pushing up a coral-rising dawn.
Our week of the holiest of holies
as the promise of mankind
now returns to renew the mystery.
Humanity looks to renewed hope.
the dawn of holy week peeks just above
the existence of creation.
Now two thousand years ago,
It has brought forward another Triduum.
I ran almost 4 miles this morning and everywhere I ran were little pinwheels to bring awareness for child abuse .
Chatter of the first spring bird just outside
My open window…
The frost still rides on the quiet early evening
Lingering with a cool breeze…
Feelings of the season changing
Sweeps across my senses…
It is the rain
It is the rain
And it dismisses
The winter snow
The harsh ice
It is the rain
It is promise
Spring will be
copyrighted: 2019 CMM
the magenta bloom
misty morn no rain in site
Our climate warning
A robin waits and then she soars
I run the hills out of doors
In the middle of world’s unrest
I still run and the Robin makes her nest.
Bleached white and muted grey wood line
Covered with spots of unthawed snow,
Patches of green grass left from summer.
The smoky grey morning clouds hang heavy
As the morning light breaks into a shadow cast.
Winter has taken hold into arctic temperatures
And still nature stays attentive to coming storms.
Sitting at my desk I am taken aback as one brave
Bird dares to break the silence and sing of spring
Opening day, it’s now time to play the game found in cornfields and parks.
American way, a game that will stay, the home run you want before dark.
Hammering’ Hank, Mickey, the Yankee Clipper, Smokey Joe, and all the greats,
brings every little boy hopes and dreams as he enters for the first time their gates.
DiMaggio and Galvin echoes at the bat as America starts the baseball season’s fun.
Major Leagues, Minors, town teams and little leagues all strive for the famous home run.
A moment of summer in sweltering heat, the sun changes position at your back,
Let’s cheer our team and share a time of America with peanuts in a paper sack.
One, Two, Three Strikes “You’re Out”, they yell as another approaches the bat.
Root toot, toot for the home team, as the dust cloud forms at the mat…
copyrighted: 2001 CMM
the summer breeze blows the curtain
from the window pane…
He has become unaware of the snapping of the clothes
on the line from the hot Midwest breeze,
the distant trains breaking the sounds as they clack through towns.
He fingers his baseball glove, following his imagination,
of diamonds that glitter from home runs
and glistens from sunsets after loaded bases.
The smell of leather takes him to locker rooms,
sounds of cheers with
the snapping this time of baseball bats hitting the ball.
Symphony sounds that make up dreams
that feed the body and soul of the little boy
at his desk, freckled face; looking past.
Past the ‘Hopalong Cassidy’ lamp sitting on his desk,
past the plaid sheets spreading his bed,
past the books that pile in waiting for homework.
He imagines all sounds real with promises;
“What a home run that was!”
“What a pitcher I am!”
Swirling winds of dreams of a little boy
at his desk, in his room,
in the Midwest…dreaming baseball.
Copyrighted: 2001 CMM
(Dedicated to a friend who played in the Minor Leagues, wrote of baseball and ethics.
RIP 2012. Also, to my son who loved the game of baseball.