Time

I gather grit

I gather me

A day of solitude

a day succeed

Stones and pebbles

in my path

mud and slides

become my wrath

I listen to my body

labors to go on

I do not stop

the road is long

My head is leading

through the race

my legs continue

to keep the pace

Times I feel faint

and others strong

but I did endure

I did belong.

©  CMM   2015

Half Marathon
(13.2 Battery went dead on my run)

Our weather is turning — our clocks will change.

Life will get shorter and time rearrange.

We will fade and the children will take their turn,

watching life pass and working to earn.

Only to be where we are now,

no slower no faster with  reflections somehow.

©  CMM  2015

Brown ground bakes under

sun’s relentless draught, holds

hostage enduring grapes…

©  CMM  2015

Under crystal sky

midnight blue grapes hang upside

down, dripping harvest…

   A Dream

white moons hang next to one another

bringing heaven’s presence and earthy observer

to notice…

Hanging like large bulbs lighting existence,

closer and closer they merge into one light

colliding …

looking across the way into the darkness

the moon dust falls light on a field of magnificent emerald

green elephants…

they move as though dancing without music,

gracefully they silhouette around the other

peacefully moving…

again I look upon the heavens and the moons

have separated again, white light emerging

toward the other…

cataclysmic they collide once again,

burst into a million stars

the heavens reflect…

Christine McNeill-Matteson

June  2015

The Recipe Box

Opening up the old rubbed wooden box

I smelled time lingering from recipes of the past.

Shoved into in a hurried way of schedules and life

I pulled a hand full of recipes tattered and unorganized.

Sifting through in hopes to find a recipe to add to a menu

for a friend who is sitting in a hospital room with her mate.

A mate of 50 years now succumbed to life and cancer.

I look to see which one will do, and as I do, I see names.

These were the names of friends from a lifetime,

friends who shared a moment and then left a recipe to remember.

Friends much like the ones who are holding the hand of each other

waiting for life to say good-bye until another time.

I look at the names and realize the box has become a eulogy of friends,

the recipes reflecting their personality, their smiles, their life.

I feel as though it brought me to a sacred place, of time, sharing,

a holy place of scents and smells forgotten, but not their presence.

© Copyrighted:   CMM  2015

There was a time,

when the canvas was plain.

Clean brushes we picked up to

dip into the colors of youth,

Choices of hope

to build masterpieces

for tomorrows.

Now we try to patch the

old paint, and sit in front

of a canvas cluttered…

©  CMM  2014

I think it was chocolate mahogany

                 large rounded carved ornate legs

                 coming down under the broad leaf table.

Grandma made the green gingham tablecloth spread across

over a protective plastic lining beneath.

Seven places for the family in the evening meal,

               three generations of grandparents, parent, children,

              head of the table Granddaddy sat quiet, not saying much.

At the other head, was Grandma; she would talk about the day.

Who did what when, and “lord, it is hot today.”

Mother sat in the middle of my little sister and me.

               She often didn’t say much, when she did, it was measured.

               My older sister sat across from me with her light brown hair,

blue eyes that never smiled.

Next to her, my brother, with his dark hair and light eyes,

glancing often to the criticism that came his way.

There was a lot of pain at the table at Grandma’s house.

                The pain was from the very person who was not present.

                 It was a gift of my father before he left …

The sun would set in the evening over the table of love.

But it didn’t take away the darkness that no one spoke about.

©  copyrighted:   2002 CMM

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