poet

I pulled aside upon my path

my kickstand now down…

The wheels that turned for so long,

Now stays upon the ground…

The wind has changed and now still,

The grass no longer green

the last ride has been complete

the rider no longer seen…

I have stopped for the last time

and pause to say good-bye

I hope to see you on the trail

somewhere on the other side…

Copyright:  CMM  2011

Dedicated to a friend who lost his battle with Mesothelioma

I remember the little white package.

It was a rippled red ribbon so neatly tied.

Crossbow over the square gift.

Placed just under the 3 ft. Christmas Tree.

Set on a table with white cotton tree skirt.

“It’s not much,” she would say.

“Oh, Grandma, anything you give is always too

much.”

We would smile as her trembling hands reached for the gift.

“Thank you Grandma,” as we opened the gift gingerly.

There in the little gift was a pair of sheer stockings.

“Grandma, how did you know, this is just what I needed.”

She would smile delightfully with light behind her blue eyes.

You see, the gift of love was one she could not wrap in paper.

The caring hands were never measured by a moment.

Her memory is not in just one generation, but many.

Her gift, I treasure, it was the gift of love left lingering.

Copyrighted: December 2016  CMM

I looked past the window pane and saw the gray bleak sky,

and felt the chill left in the house where all the quiet abides.

I’m not sure which bird I heard but off in distance it sings,

And I listen until the quiet resumes, then hear him once again.

Ice has passed and snow’s to come, blanketing frozen ground,

as I walked among the woods a breaking crunching sound

of frozen earth reminds me of the labored year has passed.

We look for good news to come, and hope that will surpass.

This hope was birthed among the timbers and quiet baby born,

yet the world goes on the same, even after Christmas morn.

Listen, as the year ends, Father times bids us farewell,

while the story remains anew among the promised tale

of birth and baby, poverty persist and still it overcomes,

rage and war and even death as life brought by a son.

Copyrighted:  CMM  2008

I turn to see a shoe I missed

It was my Mother’s slippers

I thought I could climb the stairs

with even sounds of flippers.

I stepped into the stairway 

and much to my surprise.

I lost the one, kept the other

I felt it gone and realized 

I still had one on the other foot

and that was ok you see.

I will continue on in venture 

carrying my mother’s shoe with me.

So such is life in little things 

our children do take with him.

The climb the shoe and little

one too and leave a shoe with them.

©   CMM  2015

If I could pick up the pieces

and build a bridge from me to you, 

we’d brush our hair with scents of yesterday’s living,

color our lips with stains of mauve secrets.

There would be miles of many years,

across miles of tears and sacred truths. 

We’d hang the railings with aprons tied together,

and our bras that covered our bosoms of nurturing souls.

Bridging over rivers from birthing beds wet with sweat and fluids from the womb, 

we would cry the storms with tears of sorrow, spring rains with tears of joy.

If I could pick the pieces of all our pain and build the hopes with the strength remain,

we would hear the chorus of all before us and harmony welcome  those to come.

copyrighted:  2012

I enter into today with the celebration of loss and love —

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

I stepped outside the squeaky door

the shower from the full moon explore

As I did I climbed on the wind

Hung on the star light and start to spin

The whirling of the dusty fog

Rose above my head and tug

When light and moon and rays delight

Brought a new and mystical light

To all the planets and stars burst out

The moon and wind poured like a spout

Of dust and sparklers and moon rays

I wanted to ride throughout their stay

But no, the wind died down too soon

And I was left back looking at the moon

Copyrighted:   CMM  2016

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

Wet morning sand stick to my feet

while brown seaweed breaks into my path.

I travel to my beginnings toward the sea.

Watchful without pretention or notice

sounds of waves crashing and wind blushing

past me, as I step into the path.

On the shores morning and evening meet always.

Reflection of all time before me, and after me,

will continue long after my footprints are no longer

wet to my feet; deep into my path.

Copyrighted:  2016 CMM