The Recipe Box
The Recipe Box
Opening up the old rubbed wooden box
I smelled time lingering from recipes of the past.
Shoved into in a hurried way of schedules and life
I pulled a hand full of recipes tattered and unorganized.
Sifting through in hopes to find a recipe to add to a menu
for a friend who is sitting in a hospital room with her mate.
A mate of 50 years now succumbed to life and cancer.
I look to see which one will do, and as I do, I see names.
These were the names of friends from a lifetime,
friends who shared a moment and then left a recipe to remember.
Friends much like the ones who are holding the hand of each other
waiting for life to say good-bye until another time.
I look at the names and realize the box has become a eulogy of friends,
the recipes reflecting their personality, their smiles, their life.
I feel as though it brought me to a sacred place, of time, sharing,
a holy place of scents and smells forgotten, but not their presence.
© Copyrighted: CMM 2015
Second City
Second City
“What strange phenomena we find in a great city, all we need do is stroll about with our eyes open. Life swarms with innocent monsters.”
― Charles Baudelaire
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
Friends For LIfe
I shared with her my plans and schemes,
she shared with me her hopes and dreams.
Together we grew and then apart,
but apart we never forgot the start.
The start of what would one day be
a friendship for life, as we look back to see.
Mistakes we made and mountains we climbed,
didn’t take away the precious times.
We had when we were young and foolish,
dressed in hippie and rock style goolish.
Play house tucked between two trees,
went from ‘make believe’ to club house fees.
Cokes spilt as it fizzed to the top,
not being able to find the mop.
Burning pots in our effort to cook,
parents stood and trembled and shook.
The skating rink, and many a miles
as we skated and danced with youthful smiles.
The teen club, with all its rocking songs,
giving us a sense that we belonged.
Belonged of a generation confused from war,
with racial strife the turmoil we bore.
Our days became families and then children to rear,
the days we lived, the battles we feared.
From growing up in uncertain times,
didn’t seem to change or deter our minds.
From returning to what was always to be
a friend close in time we’d see.
The treasures of childhood, the journey or strife
is always best accompanied by a friend for life.
copyright: CMM 2005
We have walked into
our beginnings as far as
we can go…
now the sea calls us each to our purpose,
all that is left is to climb…
©Christine McNeill summer 2004
(dedicated to Jonathan the most wonderful
son )
Striking Time
Tick, ticking striking out of the past,
no one hears the silent sounds
of the before, setting tones of today.
Hushed noised of the irreversible day,
passable times of yore,
left only in forgotten memory.
Cobwebbed shelves building into
the minds of the ones left behind,
to sustain the awareness of time.
Rhythm, slow ticking, echoes loudly
as dusty sounds of a year
stored in moth scented rooms of the past.
Tones of hours, twisted,
tenor of richness strikes the dome
of pendulums’ sounds.
Wound springs of life, unwinding
movements in celebration of life
and the poignant tones of death.
The world evolves, revolves,
the clock ticks winding its hours
tightly around the past.
Irreversible paradox of beginnings
going toward the endings,
reaching into uncertainty.
copyrighted: CMM 2004-2005
Ride
The Ride
I look into his face,
the eyes of steely black,
knowing for him to survive,
I must mount his back.
It is now him and me
at the bottom of the incline.
This sturdy force, this muscled mass,
must take upon his climb.
at the bottom of the incline.
This sturdy force, this muscled mass,
must take upon his climb.
I cross over his strengthen barren back,
one I’ve known so well,
together we will climb this cliff,
the cliff from where he fell.
one I’ve known so well,
together we will climb this cliff,
the cliff from where he fell.
I lay my head on his hair,smelling the sweat of the day.
I tilt forward in his lead,
as he surely leads the way.Insignificant and frail I feel,
a difference of his strength and me,
the power harbored in his will,
the struggle that sets us free.
I tilt forward in his lead,
as he surely leads the way.Insignificant and frail I feel,
a difference of his strength and me,
the power harbored in his will,
the struggle that sets us free.
His body welcomes me,
I lean into it, shouldering me he tows.
He pulls his hoofs against the stones
his step is strong but slow.
Blending as one in determination
motion of the trial we meet,
sound of his hoofs, his labored breath,
tropical winds bring the heat.
WE finally reach this upward climb,
and once again we are still.
Silent trust, this twosome ride
from the power of his will.
I slide and leave this gallant hero,
with his challenge met.
A euphoric morning, the power of the ride,
the ride I will never forget.
Copyrighted: CMM 1996
The Book
I picked up your book,
left behind as a gift.
I 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
Eagle and Child Inkling 