poet

The morning Wolf Moon

The Celtics cry aloud

It is the January Moon

Among the whisky cloud

The lore of the sound

In distant lone howl

The packs of wolves

Cry out a ral

They bark and whine

And whimper

As the moon rises

They start to skim-per.

All will listen to ancient sounds

Heart beat with nature,

Wolves are around .

CMM © 2022

A winter storm

Blankets the world

In silent white

Brings the ice cream

Covering in the night

Wake with Angel dust

Frozen to the ground

I venture out to run

And no one to be found.

CMM © 2021

The world is suffering

Covid has taken a toll

However do not tell

Our lil scholar

Trying to get on the honor roll.

© CMM. 2022

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,

on linoleum floors.

Our grandparent’s home

with white wash cupboards.

a small kitchen table.

A swinging door to the dining room.

A door we kept closed

so we could dance to the radio.

a radio sitting on the yellow table

loud enough to get by …

not loud enough to get caught.

Elvis, Beach Boys and Buddy Holly

transformed into our bandstand

as we found ourselves dancing

in grandma’s kitchen …

CMM © 2022

Black eye peas my ancestors would say.

Eat them for luck on New Years Day.

A spoonful, a bowl they did not care.

Leaving the table , you did not dare .

Black eye peas will sit there forever

As it waits, this new year’s endeavor .

CMM © 2022

Tea leaves

Float aimlessly

Stirring moments

Of newness

New day

New year

New hopes

New beginnings

Some people read tea leaves

— I just drink them .

2022 © CMM

The Eve

The eve of New Year has arrived

The fog rolls in covering the lamppost

The dismal air filled with a chill of a pending storm.

Maybe this is it, maybe the fog will usher the new year.

Maybe the white snow trailing behind it will bed the past.

The squirrels will scamper into the nested trees

The only sound when we venture out will be our footsteps,

The screams of the last murder of crows left behind with hope.

The hope to find the last field just turned from farmer’s plow.

Crunching the frozen ground laid by winter’s arrival,

We are brought into the silence of ourselves

Maybe then, we will think to pray.

CMM.  2021

A ginger bread house

Of warmth and love

Put together in tenderness

A sweetness of charm

A glowing touch

A sharing of familiarness

The walls are strong

And stuck with glue-

Like snow glistening

The roof and the snow

Are cotton candy sweet.

the walk a chocolate tantalizing.

CMM ©2021