It Hasn't Been That Long

It hasn't been that long, has it?

Five decades, you say?

Is that a long time?

If measured in human life expectancies, then yes, I suppose so.

But if measured in eternities, in an endless universe,

Where infinity is the shortest line

And forever is the first second on the clock,

then not so long, really.

Photo of eclipse reflections and poem by MJC

Hot and Sultry Summers

Today, yesterday, the day before,
tomorrow,
steam rolls off the grass, sun melts hot colors of summer flowers shade comes in sliced pieces shattered by tall grasses wind sneaks through bushes, frenetically waving.
Black and white of winter, browns and oranges of autumn.
Disappeared forgotten.
Orange lilies bob their heads reaching out above the hydrangeas delicate flickering petals flying sedately touching summer hot streams of light.

Red poppies appear.
Last year it was hot pink phlox.

The garden shifts its mood depending upon which way the seeds blow how the seedlings survive winter storms, which roots drink in cold spring rain absorb or radiate this simmering heat sometimes leaves just shrugging down and hanging there waiting for water. 

Watercolor painting and poem by MJC

My Child

Have you ever met a child more beautiful than mine?

Look at those eyes,

Those cheeks, that big forehead, and silly smile.

It is mine, all mine.  Yours too, of course, And his and hers.

Already grown and gone to other places,

Held in my arms, for a second, so it seems,

Until this sweet little soft head and beaming cheeks became one of us.

And now I cannot imagine this child of mine,

Over there, with someone else and

Wondering,

Have I ever met a child more beautiful than theirs?


Poem and photo by MJC

Fire and Fury

False actions, reactions, didacticisms, confabulations, blatant theatrics

I slip into thistle behavior, prickly, doubtful.

Why can’t I write a poem about daisies and rudbekia

as an effective sedative to revengeful narcissistic actions. 

I read nonstop, no relief, anywhere. 

Bouncing off my ceiling, me feeling feckle

What the heckle, ha ha, stop laughing.

This world is struggling to keep it together, yet

I am back to holding rabbits without reason.

Poem and sketch by MJC

Does it Matter?

Why do I care where is the shore, if 

traveling to the other side there is none? 

Here, the beach eroded, no longer discernible, 

sharks departing years ago.

Turmoil stopped its lively churning, waters calm. 

Once powerful figures, ancient lions of the sea, 

giant spectacles of brilliant corals,

steely boulders of whales,

fluttering movers of shifting underwaters, 

float on top, still and grey.

Strangled in plastic, caught in nets, hit by propellers of great boats.

I fear, in this kayak, of drowning in my own tears.

They are gone. As are we, soon.

Watercolor painting and poem by MJC