The Empress Hotel,

  

 

 

The Empress was home to a whole lot of folks, for a hundred years or more,

She had a diner,a barbershop,an old-time saloon,rooms to rent,and a five and dime store,

Her boarders sought jobs from far away places,at the Empress there was always a room,

They flooded into Akron from near and from far,back when tire plants celebrated  the boom,

The Empress’s dark halls hid years of grime,naked bulbs offered very little light,

A shared bath on each floor caused a long waiting line,where impatience could turn into a fight,

She sheltered a colorful kaleidoscope of characters, back in seventy-three,

A home away from home  for sad weary wanderers, one of those lost souls was me,

You could learn quite a lot  in a place like the Empress, with her dingy paper-thin walls,

As you lay in your bed  door barred with the chair, hearing voices echo down the hall,

Well one thing I learned is “I don’t want to be here,” too much sorrow for a girl of sixteen,

For by then She was home to drifters and drunks, a hiding place for those with lost dreams,

So I gathered my clothes  in a bag on my back, and headed for route twenty-one,

Determined not to spend another night at the Empress, I smiled and stuck out my thumb,

By the end of the day I had crossed the Ohio, and was well on my way home,

I swore when I got there I’d settle down, and never again would I roam,

Now only in memories do I ever travel back, the sights and sounds to recall,

I wonder if the old Girl still shelters the weary, or is the Empress still standing at all.

 

 

                                                                                C.D.M   11-19-09

 

 

shadow girls

The Shadow Girl

 

She stepped out of the shadow, cast by the building, she stood near,

A sharp wind knifed her in the back, she trembled, from cold and fear,

Another day has come and gone, another night shift, lays ahead,

She feels as tho she’s walking, through “the night, of the living dead”,

She paces back and forth, within the confines ,of her turf,

A sad and lonely, little girl, who has no sense of worth,

She pulls her coat together, trying to escape, the chill,

Knowing well, she has a certain quote, she must fill,

For well she’s learned the lesson, of coming  “home”, a little short,

She’ll work until the daylight hours, if that’s, her last resort,

A brown sedan is passing, a couple, the woman coldly glares,

She bites her lip, and shrugs if off, as she toss’ her long hair,

She wishes that she had a voice, to speak, in her own behalf,

Fearful explanations, would only, make the scoffers laugh,

So I will speak out for her, and millions of others, such as she,

If you meet someone like her,  please ,take this advice from me,

Don’t judge to harsh, show mercy, you don’t know what she’s  been through,

And remember friend, circumstances can change, it could be me or you.

                                                                                    C.D.M    11-19-09

http://www.flickr.com/photos/connetta/sets/72157602560664641/

Photo’s by Terri Jean Photography

One More Time,

The mother walked away, with an exasperated smile,

She’d been trying to wean her daughters, from the bottle for a while,

She said,”If you want to be big girls, you must leave the bottle behind”,

The youngest said,”Tomorrow mom, I need my bottle one more time”,

Years later in a treatment room, with her brother of forty-two,

She listened as the Doctor said,”Sir I have bad news for you”,

“To live you must let the bottle go, and leave that life behind”,

Her brother spoke with a trembling voice,”I need my bottle one more time”,

Sometimes we are weak,sometimes we are strong, and most don’t understand,

There are times in life when weak or strong, we all need a helping hand,

If we reached out more with love, perhaps then we would find,

The strength to let ‘our’ bottles go, and leave the pain behind.

                                                                              c.d.m.11/09

An Autumn Revelry

I saw it snowing, I thought today,the sun was shining bright,

Then I turned, for a second look, something did not seem right,

As I looked once more, I saw the snowflakes, had a yellow tone,

On closer observation, at last the truth, was finally known,

So I can happily report, my”snowflakes”,were not snow at all,

But golden orbs,[leaves some may say],declaring it is fall,

I watched them dancing,on the wind,in quiet fascination,

Then, a nearby tree of red, joined in the celebration,

I swear I heard,the orange leaves cry out,”hey guys wait for me”,

As they began to partake, in the leaves last, revelry,

They danced, and swirled gracefully, as they were falling down,

Some red,,some yellow,,orange and green,,and every shade of brown,

As they exhausted their last strength, to perform this dance, for me,

I’ve picked up pen, to attempt to recount,the leaves” autumn revelry.”

                c.d.m. 10/22/09

In Search Of,,,

                                       Waiting For My Poetic ‘Mojo’,,

It seems it’s been forever,since last I felt the joy,

Of speaking words  out of my heart, one thing that I enjoy,

If you ‘ve ever picked up pen and pad, then slammed into a  wall,

You know exactly how it feels,to have your’ mojo’ stall,

Each day your more frustrated, emotions spiral out of control,

It’s like a constipation,in your poor poetic soul,

You wonder just how long this time,this writers block will last,

Then recall the dreadful length,of droughts out of your past,

So tonight I came to lie beneath the sky, and just look up,

Hoping God and nature,will fill up my ‘mojo’ cup,

Lo and behold,my faithful Friends,have sparked me once again,

I think Their peace and beauty,has caused my writers block to end…

                 c.d.m.8/7/09

“Play Pretty Children”

                                             A Plea, and a Prayer,,,

At the head of the hollow, in fair West Virginia ,sat Grandma’s house, neath a giant hickory tree,

A humble little dwelling, with chickens and a garden, a grape arbor, and her precious plum trees,

On each side of her house, her children built homes, so her grandchildren, always were near,

She raised food and flowers, and was the heart of her ‘clan’, surrounded, by all she held dear,

We could play in the cellar, the woods or the toilet, anywhere, besides her plum trees,

I made that mistake once, and that sweet angels hand, made a lasting impression, on me,

She’d fix us a sandwich, of canned milk and sugar, for a treat, on a hot summer day,

Sit in her swing, like a queen on her throne, smiling, and watching us play,

When us kids would argue, her eyes would grow sad, “Play Pretty children”, she’d say,

Her eyes touched our hearts, so we’d settle the fight, none could bear to hurt Grandma, that way,

Those words were oft spoken, and we’d try to oblige, but the meaning, of her words passed us by,

“Play pretty children”, was a mystery to us all, but her demeanor, made us give it a try,

It was many years later, before her sweet words, were finally understood, by me,

About the same time, my two darling daughters, were old enough, to disagree,

“Play pretty children”,slipped from my lips, and I at last understood, the mystery,

It’s a plea and a prayer, from the ‘ Heart ‘ of the clan, that the children, all live peacefully,

With each passing year, the depth of those words, lay heavy, on this Grandmas heart,

So I’ve shared them with you, so you may agree too, this plea, and this prayer to impart.

                                         Play Pretty Children

for Lula Bell Maxwell Davis                     c.d.m. 9/9/09

Rambo’s Next Big Adventure…

 

I was watching a movie, with my hubby one night,

As you may well guess, it was about a bloody fight,

It was the second, or third in a trilogy,

But I swear, every script is the same to me,

They are stories of a soldier, from a war long ago,

Seems he can’t escape the warfare, no matter where he may go,

Perhaps you’ve heard of him, or his legend you know,

He’s been around for a while, his name is Johnny Rambo,

He’s traveled round the world, just seeking to find peace,

But trouble always finds him, so the warfare does not cease,

In the last show he returned home, down a quiet country lane,

I thought that sedate life style, will probably drive him insane,

He’ll be looking for some action, I bet in no time at all,

Sittin close to the phone, just in case he gets a call,

In hopes his old commander, maybe cooks up a plan,

That requires the special training, of a military man,

I considered his problem, and the thought occured to me,

If Rambo makes another movie, this is what the plot could be,

He’ll get a call from his commander, and the D.N.C.,

To come and fight those” angry mobs”, involved in ‘Tea Party’s’,

It could shake up the plot, give the script a new twist,

When those angry protesters, meet Rambo’s fist,

I mean what do they think,’ that it’s a free country’?

No….

 Not unless you are a member, of  the D.N.C.

c.d.m. 8/09               Peace Out..

Mer-Maid’s Hair,

If I use ‘Sea Kelp’ conditioner, will it give me ‘Mer-Maid’ hair,

Will my locks grow long and thick and lush,and will people turn to stare,

Will I get as much attention, as that ‘Planters Peanut, Girl’,

All because, I give this Kelp conditioner, a whirl,

Excitedly, I apply it, to my scalp and hair,

But with one application, my hair is flying, everywhere,

Well I’ll persist, and use it daily, as the directions say,

Then maybe I’ll end up, with ‘Mer-Maid’ hair, one of these days,

Don’t be deceived, I’m not naive, nor believe everything out there,

I know that ’Mer-Maids’, are extremely rare, I just want ‘Mer-Maid’ hair…

                                                                                         c.d.m. 8/9/09

I Have Not Been To Texas[yet],

For any, who have been concerned, I haven’t run off yet,

But there’s been times,I’ve thought about it,you can safely bet,

No it has been, sad circumstance, my absence here of late,

Tommy Lee, and Texas too, for now will have to wait,

This sorrow, that I speak of, is not what you might think,

My precious computer,has long been, on the blink,

I’ve frantically,sought help for it, from every one I know,

But none, have found the reason,my computer runs so slow,

Well I’m not one, to be put off, I’ve gone to the library,

So much the workers, watch me now, it makes me feel contrary,

Do they not understand that, not to blog’s, a living hell,

Without my p.c.,I feel like this turtle,, without his shell.

                 The End.                                               c.d.m.8/12/09

The Ballad of Kris and Bobby Lee.

                                         In Times Like These,,

In times like these,many years ago,this sad mountain tale began,

When a country gal,cast her eyes on, a simple hardworking man,

Now Kris was the spoiled baby girl,of a honest, ‘Kentuck’ soul,

Who had worked and saved for his family,to provide, was his only goal,

She met Bobby Lee,home fresh from the war,tho she was barely fourteen,

They wed down at the company store,between the corn, and the green beans,

Bobby worked hard,to try to keep Kris,in the style she was accustomed to,

Sometimes working, more than one job, he did what he had to do,

Eventually, the two headed up north, to the great ‘Ohio Promised Land’,

In Appalachia,times were already hard,a fact most folks don’t understand,

They worked and scrimped,and as time went by,they started a company,

The ‘American Dream’, finally came true, for Kris and Bobby Lee,

Then as so often happens, they began traveling, in the fast lane,

Forgetting their honest upbringing, they’re only ‘motto’, was gain,

Only the wealthy,darkened the door ,the poor must be lazy they guessed,

Forgetting, where they had come from,their life became shallow at best,

Their only child, grew up in that home, so he cannot alone bear the blame,

Of having a seemingly distant heart,and only being a ’son’, in name,

Then tragedy struck them hard one day in body, finances, and mind,

When they failed to call on the Lord for help,they grew hopeless, and bitter and blind,

Now with millions in property,they sit there, and talk of  their needs,

Wondering why God has forsaken them,as He stands at their door and pleads..

                                                    c.d.m.8/8/09

If I Should Ever Disappear,[look for me in Texas]

 

Tommy Lee [Jones that is]       This song is about you Tommy Lee, You are the most gorgeous man in cinema to me, Some girls like Johnny Depp, or George Clooney, But they can’t hold a candle, to you, Tommy Lee, I could sit and watch you in your movies all day long, Up there on that silver screen, is right where you belong, I love it that ‘you can’t abide rudeness in a man’, And your motto should be’make it so’, cause your the man who can, I love you as the ‘good guy’, love you as the ‘bad’, loved you when you played that, ‘healin womans dad’, I’d fight Texas rattle snakes, to tag along with you, Out there on your ranch, as you do the things you do, Thats why, this song is about you, Tommy Lee, You are the most gorgeous man in cinema to me, Some girls like Johnny Depp, or George Clooney, But they can’t hold a candle to you, Tommy Lee, I love your wrinkled forehead, and your receeding brow, I loved you back in ‘83′, and I still love you now, The only other fan, that I’ve seen compared to me, Is my daughter who said, ‘ I’d leave dad too, for Tommy Lee’, I love to watch you, climb up on your horse and ride away, Or chasin some old bad guy, through the woods or the subway, The Duke’s the only other man, who ever got to me, But he can’t hold a candle, to you, Tommy Lee, And yes this song is about you Tommy Lee, You are the most gorgeous man in cinema to me, Some girls like Johnny Depp, or George Clooney, But they’ll never hold a candle, to you, Tommy Lee,      c.d.m.06

 

 

 

 

Yeee Hahh!!!                                  Cheryl

What’s happened to the Hollow?

                                                  The Hollow…

Whats happened, to the Hollow,it’s all but disappeared,

It seems, that State Route 50, needs more space, from year to year,

Every thing is changing, nothing stays the same,

So many people, live here now, and no one, knows their name,

First they came, with city water, said we all, required it’s use,

Next came, the sewage system, septic tanks, could not be used,

Then one by one, the neighbors died off, or simply moved away,

Now there are, more strangers, in the Hollow, every day,

I recall my bare feet hurting, from gravel roads, as we’d walk down,

To catch the bus, down on the ‘hard road’, and get a ride on into town,

I remember as a child, each father had, a  whistle tone,

In the hills, or in the valley, every child, knew his own,

“Mary your dads whistlin’,she would take off, like the wind,

In those days, just a whistle, was enough, to call us in,

On the porch’s families gathered, round a smoldering, rag can,

The smoke would keep the bugs away, at least, that was the plan,

On the swing would sit Grandma,the others gathered, all around,

They’d be talkin, or a singin, we’d play amidst that comforting sound,

Our sounds of laughter, joined their voices,as we chased fireflies,

Lightening bugs, made pretty diamonds, we didn’t know it meant they’d die,

It was a sweet time of innocence, and not one of us, did know,

It would all change in our lifetime, and we would loose,our Hollow,

                                                                                           c.d.m.3/7/09

Sweet Lad,

Listen sweet Lad,to the words of your granny,

She’ll teach you right, she would ner, lead you wrong,

She’ll tell you of Jesus, His grace and His mercy,

The work of His cross, in the words of a song,

Singin hi diddle aye, diddle aye, diddle odee,

hi diddle aye, diddle aye, diddle lou,

I love you Laddie, with all that is in me,

But it’s nothing compared Lad, with His love for you,

Lad in this world, there are those who would use you,

They’ll want you to join them, in all that they do,

They’ll cause you to stray, and then laugh when you stumble,

You reach up to Jesus, He’ll never leave you,

Singin hi diddle aye, diddle aye, diddle odee,

hi diddle aye, diddle aye, diddle lou,

I love you Laddie, with all that is in me,

But it’s nothing compared Lad, with His love for you,

   for my grandson Colton 5/08    c.d.m.  [scottish lilt]

The Tale of the Mountain Healer,

                                        Rose Ella,

At one time in the mountains,of fair West Virginia,the people lived happy and free,

They prided themselves, in their independence, and natural abilities.

These people had ventured, from far away shores, from Scotland, and Ireland, and Wales,

They remembered their homelands,in the words of sweet ballads,entertaining each other with tales.

Life was not easy. as you may surmise, they lived off the wealth of the land,

Why anyone would choose, to live in those mountains, town people could not understand.

Up in those hills, there lived a young beauty, by the name of Rose Ella McNye,

A sprite of a girl,with flaming red hair,and eyes like a blue summer sky.

Rose Ella had never had schoolin, but she’d learned, at her grandma’s knee,

What you could reap, from the mountains  and valley’s, and make into home remedy’s.

Many’s the time, folk knocked at her door, seeking help for an ailing loved one,

She’d gather her bags, of herbs and dried yarbs, and off  thru the woods she would run.

The day came, when she met her a suitor, by the name, of Newt Matheny.

Folks whispered to her,’ Rose Ella don’t court him, he comes from a bad family.’

Rose Ella disregarded the warnings, they married,and started a clan,

After 3 or 4 children, she realised,she’d married a traveling man.

Rose Ella saw to the farmin, did her doctorin, with babies in tow,

Newt stuck to the drinkin, and makin of moonshine, when he felt like it he’d up and go.

During one of his many adventures, some one knocked, on Rose Ella’s door,

She went to help, while her babies were sleeping, never dreaming of what lay in store.

As she returned about sunrise, fear gripped her heart, at the sight,

of her cabin ablaze, to the roof peak, two babies were lost, in the night.

A week or so later, when Newt sobered up, he learned of the loss, they had shared,

He ran back to Rose Ella, who sat in a daze, with streaks of white all through her hair.

Rose Ella regained most her sense’s, so her 3 babies left, she could tend,

She and Newt, never more shared the same bed, some ailments you just, cannot mend.

                        the true story of my great-grandma ,             c.d.m. 3/09

 

A W.Va. Girl’s advise to Dolly and Joleen,

                                  Advise to Joleen,

I’ve asked you once, I’ve told you twice,

From now on I will, not play nice,

I’m comin after you now, sweet Joleen,

I still can not understand, how you could chase a married man,

It’s payback time, this rounds on you Joleen,

Joleen, Joleen, Joleen, Joleen,

guess who’s not beggin, any more Joleen,

Joleen, Joleen, Joleen, Joleen,

we’re gonna settle up this score, Joleen,

Well they may plead in Tennessee, But really that is just not me,

Watch your self, I’m comin sweet Joleen

I’ve borne his kids, I’ve done my time,I won’t share his retirements mine,

When I’m done, he won’t want you sweet Joleen,

Joleen, Joleen, Joleen, Joleen,

guess who’s not beggin any more,Joleen,

Joleen. Joleen,Joleen, Joleen,

we’re gonna settle up this score,Joleen,

Your flaming locks have lost their shine, now your butts broader than mine,

Time catches up with all of us, Joleen,

Your ivory skin’s like leather now,Your face bears a perpetual scowl,

The price of  livin sinfully,Joleen

Joleen, Joleen, Joleen, Joleen,

Guess who’s not beggin any more,Joleen,

 Joleen,Joleen,Joleen,Joleen,

I’m comin after you now,sweet Joleen.

08        lyric’s by c.d.m. to the music of Ms.Dolly P’s  Joleen

There is a Garden,

      ,                                        There is a Garden.  [lyrics by C.D.M. 02]

I watched as a boy, with plump rosy cheeks, and eyes of a brilliant sky blue,

Stretched his short little arm, just to reach a lone daisy, still wet with the mornings first dew,

With his gift in his hand,slightly crumpled by now, he ran calling ‘mom where are you’,

But he stopped in his tracks, when he found her there, in her garden of every hue,

He looked down at his daisy, it had wilted some now, and seemed pale, next to those mommy grew,

He dropped his prize daisy, turned to just leave, as tears filled his sweet eyes of blue,

Oh but mommy had watched, his wee drama unfold, and she knew just ,what had to be done

She ran after him, scooped him up in her arms, and whispered, to her little son,

Tell me how did you know, I was searching just now, for a flower,exactly like this,

For amidst all my garden, I have none of these, and she brushed his small cheek, with a kiss,

Well he looked up with wonder,and searched in her eyes, to know if what she spoke was true,

Then with a smile on his face, and a sigh of relief, he said ‘mommy I picked this for you’,

Oh there is a garden prepared by,our Maker, with flowers of every hue,

Oh but His heart is achin, for the spot that stands vacant, that place He’s prepared just for you,

Well she pressed that wee daisy, inside of the bible, she kept at the side of her bed,

She turned out the light, as she pulled back the blankets, and at last rested her weary head,

Ah but her sleep, it was troubled, that night by a dream, that caused her to suddenly wake,

And try as she might, to go back to sleep,the message, she just could not shake,

You see, she’d seen the Father, and she’d heard Him call,’ Daughter I’m searching for you’,

Your My sweet little daisy, amidst My vast garden, of flowers of every hue,

Oh but there are none more precious, no fragrance sweeter, than that which I’ve, received from you,

And I’m callin you back, to My arms of sweet mercy, full of flowers of every hue,

Yes there is a garden, prepared by our Maker, with flowers of every hue,

Oh but His heart is achin, for that spot that stands vacant, that place He’s prepared just for you,

He say’s’ You’ll bloom there forever, in My flower garden, tenderly cared for by Me, where the sun never sets, and a bloom never withers, but lasts for an eternity,,,

Grandma’s, Yellow Kitchen,

 Grandma’s, Yellow Kitchen,

Grandma was born in 1898,she remembered the Titanic well,

As children we loved it when she had the time,the Titanic’s sad story to tell,

They said the Titanic,could not be sunk,by fate or by God’s own hand,

She taught us the error of depending on,the vain prideful boasting’s of man,

She was born in the mountains,to a poor family,of Scottish and Indian descent,

Through the life that she lived,she learned intimately exactly what hard times meant,

By 18 she’d married her first man,and given to 3 babies life,

By 19 she’d buried her man and 2 babies,and at 20 became my Grandpa’s wife,

Through the time of the Great Depression,she was blessed with 5 children more,

With faith in her Lord,she weathered the storm,facing what ever life held in store,

She never acquired any luxury’s,an outside toilet served all of  her days,

She hauled well water, for all of her needs,to complain was not part of her ways,

In her bright yellow kitchen,I still can see her,cooking and singing her songs,

Teasing and laughing,and telling us tales, in our eyes she could never do wrong,

By 72 she had buried 2 men,and 4 of her 8 children born,

When she left here to go to heavens fair shores,it seemed almost a sin to mourn,

Grandma I’ve missed you,this past 40 years,but I know I will see you again,

I’ll come running in to your bright yellow kitchen,to gather with all of our kin,

3/09     c.d.m.                          For my angel of a Grandma,Lula Belle

 

For my Brother…

                                               Tommy’s Poem

Cabin’s and green apples,

 Castor oil,and fun,

Tadpoles and snake doctors,

flying in the sun,

Root the peg,and marbles,

contraptions of all kinds,

All the games of childhood,

 sometimes flood my mind,

All tho the years have come and gone,

Brother I must say,

the times we shared together,

were the very best of days.

Tho there are miles between us,

we are really not apart.

Cause now as always,Tommy,

you are always in my heart.

c.d.m.8/14/03       for my brother

6 little Mexican angels,

Some call it,’pay it forward’, some say ‘reap what you sow’,

Some say,’it all is Karma’, but here’s one thing I know,

You get just what you pay for,good fruit comes from good seed,

And Karma’s all in God’s hands, He’s faithful to meet needs,

It’s always been my habit, to help when a driver breaks down,

Yesterday,I found myself, broke down, in Lancaster town,

I got out and started pushing, as traffic just whizzed by,

I knew I couldn’t push it far, but I knew I had to try,

Just when I felt like giving up,I looked up to see,

6 rough looking Mexican boys, coming straight at me,

They said ‘get in,we’ll push you’, I steered out of the road,

In my head I heard my Father,’you’ve reaped because you’ve sowed’,

They smiled as I said,’Thank you,and prayed,may God bless you,

The 6 little Mexican angels, that came to my rescue.

                                                   [a true story]  c.d.m.3/9/09

Rosemary,

 

 

                                                  Rosemary,

What’s the matter Rosemary, why are you so sad,

‘ Because I’m in this ‘Rest Home’, it makes me feel so bad,

At one time I crossed the ocean, to visit foreign lands,

Now I can’t pass the exit sign, and I don’t understand,

The aides here must leave one rail down, I have the right to fall,

Long as I do my falling here, to go home’s not my call,

I wonder why it is they care, if I fall ‘here’ or ‘there’,

Could it be this reason, ‘here’is paid by medi-care,

I am just not ready, and they can’t understand,

To give up will be my final choice, then my life will be out of my hands’.

 

 

Behind the Rest Home Door,

 

The Rest Home Door,

‘Care giving sometimes seems, to really get the best of me, If you ‘care’ at all, it drains you, with the sights, you daily see, Every face becomes familiar, as you go from hall to hall, Every day you see the life, draining from them, one and all, I watch a Lady, clutch a baby doll, and hold it to her breast, It seems that in this’rest home’, not many are at rest, Another stands there daily, and waits beside the door, Searching for the reason why, her family come’s no more, Then there’s quiet Johnny, once a strong hard working man, Now broken down, and feeble, he can hardly stand, You can look in all directions, and you’ll find depressing sights, It seems with age, we loose our usefulness, along with family, home, and rights, You say it’s to depressing, I don’t want to hear any more, Try working there or existing there, behind the ‘Rest Home’ door. [c.d.m.3/09 ]

Where we are,they have been,where they are,we will one day be….

The Sky is Falling,

Hell, Hitler, ,

Herr Hitler would be mighty proud, to find so many think as he,
and how his propaganda, has helped form, our society.
PETA  fights for animal rights, and most times we would agree,
but to fight to save puppies, and fight to kill babies, just seems strange to me.
[question]
When did growing old, become a crime, punishable by death?
[answer]
When they first called babies, embryos, for they had yet to take a breath.
People began to warn us then, that there will, come a time,
When killing the young, old or disabled, will no longer be a crime.
Folks laughed and said, ‘Hey Chicken Little’s, the skies not falling down’.
Excuse me Little Ostriches, you better look around.

Hell, Hitler, ,
c.d.m.3/09

The Queen of Sheba and I,

Vanessa and I and the Queen of Sheba,we lived in a mystical land,

Where Vanessa and I proclaimed Karmen Queen,at 3 she did not understand,

Her crib was her throne,from there she ruled,over a vast bedroom empire,

While she ruled we played,we squandered the days,sometimes she would inquire,

‘Can I come out and play Barbies too,I’m tired of being the Queen,’

‘Nay our Queen,you must rule from your throne,’ her citizens could be very mean,

We were so young,and just didn’t see,that we were being unfair,

We’d curtsy and bow,say ‘you rule from there now,’ we could be quite the pair,

Now we’re all Grannies,it’s hard to believe,how time sprouts wings it seems,

Yet at times we return,to that mystical land,of the Queen of Sheba in dreams.

                                                              c.d.m. 3/09

Let the Light Shine on Darkness

I spoke with a little girl one day,a child of 62,

You ask,’how is she still a child at that age’,I want to explain it to you,

See when she was quite young,she met someone who,had been tainted by evil hands,

They introduced her,to a world of things,a child cannot understand,

As so often happens,Ruthie withdrew,did I tell you that was her name?

Like a turtle in it’s shell,Ruthie’s life went to hell,retardation is what got the blame,

This child once shining,was shoved into the dark,placed with others who would not progress,

Ruthie simply complied,never breathing a sigh,no one questioned why she had digressed,

So a child’s life was altered,forever changed,from all that she may have been,

Sacrificed on the altar,of fulfilling the lust,of one sick evil man’s sin,

This story is sad,we all can agree,but it’s one in a million out there,

But if we’ll watch and pray,intervene in some way, no more children,this sad story will share.

                                              c.d.m.4/09

The Last One Standing,

I happened once upon a sight,and found it odd at best,

To find just one stone standing still, amidst the fallen rest,

Strange how time and nature,can disrupt the best laid plans,

And have the last words spoken, in the lives of mortal man,

The silent stone spoke openly,the words of those long gone,

It shared the secrets of the past, the saga still go’s on,

The tale of sweet Rebecca,born upon a river boat,

A humbler vessel has not been seen, it barely stayed afloat,

Her Papa was the captain, a kindly white haired man,

Her Mama was his servant girl,bought down in Louisiann,

Mama had no choice,and tho the captain was quite fair,

At every port they greeted her, with whispers and with glares,

So when  Rebecca came along, with slanted eyes of blue,

Mama said, ‘Rebecca girl this life is not for you,

Mama’s gona find a way, for you to have a better life,

I’ll send you off for schoolin,so you can be some fine man’s wife’,

The plan was set in motion,and carried out as time passed by,

Mama sweet talked the captain,til he finally complied,

They sent their child to Cincinnati,to a private school for girls,

Hopin she would find a husband,and have it better in this world,

It wasn’t long til Becca met a man,called Gabriel,

He too was there for schoolin,he was called a ‘near-do-well’,

He came from up near Lancaster,the master of his family farm,

Rebecca over came him,with her kindness and her charm,

They planned an April wedding,they were counting off the days,

Then some one told his family,that Rebecca came from slaves,

They threatened Gabe,and told him,’we will have no part of this’,

Get rid of her or loose it all, and thus began the tryst,

So instead of Mrs. Greyhull, she was a consort all her days,

It broke her Mama’s heart to know,she’d followed in her way’s,

She and Gabriel shared their lives,tho they were frowned upon,

This stone is still a testament,that their love carries on,

So you see I find it funny,her stone’s the last one left upright,

Now the ‘Consort’ has the final word, I think it’s only right.

                                                               c.d.m.  4/13/09

A Dog’s Love,

This is a picture of my little buddy,Wallace. William Wallace [Brave heart] to be exact.I gave him that name hoping it would give him courage, he was afraid of every thing as a pup. It didn’t work, he’s still fearful, enough to snap if he feels cornered. He is a long haired Dachshund, whom I have kept trimmed since his back surgery,at the age of three. He is  now 8 yrs old.He was born Dec.12th 2001,I remember because the year before [ Dec.2000],I had to put my first Dachshund down,due to congestive heart failure. He was 16 years old,perpetually over weight,and full of heart, afraid of nothing. He tried to take on a ground hog once.About got me bit trying to ’save’ him.His name was’ Rambo’,and he took after his namesake, for sure. After I had to have him put down,I was determined not to have another dog,to painful.And especially not another Dachshund,to bullheaded. Then a little over a year later I found Wallace,and I couldn’t resist his sweet little body.He has not taken Rambo’s place but he has definitely carved out his own nook in my heart.If you are not a dog lover, you may not understand,or find relevance in this post. If you are one who has loved and been loved by a dog,this is for you. Written a few weeks after Rambo died. [ p.s. this could never compare to the late Jimmy Stewart's tribute to his dog, Shep.]               

                                                 Rambo

Sometimes I still hear your feet,as they cross over my kitchen floor,

And I look up in hopes I might see you,coming to eat just once more,

At times I still cry,as my mind recalls your scent,

I stand amazed,wondering where the years went,

You were here for me,as my children went their way,

You welcomed me home,at the end of a hard day,

I miss you when I take a bath, sit down, or go to sleep,

When I wake up I still miss you,so that is why I weep.

              1/10/2001            c.d.m.

‘Crow’s Feet’ and aging

Tess and Idella,we’re the dearest of friends,beginning way back,in first grade,

They each found the good, in whatever life offered, be it lemons,they made lemonade,

Through all of their school years, graduations and jobs,they stood, by each others side’s,

In a double ceremony,they both said ‘I do’,as those dearest of friends,became brides,

They settled right here, in their home town, working hard to become,good housewives,

As was often the case,for ladies back then,the stork regularly,visited their lives,

They stood by each other,through colic and croup,scraped knees, school years and hard times,

Through the death of dear parents,then even their mates,they brought peace,to each others mind’s,

Then one day Idella, never answered her phone,Tess wondered,’oh what could it be’,

She pondered,’should I call an ambulance, must be bad, if she can’t answer me’,

Tess raced down the alley,to her friends house,bursting through,Idella’s kitchen door,

Found Idella sitting there, amidst years of old photo’s,spread out on, the parlor room floor,

Tess inquired ‘Dear what is the matter, are you hurt, are you ill, please tell me’,

Idella looking up,blinking tears from her eyes,spoke ‘the strangest things happened,to me’,

I know it seems silly,we’ve been friends for so long, and we’re both,in our seventies,

Yet except for the mirror,and the occasional ache,in my heart I’m still young,can’t you see,

Then yesterday, something occurred to me, now I know, for a pure certainty,

There’s more life behind me, spent and long gone, then there is, ahead of me,

See there’s one thing you can not, ignore my friend, when you see it, then you realize,

Your getting old, when you look at your baby, and see ‘crow’s feet’,surrounding their eye’s,

 

                                        c.d.m.5/19/09

Music of the Farm, A Guest Poet

This is the poem of a neighbor,now deceased,Mrs.Leota Wesselhoeft.She was a loving daughter,faithful wife and devoted mother.She was also a graceful servant of God,who touched the earth.In her walk she served with her husband Carl,in the mission fields of Africa,and in service in the mission fields of America,as Pastors.Much more could be said about her,but I want to let her speak,in the words of her poem.

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                             Music of the Farm,

Have you ever heard the music, of a farm in early spring,

When the grass and trees are waking, and the birds begin to sing,

Have you heard the croaking bullfrog ,as the sun sinks ‘neath’ the hill,

When the breeze is gently blowing, have you heard the whippoorwill,

 

Have you ever heard the music, of a hive of busy bees,

As they fly from hive to clover, humming soft mel-o-dies,

Have you heard the tinkling cow bell, when the cows come in at night,

And the music made by milk streams, into pails clean and bright,

 

Have you stood upon a hill top, and as far as you could see,

Spread out in the vales below you, miles of natures poetry,

Have you listened to the pine trees, as they whisper in the dawn,

Have you heard the tales they tell you, of the days now past and gone,

 

Have you heard the jingling harness, of a team of prancing steeds,

When the days work is completed, and their coming home for feed,

Have you heard in early morning, roosters sounding the alarm,

If you want your cares to vanish, Seek the music of the farm.

                       Leota Good Wesselhoeft  1946

I Turned Around,

I turned around, and you had grown up, I wondered where the years, had flown,

Where were the golden curls, and dimples, the chubby hands, that I had known,

Those sounds of joy, both tears and laughter, my children’s voices, on the wind,

When did my babies, leave my bosom, so their adult lives, could begin,

It seems like yesterday, I dressed you,brushed your hair, and held your hand,

How those years, passed by so quickly, I will never, understand,

So please be patient, with your mommy, if she sometimes, holds on to tight,

To her just yesterday, she rocked you, and kissed her baby girls, good night,

I turned around,,,and you had grown up…    

                         for my girls,,,                         7/1995         c.d.m.

Oft Speak to me of Love,[My Man's Poetry]

Poet’s oft speak of love, in such flowery terms, I don’t get, what they’re trying to say, It almost makes me shy away, from divulging, How my lover shows me love, in his way, Now I’m the word craftsman, between he and I, Yet He writes poetry, , silently, I’ll share a few lines of his work, if you like, Then you’ll see how he, sweet talks me, Like the day, I was trying to mow on a hill, Then he yelled out, ‘Hey I’ll get that’, If I did not know, how he writes poetry, We may have, gotten into a spat, When ever the labor, is heavy or hard, He bears the load, for me, Some girls would call that, chauvinistic, But I call that, poetry, When he says, ‘Lets go for a ride Babe’, Then climbs up on the, tractor seat, To go look at the hay, or a brand new calf, I call that poetry, sweet, 33 years of devotion, and love, Faithfully penned, every day, Now that is some kind, of poetry, That mere words, could never convey… c.d.m.5/28/09