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
Summer Dreams
A little boy sits quietly at his deskthe summer breeze blows the curtain
from the window pane…
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.
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
Pantry
Keeper of my pantry,
throw away my key.
throw away my key.
For this is to be kept,
and only for me.
Preserving the fruits
of love are here.
Seasoned just right,
so they would be near.
So keeper of my pantry,
throw away my key.
So no one would enter,
but God and me.
copyrighted: CMM 1998
Grandmother’s Handkerchief
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.
The handkerchief was wrapped around
her fingers as they wove into one another.
Her hands laid in her lap of a 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 sung from ole’ gospel songs,
and the preacher would change his sermon about
one thing or another and the people would often come and go.
However, not this constant memory of
the organdy lace handkerchief with painted
flowers and lace on the tips always
in her hands, covering and keeping timing,
with timeless memory sitting next to Grandma…
© CMM 2011
Stuffed Tiger
Hello Tiger, here you sit with a silly face.
Why are you sad? You have a special place.
In my world you represent the time
of a Saturday evening of laughter and wine.
I saw you at a carnival game,
we won, and home with me you came.
Sitting in my room on a special chest,
cheering me as I lay to rest.
You’re large and you’re furry, nice to own,
stuffed softly without a single bone.
But a heart you have, for it is mine,
a fondness of you to remember the time.
The Saturday Night of carnival fun,
bringing you home at the setting sun.
copyrighted: 1988 CMM
Keyboards Still Play
Gentle steps of the keys play separately,
yet, together the music becomes a harmony
of memory and of verse.
Verse now resident of the soul,
to be written in prose of tomorrows.
Forgotten, we continue with music,
music of feelings never forgotten
in our today, yet the keyboards still play…
© CMM 2013
Eagle and Child Inkling 