Four Poster Bed

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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,

were all we had known.

Grandparents adjusting

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

Keat’s Rose

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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:  2007

Profane Professor

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The middle aged professor with half a balding spot

stands upon his desk yelling expletives and nots’.

The ‘f’s’ and the ‘f’s’ don’t you understand,

‘malfunctioning world, is as I explain of man.’

After all I am brilliant and have a degree,

some call me elitist, some a pedigree.

You are the fools that sit here in your desk,

as I postulate and rage without your protest.

I have lost my semblance of professional and poise,

you will hear me teach and it only sounds like noise.

Where do we get these educators yelling at the youth,

claiming this is intelligence and pretending it is couth.

Disorganized and frayed, they walk late into the class,

wasting money called tuition, they bleed from the mass.

So please Mr. Professor, get down from your chair,

try to get outside yourself and pretend you care.

Try to think we have value and a few little brains,

impart your wisdom and learn to pronounce our names.

Copyrighted:  2006  CMM

A New Year

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The crystal clings. with toast of things, remembered from the year.

The wine pours red and we nod our head to loved ones, we hold dear.

A kiss held softly an embrace held tightly, all to say, ‘I love you.’

The moment of kindness of auld lang syne, with feelings of old and new.

Embrace the old man who now lifts his staff among the stars of time…

We pray to the mystery of luck and fortune let’s sing to auld lang syne.

 

copyrighted:  2011 CMMimg_4953

Last Ride

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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

The Gift

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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.img_2329

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

Walked Among the Woods

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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,450c8ca1-e7b9-43e3-ad55-e1a7474cf539

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

Missing Christmas

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Christmas lights flicker

   into colors, green and red.

The silence of the season

   hangs in what is not said.

img_9294It is the knowing you are not here

   your smile I miss the most,

The quiet way you made it so

   a holiday Christmas toast.

I will miss our first Christmas

   with you not around.

I will miss all the other Christmas’

    in memory do resound.

Copyrighted:  2011 CMM

Mom’s Slippers

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I turn to see a shoe I missed

It was my Mother’s slippersimg_4005

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