
And I am the only one around
Rustic red donned the tree tops
Top to bottom as they fall
Sweet farewell for winters coming
Leaving the trunk standing tall
￼copyright: CMM 2020
Gather memories of you
Grandma’s kept secrets
© Christine McNeill- Matteson
My Gaelic daughter,
A child of grace.
A spirited heart,
An angelic face.
Fears of a mother
Go ahead of her steps.
No greater joy,
Her pain is kept.
Walk among the clover,
Feed under the thatch.
Angels go as you rover .
A lassie of no match.
Copyrighted © 2018 CMM
my grandsons and me
Walk free among verdant grass
Present will be past
Copyright © 2018 CMM
Hanging on tiny pegs deep within the ole’
country store, filled with scents of Autumn.
The replica’s of the past preserved in rust
and weary wood lean against white wash walls.
There in the middle of the vast array of
yesterday’s wears and pickled pears I
looked over to see the wonderful
handkerchief made of white organdy.
I was without protest taken to a place
so long ago within a southern church.
With deacon pews made of hard wood
and curved at the ends where I sat
sitting next to my grandmother.
Her scent of lavender and Jergens
Lotion combined with the seasons
brought in from the open window
Near-by, of trees, and flowers.
The handkerchief was wrapped around
her fingers as they wove into one another.
Her hands laid in her lap of homemade
dress, with tatting and laced collars.
Her thumbs were covered with the lace
handkerchief as she circled them around
and around, (as I watched), never breaking
rhythm the handkerchief would go.
The choruses were sang from ole’ gospel songs,
and the preacher would change his sermon about
one thing or another and the people would often
come and go, but not this constant memory.
The organdy lace handkerchief with painted
flowers and lace on the tips were always
in her hands, covering and keeping timing,
with timeless memory sitting next to Grandma…
© CMM 2011