Her face, was like a road map of all special places,
Yes, her words spilled out of time, joy and sorrow
asking for someone to listen, love and remember; she was here.
Copyrighted: CMM 2017
3:00 a.m., the whistle blows hauntingly through a thick still night.
I thought, how it is a reassuring sound from the past to the present,
Makes everything seem normal or at least safe as normal should feel.
Time of the little brick house with wasp escaping through the stone fireplace.
Or, an infant crying to be fed and nurtured back to sleep.
Or, the present time, the darkness allowed my thoughts to travel.
The sound allowed my mind to go on into the memories of any time before.
Sounding one last time, it disappears into nothingness and all is quiet.
Just the darkness. left from minutes past 3:00 a.m.
Copyrighted: 2017 CMM
That four poster bed and me at the foot…
was the beginnings of beginnings
and the irony it took.
My Mother’s plight to come back home,
when our Father’s fights,
and opening their doors,
no one needed to sleep on the floor.
The nights we laid, kittens in bed,
me at the foot,
as they snuggled at the head.
Quilts laid busy acoss us just right,
four poster jammed,
with three quite a sight.
As we grew older and given each a bed,
I will never forget the four poster bed,
me at the foot and they at the head.
I wonder in life when all things askew
and the trials I endured
whether old or renewed.
If being at the foot of this bed
gave me the will to survive,
in keeping my head.
© CMM 2002
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.
I cherish your bedside as we said good bye and
All I could do is cry
It has been five years and your sweet desperation breathed between two places
Your eyes closed as some said the “Our Father” and others’ dark faces
Posturing, some told lies and some truths; you listened.
Reaching into the depths of the last moments, you closed your eyes
For the last time you pulled from a place we all know only once in time
You called out ” I love you.” The room quieted
copyrighted: CMM 2016
She remembers the clothesline just off the kitchen window.
Lined against the bushes of lilacs all blooming in the spring.
Straight lines of coiled wire touching brown decaying wood post.
Each week she would see the lady of the house hang lovely colors,
different shapes and sizes of shirts and pants and little girl’s dresses.
Blues would mix with the pinks and reds, but the whites were always
separate from the others so not to allow the dye to run on them.
Deep in the summer south the hot wind would bend and sway
against the flag of colors left out to dry until right before afternoon sun.
She then would gather them and fold and lay them in a straw basket
bringing them into the house; the smell would be of the out of doors.
copyrighted: 2016 CMM
He has become unaware of the snapping of the clothes
on the line from the hot Midwest breeze,
the distant trains breaking the sounds as they clack through towns.
He fingers his baseball glove, following his imagination,
of diamonds that glitter from home runs
and glistens from sunsets after loaded bases.
The smell of leather takes him to locker rooms,
sounds of cheers with
the snapping this time of baseball bats hitting the ball.
Symphony sounds that make up dreams
that feed the body and soul of the little boy
at his desk, freckled face; looking past.
Past the ‘Hopalong Cassidy’ lamp sitting on his desk,
past the plaid sheets spreading his bed,
past the books that pile in waiting for homework.
He imagines all sounds real with promises;
“What a home run that was!”
“What a pitcher I am!”
Swirling winds of dreams of a little boy
at his desk, in his room,
in the Midwest…dreaming baseball.
Copyrighted: 2001 CMM
(Dedicated to a friend who played in the Minor Leagues, wrote of baseball and ethics.
RIP 2012. Also, to my son who loved the game of baseball.