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
Sisters
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
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.
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
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
Eagle and Child Inkling 