lifetime

I met ‘ Father Time’ yesterday. He turned and said, We have known each other before.” I replied, Mona Lisa. He bellowed out a laugh and said, ” That will do.”

I watched a friend take her last breath today.

We prayed, ‘Hail Mary’ and the “Our Father’

Then she passed…

I miss her terribly.

Unfair, at least to my understanding now.

Unfair to me.

She was fried chicken,

Hometown laughter,

Short streets.

She was “riding around”,

Coca cola,

Music on the radio.

We talked of ‘new loves’,

With new hopes,

As we shared our dreams.

She was simpler times,

Long phone calls,

Sharing all…

She was late night rescue,

Stranded from dates

Gone bad.

She was laughter at oddity

Of pregnant bodies

And invisible feet…

She was death,

The painful recognition of

The ugliness of disease…

She was the beauty

Of the spirit, shinning past

All the let-downs of cancer…

She was a lifetime friend

You never ask for,

Only recognize a lifetime late…

As I sit by her bed,

Watching her breath,

And my tears are for me.

Copyrighted:   2016 CMM

let’s have a conversation

no, not a wish list to reply

let’s go somewhere and listen

we can laugh or we can cry

let’s stop and say nothing

or just smell the air around

let’s have a conversation

or never make a sound

what is really of value

is you are here for me

and I am always seeking

to have a conversation

a time to sit and be…

Copyrighted:  CMM  2016

There was a time,

when the canvas was plain.

Clean brushes we picked up to

dip into the colors of youth,

Choices of hope

to build masterpieces

for tomorrows.

Now we try to patch the

old paint, and sit in front

of a canvas cluttered…

©  CMM  2014

 

 

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

Keats spoke of a rose and how it would not wilt.

This rose came only once and was not made of silk.

PIcked among a garden this one unique rose,

taken from the thorns, this flower she chose.

Sat upon his desk, and nurtured from the stems,

drenched in water, cut in a vase, and looking back at him.

He called the rose loveliest of any in his fences,

this rose compared to others, they had no defenses.

However the secret of this rose was not from one attending.

The secret of its beauty was truly from its sending.

This rose he said was more because a friend gave way,

now the beauty of the perfect rose was given to him today.

Swelling powdered scents flowed in the house and settled,

crimson velvet sculptured rose, green stem among the petals.

Beauty in its temporal form in nature’s moment bloomed,

eternal rose, deep within was nurtured to the tomb.

copyrighted:  ©  CMM  2004