Sea and Free Will
Sea and Free Will
I am never more at peace,
soul, never so restless,
mind, never so engaged,
heart, never so brimming,
body, never so awake…
As it is
with sand slipping under my feet,
salt left on my skin from the sea’s wind.
the white aquatic seagulls call an echo,
behind the albatross breaking dawn…
to the heart of my beginnings.
copyrighted: CMM 2003
Pantry
Keeper of my pantry,
throw away my key.
throw away my key.
For this is to be kept,
and only for me.
Preserving the fruits
of love are here.
Seasoned just right,
so they would be near.
So keeper of my pantry,
throw away my key.
So no one would enter,
but God and me.
copyrighted: CMM 1998
Sassafras
An ole’ tree, yawning in the ground,
grown deep in the slow south.
Children back then knew it to be
sweet in taste and sugary in tea.
While old black pots were stirred all day,
seasoned with grounded leaves of sine quo non.
to make that jambalaya to steam away
the colorful savor is still not gone.
Copyrighted: CMM 2004
Grandmother’s Handkerchief
Hanging on tiny pegs deep within the ole’
country store, filled with scents of Autumn.
The replica’s of the past preserved in rust
and weary wood lean against white wash walls.
There in the middle of the vast array of
yesterday’s wears and pickled pears
I looked over to see the wonderful
handkerchief made of white organdy.
I was without protest taken to a place
so long ago within a southern church.
With deacon pews made of hard wood
and curved at the ends where I sat.
Sitting next to my grandmother,
her scent of lavender and Jergens
Lotion, combined with the seasons
brought in from the open window.
The handkerchief was wrapped around
her fingers as they wove into one another.
Her hands laid in her lap of a homemade
dress, with tatting and laced collars.
Her thumbs were covered with the lace
handkerchief as she circled them around
and around, (as I watched), never breaking
rhythm the handkerchief would go.
The choruses were sung from ole’ gospel songs,
and the preacher would change his sermon about
one thing or another and the people would often come and go.
However, not this constant memory of
the organdy lace handkerchief with painted
flowers and lace on the tips always
in her hands, covering and keeping timing,
with timeless memory sitting next to Grandma…
© CMM 2011
Light House
The Light House
I dared to climb
this Baldhead light
with stones and only stairs
The rickety stairs
the rackety sounds
was I brave enough to dare
Her open belly empty
from years gone by,
smelled dampen, musky old.
The ripened stilted wood stairs
went on forever,
dirt and mossy mold
One height, two
the stairs went on
ceaseless they seemed to grow
Two height, three
the rickety sounds,
the top, where did it go
Four height, five
reaching into the sky
I could only see more ahead
Six height, seven
Light has appeared
Given way from the feeling of dread
Finally when all seemed
hopelessly high,
the light reached atop
Globe, the bulb
the watchful eye,
we had summit the final stop
The island was seen
from miles around,
with sea in each direction
From fields and houses
beaches and mounds,
the island of varied sections.
We left the Baldhead Island
that day, sensing the past
and the sights
But the beauty one
could not see, were times gone
of channel lights
sailors and seamen
who knew when she signal
they were home and soon a shore
The welcoming of
the Baldhead Light
given safety; we ask no more.
Christine McNeill
© Summer 2004
I Do
If I could walk among your shadows,
but I can’t.
If I could but know your footsteps in your trail,
instead I am lost.
I read your final letters to catch insights from you,
I am left with questions.
I look through your archways of cover words,
I no longer feel protected.
I barefoot my thoughts onto the cold marble of time,
and morose sensations are all I feel.
No one asks permission to enter our lives,
or permits death in order to leave.
It just all is, and you are certainly gone,
you said in time no one would remember,
I do.
Dedicated to a friend who lost his battle with cancer.
© CMM 2011
Keyboards Still Play
Gentle steps of the keys play separately,
yet, together the music becomes a harmony
of memory and of verse.
Verse now resident of the soul,
to be written in prose of tomorrows.
Forgotten, we continue with music,
music of feelings never forgotten
in our today, yet the keyboards still play…
© CMM 2013
Eagle and Child Inkling 