Listening


She was listening
voices around her unaware
she lies in waiting
she was listening
to the tears
the consolations
she was listening
when someone whispered
to her, I love you.
listening to the voices
leaving the room for a moment
and then she left…
Copyrighted:  CMM   2017

Bunce Road


I remember the dirt drive laden in gravel just

off the main asphalt country road.

named after generations of people,

who came before me;

We called family.

I wonder how many trips were

taken in and out,

and for what reasons

as we came and went to this place;

we called home.

Generations of successors grounded

into the beginnings of a southern family.

Two world wars and aromas in the kitchen

with Sunday afternoon get-togethers;

everybody knew everybody

An echo of memories sounds into the tomorrows,

old becomes new and the new often forgetting

the once was, just off the gravel road

leading back to the circled drive grounded into a name;

for generations now forgotten.

©   CMM  2008

Keat’s Rose


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

Sisters


Valentine’s Day

I tried to cry but the pain was there

I felt the hour of our shared despair

Sisters bleed as time turned gray

Mingled tears from another day

A mother gone so much not said

A wilted memory and sadness shed

A soft word in a written note

A longing shared our grasps  remote

Sisters bleed as time turned gray

Mingled tears for another day .

Copyrighted:  2016 CMM

Invitation


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let’s have a conversation

no, not a wish list to reply

let’s go somewhere and listen

we can laugh or we can cry

let’s stop and say nothing

or just smell the air around

let’s have a conversation

or never make a sound

what is really of value

is you are here for me

and I am always seeking

to have a conversation

a time to sit and be…

Copyrighted:  CMM  2016

Yeats’ Questionnaire


He thought it was anonymous

I dare say it was not.

For history, time, and well intent

His soul long gone, body has rot.

The pages now among the bards

in halls and glass for history.

They have displayed all your answers

for poets like me to read your mysteries.

Harvard and Cambridge so inquired

You trusted and did reply

But the disclaimer at the top

Time has now denied.

© Christine McNeill-Matteson

Yeats


Yeats in his epitah does say,

 

chiseled in stone of gray

 

 

“If there is one left to cry,

 

horseman pass me by.”

 

 

Trojan men, painted clone,

 

equestrian power, chiseled stone.

 

 

Oh, steed the poet’s cry,

 

witness to the final sigh.

 

 

The pen, the ride, united quest,

 

invites you near, as their guest.

 

 

But when the final blow does come,

 

please leave by in open run.

 

 

I will in spirit lope to see,

 

all the poets following me.

 

 

copyright: CMM

Love According to Shakespeare


Shakespeare in his bloomers svelte
wrote of love and how he felt.
Yet he seemed to be confused
even in his witty muse.

He loved a lady fair with scarlet,
yet he often referred her harlot.
He loved a young male of letters wrote,
but begged him times a sorrowful note.

His mind of genius and of words,
repeated times are often heard.
In plays and sonnets and in verse,
thespians memories do rehearse.

So goes his thoughts of madness,
the soulful writer’s joy and sadness.
A Valentine’s Day of day’s remembrance
seek out your own Shakespearean semblance.

Copyrighted: 2007 CMM
Photo Copyrighted: 2003 CMM

(Dedicated to my son, and his Shakespearean Studies)

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.
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.
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.

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

Books



Reading aloud, then silent we read,
seeking the wisdom of writers indeed.

All through our history we recorded in verse,
and later share and later rehearse.

All of the philosophy, and all of the rhyme,
that is given to us all throughout time.

Even as we mount the books on the floor,
the information we read, we begin to store.

We look for more wisdom, more stories, more plots,
we continue to read and to write the ‘have nots.’

For as long as we think and as long as we muse,
we will continue to read of life to be amused.

The understanding of ages and scholars and such,
as they reach for us in books and continue to touch.

The core of our being, the mind and the senses,
breaking down walls and removing the fences.

These writers and poets and philosophers too,
will continue to be there for me and for you.

What keeps us apart will join us together,
will lighten our load, as we stack and we gather.

So the next time you pick up a novel or mystery,
remember that this will go throughout history.

of sharing and caring and quoting the said,
and reading to little ones while still in their bed.

Copyrighted: 2002 CMM