Morning Light

I see it appear
Every morning
Early sunlight

Some have suggested
Cycle before dawn
But I write not ride

I don’t trust drivers
In the dark
I don’t trust listeners
With my words

I ride in the light
I hide in the light, too

If you read this
You have no one to blame
but yourself

I exist, I am
I wake early
To put pen to page

It helps to light
The way home

It helps to keep
Moving forward

It helps


-Copyright C.M. Mounts, September 2017


It starts out okay

Until the dissatisfaction
Creeps in
The boredom
The blame

You love so you try to fix it
There is no fixing it
They came broken

Only they can make
An unbroken self
Only personal healing

That takes time
Hard work
It is quicker,
Easier to blame others

So, the water felt fine
You got in
Not noticing the fire
Lit underneath

And slowly, slowly
What is abnormal
Becomes normal

Your definition of abuse
Becomes extreme
To support your denial
Denial of the abuse

You cannot face it
You cannot look
Look into the mirror

There is shame in
Tolerating it
Receiving it
Admitting it

So, as the world boils
Around you
When an old friend asks
“How are you?”

You respond
“I’m fine.”


-Copyright C.M. Mounts, October 2017


Magic in the moon
Early morning
Sub-zero walk
No one is about

Ground crunches
Sky is clear
Nothing blocks
View of space

People are home
Snuggle each other
Snuggle the cat
Snuggle in blankets

But I am out
Walk to breakfast
Hot coffee

A tramp outside
One warm inside
To another

Winter in small doses
Reminder of childhood
Play, romance
Simpler times in my life


-Copyright C.M. Mounts, January 2018


Study people
They are baffling
There is no manual

No history book
No way to guess

Who they really are
Who they wish to be
Who they project to be

In the current moment
Are often all different

Society blasts us with messages
Advertising self-dissatisfaction
So we will buy their products

How to remain authentic
It is a harder road
Road less traveled

Someone once smugly said
The road less traveled
Is less traveled for a reason

Get over yourself
Get real

-Copyright C.M. Mounts, June 2017

New Moon

Peacock perched
Overnight in the tree

Its magnificent train
Eyed covert feathers
Invisible in the new moon

Pearl in mollusk
Pried hinge
Oyster knife

Murky water
Lotus emerges

Can you see it?

Crack the geode
Grey hard exterior
Purple crystal heart

Do you seek
What is hidden
Out of fear of smiling faces

Once you find
What you dig out

What you thought
Tick or sliver or boil
Is none of these things

What then?


-Copyright C.M. Mounts, August 2017

P.S. 2017

Dear Friends,

In 2013, I lost most of my belongings to fire that incinerated my loft apartment. Included in that was the electronic versions of most of my writing. Remarkably, all of my hand-written drafts and two 3-ring binders with printed versions of different novels survived. They have some water and smoke damage but are still legible. Fire is funny that way, random in its violence.

That year profoundly changed my life and in 2014, I made the choice to start this blog: Although I continued to write, I only got seven blog posts written that year. I just couldn’t keep it up. I had put pressure on myself to only share my new and best writing. I wasn’t writing fast enough or with enough regularity. Cycling long distance is funny that way, consuming all your time.

By 2017, I finally got tired of not sharing my writing in any kind of real way. I started to participate in open mics around the Twin Cities. I finished and published my friend Todd Park’s memoir, my first effort as a book editor. I made the choice to post any of my original work that I thought was decent, whether written recently or not. And I tried out writing a travel log for the first time- which I guess for a nomad like me is better late than never.

I view my blog as a self-published catalog of my different styles of writing, a tool to hold myself accountable to my goals, and a way for my fans (what!) to enjoy my work. And what fans I have! For many blogs, my statistics are modest but in 2017, I posted 42 times and attracted 730 visitors who made 1,178 views. I gained 56 new followers and not all of them were my mom! Actually, I do not know most of you and that blows my mind! Thank you so much for reading my poems, stories, and other ramblings… I am humbled.

In 2018, I will continue to post my work to my blog. I will continue to read at open mics and look for new opportunities to share my work. And maybe most importantly, I am working on a draft for a fiction novel for the first time in ten years. I hope you will continue on this writing journey with me. The best is yet to come!

Happy New Year!



-Copyright C.M. Mounts, January 2018

What is yours?

What is yours?

It is an hour before. With pen and paper, you sit as you always do wherever you are. A bartender stares at you when you order a beer and asks, “How cute are you?” You think, ‘No, you can’t have my number’ but say, “Thank you.” Writing and editing in a bar keeps men away. It’s easier to figure out what you’re after. It’s not them.

What is yours?

You look at your pens as if they belong to someone else, borrowed, unwanted so you picked them up. You look at your journal as being second hand, disregarded by its owner, so you picked it up. Where does this come from?

You bought each. You chose each. They are your tools of self-expression, of deliverance from a muddy mind and heart. This is your pen box. This is your ‘unlimited’ access to paper and ink. This is where the fire glows.

What is yours?

Your glasses. Your handwriting. The box of half used tissue. It is your tears that they wipe away, no one else. You are driving a meat wagon too that others seem to think they have some dominion over. They have no power over you, none that you don’t give them.

You have chosen the life of a worker. You pursue other activities once all your energy is spent. You can barely participate in anything else. You have no companion. You were not a good one.

What is yours?

This pain. This sorrow. Longing for a lifetime, for approval from someone wholly incapable of accepting themselves. Why are you surprised that they cannot accept you as you are? Why do you concern yourself with the behavior, the absence?

You carry so many heavy things. The wall of silence pressed down upon you for so long that it stole your words, your tongue, your expression. What are your rights of passage? Who celebrated with you? Who ensured that you knew that you mattered?

Now when people look at you and say, “Get over it,” they do not understand that the eruptions into the light are new. You have not dwelt upon this. You have been silent, silent, so silent. Your words are backed up, a packed colon of blackened pain. Your hopes feel unreachable.

What is yours?


-Copyright C.M. Mounts, November 2016