WaystationOne

worn again believers in the church of the wild

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Tue, 18 Jun 2013 00:36:00 +0000

ha. sob.

take that woman, skirt hiking her thighs,
like the Himalayas, in spike heels,
for traction, or the man about to choke
on the width of his power
                                      tie

you can tell a lot about a person
by the clothes they wear---&i
appreciate the un-done-up authenticity
of homelessness---

in the summer, it's T-shirts,
my current fav has schematics
for the Millennium Falcon on the front

not just for soft comfort, but preparation,
the same kind that got me thru church
as a child---all the tion-ing---hear it
long enough, it will change you

so i made plans during service,
how i'd repel an invasion--jUMp
from the balcony, bullets perforating
the etched ceiling, SwiNG chandeliers,
to the pulpit, grab the American flag
& brandish its spear tip

acTION, the only SHun appealing,
i eventually learned
to listen---you

could hear Cowboy coming by heel clicks,
second hand jeans & a button up, scent
of the previous days bender breath, old enough
to be my grandpop

'my girl ran off last night.'

'yeah.'

'probably down trading a piece for smack.'

'you want something to eat?'

'nah, i gotta go save her, a'fore
she does something really stupid.'

& on he went, ever forward, slow gait, hiding
nothing, as he followed the sun's movement
one boot length's religion at a time
                         click
                click
                                     click

Over @ dVerse Poets, it's OpenLinkNight ---get your poem thing on and come join us---it's a word riot---ballpoint pen blitz---it's poetry---opens @ 3 pm EST....tomorrow...

posting early...as its been a long day and i need to get my poetry fix on...ha.

Fathers or something like that

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Sun, 16 Jun 2013 11:07:00 +0000

on the path to Percival's Island

Flamboyant is not strong enough for Adam,
and over the top is cliche---which could work
depending,but---

it's been a year or more since he turned 18,
signed himself out of foster care & disappeared

we're buying father's day cards & my boys
open every mechanized card in a chorus
of lost melodies 'Bow-Chika-PawPaw,'
'Father, Father, We adore you,' "Bad to the Bone,'
the opening theme to Superman

when he cuts by the aisle end, in royal blue yoga pants
& v-neck white T, thorn cross necklace, hung for the god
of his mother, who OD'd butt naked in the foyer
of their house, two days after we ate dinner
together---

'Adam!'

'Oh hey!' he pops back, limps a wrist, instantly
my sons fall silent, entranced&processing all his IS-ness,
if anything he IS

'Where have you been?'

'DC. I was there for a parade last week,' oblivious,
'with my PARTNER, you know what that means,
we live TOGETHER downtown now
& OHmyGOSH, he has money,' & on he goes,
in detail he uses to isolate himself, like the first time we met
trying 'i'm a gay wiccan,' in an attempt
to scare me away---like the father
he never got a chance to--

'it's great
to see you man, i am happy
you made it,'

disbelief
flickers briefly along the stained glass
of his eyes, enough to let me know he still struggles
accepting even himself

'Well, I gotta go!' he faux hugs me,
'You boys be good,' to my sons

Bops off down the store, pirouettes
to look back, bends nearly double
&yells 'Happy Fathers day!'

Ha, so Adam.

'dad, was he one of your clients?'
my youngest asks,

'yeah, something like that.'

Happy Fathers day to all the dads, and all the non-dads who act like them in the lives of kids that don't have one...written for woven dreams & poetsU.

Poetics: butterflies&

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Sat, 15 Jun 2013 02:00:00 +0000

notebook self-portrait 6/13/13

Wood creaks beneath the toe of my shoe, balcony of the skate park being little more than roughed in plywood, raised over polished concrete slab and ramps skaters slip round on four wheels. Schick---wheels find earth again after flying---shzzzsss---make a distinct hum as they move on to the next one.

My sons each find their own way. The oldest, less daring, sticks to inline skates and slow circles at the end of straight aways---being of earth & well grounded. My youngest lives between heartbeats, that pause when you aren't sure when the next is coming---the feeling when gravity sets in after leaving the cliff. Kzzz---a board zings free of its rider---a different song after the crash.

Conversation comes in jibes & dares---a low hum background noise blending with the beat of corner speakers. Hieroglyph-ed walls tell the story of a generation in vibrant color///pictograph history lessons. We are. And you can't silence that. Chick-Tok-Bang-schzzzssss.

An old couch, stiff woven under finger & ugly orange/maroon/brown, comforts in the way only worn things can---& I am---doodle a charicature of myself in my notebook in pen. I do this every couple weeks, as a measure of progress, sometimes more or less than the words that chant in tribal archaic language & dance knee high around them.

'Whatcha doin?'

Soft, high & lips turning, i follow her voice, up from bold blue sneakers, beyond purple shorts & lace to pigtails & pouty smile.

'Drawing. What about you, little one?"

Her brother down there & mom iPad-ed on an arm chair under a X-eyed smileyFace with its tongue out---

'Want to try it?' i push the pen toward.

'No. Do you believe in wishes?'

'I. Sure. Sometimes.'

'I do too.'

'Ailen,' her mom shoo-s her back, turns soil and plants stranger danger seeds in her soul. Tromp, tromp, tromp, my sons thunder into the couch, tell me all about kick flips&quarters they need for a soda---I dole out---then sit, toe in the creak of wood underneath.

Butterflies have an average life span of eight minutes---yet seldom make a sound
when they land on your finger---

Over @ dVerse Poets, on Saturday, we are writing about the beauty we find in the everyday things---went a bit more prose today to capture a trip to the skate park with my boys. Doors will open at 3 pm EST...so you got plenty of time...so get writing.

FFA: downtown melts like ice cream

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Thu, 13 Jun 2013 11:48:00 +0000

WAh-ba-bA ba tss BA(ng)
a red/rust truck passes the park, blowing smoke rings
WHA-Ba-ba ba tss ba
air wet with squeals, arms & legs, frigid wa-
ter pftTS Sss steel pipes, SpraYgRound joy machine
aqua bowsRain, a hundred feet FWap hot concrete sing
WAh-ba-bA ba tss BA

Over @ dVerse Poets we are writing rondelets...seven lines, 3 the same, rhyme scheme AbAabbA...6/12 syllable count instead of 4/8...have at it...doors open at 3 pm EST

Done in 55, for g-man.

buds a-blooming (or being out poemed by a nine year old)

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Wed, 12 Jun 2013 10:18:00 +0000

the real Pat Hatt

on the front porch, wood slats
creaking 'neath our rocking chairs---

     'dad, i need a piece of paper out of your
     notebook,' my nine year old interrupts,
   (rips)
     scribbles

       i sit by a stream, on a (sun)beam.
       while i sit, i see a seam.

     'hey, not bad, buddy.'

sun dapple through tree leaves
lightly polka-dots the tapestry of grass---

     'how about this?'

             i see an elephant in the clouds,
           he's not in the sky,
           i see a bird in the sky
           they run screaming around the blue.

     'definitely cool. i like that last line. i'm
     gonna finish mine now, okay?'

     'okay.'

in the bed off the sidewalk, dew wet
petals awaken, turn at the first touch
of the sun's lips---

     'dad.'

     'yeah.'

     'i got another one.'

     'ok,
     let me see.'

             my brother has a broom
             i am doomed---
             boom!

     'heh. i like that one. it's funny.
      i know the feeling.'

     'i think i wrote enough poetry today,
     how about you, dad?'

     'yeah, i think my job is done
     as soon as i write this last bit.'

---

     'dad, you done?'

---

     'yeah,' clap the book shut,
     'i'll finish it later.'

     'this poetry stuff is pretty easy,
     huh dad?'

     'yeah buddy,
     want to throw the football
     or something?'

     'yeah, sure.'

air thick with madness
& morning glory, a fresh page awaits
a box of crayons just willing
to mar it---or melt.

written for poetry jam.

the italicized verses are Cole's, age 9, who out-wrote me today---and made me promise to let you know it. only minor suggested edits for tense issues. i have created a monster--it seems.

OpenLinkNight: written in water, soon to fade

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Tue, 11 Jun 2013 03:23:00 +0000

tree @ blackwater creek, lynchburg, va

(we just met) my japanese mother
runs a restaurant in Charlottesville

it's not much, small
maybe 800 square foot
at the back of a strip mall---
a kitchen grill, four empty tables, full
of air the flavor of subtle spice, rich heat
& fresh vegatables

'you read,
i cook,'
she pats my hand, passing a book, bamboo-ed
front & word art, on the left side

her homeland language--swoop-ing
sweeps, cranes flapping, squat-
ting temples & the right

english

i won't translate, take away
the mystery & nuance, she hums
to the hiss, clacks a scoop, sweats
a sheen/glisten, engrossed in creation
it spatters island maps & dancing dragons
on her apron, light skin geisha
of kitchen seduction

it's never the same thing twice,
at the mercy of an endless imagination
determined, every journey is different,
as each customer she sips
to birth
a bento box

'for you,'
& it is---on my tongue, snap
finger beans & red pepper---but in mind,
i hear the creek & gentle cherry blossom rain
which falls thru the shade, we recline in,
practicing chopsticks

& it's a good thing
she's already gone to the back
to prepare the next---as i stroke
your hand---the pattern
for good fortune.

Over at dVerse Poets, it is OpenLinkNight -- and we just hit our 100th week...how much longer will you make me wait before joining us? smiles--write a poem & let's set the world on fire---doors open at 3 pm EST.

it's a mad, mad world

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Sun, 09 Jun 2013 11:16:00 +0000

Lynchburg, VA

@ the Drowsy, i am
& we're listening to Jason Mraz
only it's a tribute band, rock'n the rhythm
a little, Jack Johnson too - caffeinated
in a house cup, bottomless and black

checkers click, click, clicking
their way toward royalty, i find 2 cents
on the floor, it's amazing
how you can find people's 2 cents
most anywhere you look
                       & i toss it in the tip jar,
someone needs it

'crown me.'

as if it's that easy.
             it's just us,

the baristas, another couple,
talkTalkTalking
& two middle aged women, decked out
in low cut blouses bathed in fields
wisteria or lilac

invasive&oily, over
powering the coffee, thickening the air,
rough sex with the young(err) singer reflecting in their
eyes, he crooning

'[we're] more than wind,
    more than sound'

click. click. click.
all that's left are kings & dregs
in the bottom o' my cup, we're
all building mansions

of memory, we'll one day
walk---whole art galleries---
to admire. above

the fireplace, i'll hang the curve
of your lip as you let me
win (click)
            & i

                       let you too.

written for woven dreams
shared with Poets United

Poetics: even now, they lick my fingers

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Sat, 08 Jun 2013 03:03:00 +0000

photo by The Abode of Chaos

we each have two wolves that live within,
they say
            it all comes
                     down

to which you feed
                                   how bourgeois---
let's starve out the undesirables!

you ever met a hungry wolf?

they are patient, prowling
                     & wait
          wait
for a moment of panic
(when the disco ball
spinSpinnySpins internally--whisper, what can i take away
   to prick your spinal column---
                                job, house,
                                           self worth)
or hunger
(turn about's fair play-eMaciatE
                             clickClickclickSnapTeeth)
or powerlessness
                       (when down on dirty knees
you cry out---it listens, crawls to the front
                        &---)

in darkness, Janus' two faces see both
forward & back, opens the porta belli
so the war can begin
                       as both wolves saunter in
& then,
   we'll see
             who really lurks
in the recess of your chest & not the lie
        which walks about in a Sunday dress

this,
     this is why i always sit two cans of Alpo out
& scratch
        four ears on the front porch steps
you never know which, you,
today, might need
for the journey

Over @ dVerse Poets, Karin has us writing poems of twins, duality or the gemini...doors open at 3 PM EST.

I am testing first thing in the morning---one of the teacher certification tests i need...oy...i hate these things. It will all be over mid-morning though. Thus posting early---as I will probably forget in the morning. Ha.

draw me in broken silence

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Thu, 06 Jun 2013 11:37:00 +0000

lily pad in iron & stone

don't bloW your breath
on worry,

adJust
lips uP,
note shape/presSure
down,

waRBle
as a small door
do,

doN'T
expect a wind hole
&
yet---

you get sound,
put Tongue to your pURse,
that the lips
bLow---

any higher
& your temptation
of moving

REsist

a tone of under

imitate
the sound

try.
improvise.

Over @ dVerse Poets, Charles Miller has us writing DADAism poetry...it's anti-form, a movement against the rigid structure of art, a smack in the face---random. I took words from an article on how to whistle in a book on finding the art of nothingness, cut them each onto a strip and put them in a cup...drew out 5 at a time and made a line out of those 5 words...then repeated that process 11 times until I used all the words...then got creative on spacing to add meaning.

Ha. It was fun. Now it's your turn. Choose any article, poem, newspaper, book....any number of words you want and get to cutting and see what fate brings out of your pen...doors open at 3 pm.

hey wait 11 x 5 = 55...sending it to g-man as well.

summer vacation: day 1

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Wed, 05 Jun 2013 10:13:00 +0000

just add water?

we dis//mantle the home computer, circuit boards

& wires/disc drives, coolant fans cover the basement floor
(while my wife's at the store) ::: re-purpose coils,
hookUp battery packs//soLder it all in place,
to a bike frame w/ NO tires---draw a map in magic
marker on a five inch floppy//slip it in &

'do you think we should leave mom a note?'

'well the beauty of a time machine is we'll be back
before she even notices.'

lights lit ACCESS GRANTED///destination: (cursor blink)

'&we can always send her a postcard yesterday.'

'punch itttttttttttttt::::::::::::::::::::***

written for poetry jam --- technically today is the last day of school, but the fun has already begun

OpenLinkNight: grace beyond what i can imagine

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Tue, 04 Jun 2013 10:09:00 +0000

buffalo statue, nc zoo

'no one is innocent,' she says
as if fact,
i can't wrap my head around it

cleNcH
the chair handle like a pistol
& can't guarantee i wouldn't pull the trigger
if i could---

today
my sons got haircuts
& what's left, soft on my fingers,
fans out across the pillow
& i try on the words

'son, there is something i need you to do...'
yet can't find the ones---

to explain what the men will do to him,
how to please them in ways they might tip,
make a little more money,

'it's for your family...'

bile burns my breathe,
what---
          would make it come to this point,
or wouldn't i do to avoid it---
                    touch his sleeping cheek

weep---

goddamn You!
        she's fourteen.
&you ARE her mom.

i cAN'T
         understand,
                          can't---

   caN'T---

somehow
              you could---
& did---
   & she did---
& the cross cast by the moon
thru the window on my son moves
along the back of my hand

hell's just too good
                   for some

'no one is innocent,' she says
AS     If     fACT,
i can't wrap my head around it

Over @ dVerse Poets, it is OpenLinkNight, and after the last couple days, I am looking forward to kicking it back poetry style...maybe knock a little ugliness of the world off me a bit...doors open @ 3 pm EST. Come join us.

on an otherwise ordinary saturday

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Mon, 03 Jun 2013 10:07:00 +0000

chalk wall, Charlottesville, VA

'it's a crowded lonely world
for the insane' says the chalk wall
in the open air mall.

                Charlottesville, still.

& someone's scribbled
                               an answer
'all the voices in my head
disagree'

            it's a lovely day, sun
warms the brick walk, our skin,
all the people going in
      & out shops,
pups on leashes, pushing children
in strollers, holding young ones
             hands, early
                             yet
the merry-go-round turns,
                     forks clink on plates,
outdoor seating breakfast eaters
converse
             politics/news/family
                    & such,
a merchant of used books
           wheels carts into rows
by his door---in their bindings
           thoughts

spun by madmen, willing
      to put hand to pen----lay in wait
for some unsuspecting brain,
     anxious to hatch the next
                       revolution---

& to the little boy fingering
their titles whisper,
       'pick a good one, son.
find you own answers,
             the wall is waiting'

& walk on,
          into the laughter of the sun.

written for mlm.

how do you---

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Sun, 02 Jun 2013 12:04:00 +0000

Water Street, Charlottes-

ville, Farmer's Market:

sizzling beef, kimchi, chicken,
thai spice, duck, buff-
alo, flower tea, jelly jars,
jam, lettuce, beans, carrots,
grape, fruit/veg/meat
all'a coffee you can drink---

an old man, long beard yell-
owing in the sun, tan
ecru skin bagged around blue,
blue sky reflecting on the lake
eyes---

puts his crack'd lips to a steel
harp & blows
           a trickle creek
     that rolls
from'a paint buck-
           et he sits---flows
round tents, twixt all'a
         bodies to flick
                    our ears

a feast!---as free
as the one he seeks, so close,
but ever on'a outs---
ide

it's a wonder how anyone
                                  sleeps...

written for woven dreams
tossed in the pantry

Poetics: not another crappy poem

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Sat, 01 Jun 2013 03:06:00 +0000

in the kingdom of tile & cold porcelain,
the ghost dance of curtains
sheered by sunshine---water drip,
drip
   drips
faucets adding rhythm to the grunts
of my fury---

all the great poets do it

i tell myself this as i do, do
it too
&it makes me

less alone, in the crap that keeps us,
bound down & heavy--belittling the living
we're making in the brevity of this instant mortality,
stress congesting our HIGHways with LowRides
on square wheels going nowhere
oH, the humanity---

i settle in, chin to hand, flex, one knee up
grimace,in concentration, homage ~ Rodin,
bIRthING poems

bangBANGbang

'are you ok in there?'

'uhh, yeah just---'

trying to find ASSonance
in my vowels, clear the bowels
of the bull, stuff piles up on you if you let it
&wearing waders only delays the inevitable drowning
withOut release

which is at times easier in public stalls,
where you can read the walls,
for inspiration

   plop, plop
   whizz, whizz
   oh what a relief it is

oh, isn't it?

&so many love poems
end in "for a good time call"

sometimes i am tempted
when my muse suffers constipation
(better known as denial)

'hey, i saw your number
& need something that rhymes with---'

but don't
cause the best they've got are loose limericks
or haiku heavy breathing

i write, holding myself an inch
off the seat, fill my pockets with one handed
hieroglyph-ed tissue, being a serious
writer&all,

unload all that weighs on me
to you---name it poetry
                  & promise

i washed my hands before penning this.

Over @ dVerse Poets on Saturday, Claudia is having a bit of fun for Poetics---having us write bathroom poems...it can be the shower, in front of the mirror...but how could i pass up the porcelain throne...smiles...doors will open tomorrow at 3 pm.

Posting a little early as the boys are gone for the weekend and T and I are taking a little day trip to Charlottesville in the morning...will check in throughout the day and be around in the evening.

MeetingThe Bar: grandfather (a watercolor word sketch)

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Thu, 30 May 2013 10:21:00 +0000

photo by Kris Krug

she's---
   warm
honeysuckle floral
as her worn dress
   every dandelion
          picked
a verse
         in the poem she weaves
crowning the head of her king
                            breathes
mothers milk hugs
into his neck
                        musses
                his beard
                       (curious)
takes his glasses
in a slow song,
              holds them
tight
       as the womb
          she makes
                 of his chest
                        to
                          nap---

feel the tear
as i take their
            page from my notebook,
fold it over
   in ever
   diminishing squares
& place it on my tongue

   as communion
   as a hot coal

purifying
every word
i'll speak, today
that it might be
   seasoned, just
                            the same---

get up from the park bench
& leave, a different way than
   i came

only
   faint hints of paint
on my lips.

Over @ dVerse Poets, we are writing synesthesia poems...mixing the senses...hearing colors, smelling sunsets, tasting songs...you know...doors open at 3 PM EST.

one more class (the State of education)

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Wed, 29 May 2013 10:18:00 +0000

photo by blue2likeyou

we save 9/11 to last in history class.
to be fair,
we reference it earlier
but today footage
from inside the towers
spills across the screen---

the crash of glass
precedes something heavy--a fireman
runs into the frame

'jumper! jumper!'

cut to the street, sirens, voices
in broken english, other languages

'what are those people going to do?'

'a second plane hit'

[the building from a distance]
(smoke)fire

it's all first person,
they were shooting a doc-
umentary on a rookie fireman & had
no clue---

'here, there's a way out'

a roar as a tower disappears,
cameraman running, camera running
cars, buildings, jostling----diving for cover
dust coating the lens

this class was two, maybe three when it happened,
they're---silent---for the first time
understanding a bit---vague
memories---if any

bell rings

& they file out, still
         not
talking yet,

'goodbye,
              final exam, next class---
study,
                                         so you pass,'

we fill them with facts
& call it---education

written for Poetry Jam

OpenLinkNight: 21 grams of truth

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Tue, 28 May 2013 10:05:00 +0000

photo by Julia Folsom

awake before everyone else,
my son & i lie on the couch

watch the sun stretch its arms wide
& rise across the mountains,

i cradle his head in my hands,
to weight his thoughts, sandy brown
hair spilling over my fingers

warm morning breath walks
the pulse points of my wrist

there's so much life,
my greatest fear is his death

but should it be required
i hope it's for something
bigger than himself---

'hey dad'

'yeah'

'you want to start
a fire?'

'sounds good'

& we do,
while we can,
leaving the sun to cross the room
on its own.

Over @ dVerse Poets, it is OpenLinkNight - wall to wall poetry....come write something on the wall...just not the back of the bathroom door, thats mine...bring your verse...when the doors open at 3 pm.

the rebellion of love

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Sun, 26 May 2013 16:54:00 +0000

photo by ted major

driving downtown, today,
windows down, blue sky/light breeze
all those ONE WAY signs
taunting me
   as if---

i tried counting, once, but ran out
of fingers&toes
ONE WAY, ha

next i tried stars, but they wink out
too fast
           & even in their vastness
are amiss,
            a few beads short on the abacus,
536,468,400 seconds since
'i do'
        & still
i deny the au-THOR-i-Tie
of
    ONE WAY signs
                let them arrest me
                i'll laugh at the judge
                til they hold me
                in contempt
cause
i do, 'i do'
(loving you)
in so many ways

Happy Anniversary to my wife---17 years ago yesterday---
shared with Poetry Pantry

Poetics: attempting to keep my genes on (and still make children)

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Sat, 25 May 2013 11:01:00 +0000

photo art by leovi

if the devil wears prada & God pearly white
i don't know where my jeans fit

(they're off the bargain rack)
but serve a purpose

at the end of the drive, the long grass
by the mail box post scratches at them,
cars whizzing past---
                              [shunk]

close the mouth & flip through the ads,
(it's all we get---these days)
'look at that!'

a flyer proclaiming they'll tell me
where my genes fit
for just 99 bucks & a bit of DNA
all from the convenience of my own home

which they'll disassemble like a buick,
anal-eyes each part to determine
just what will kill me---up to 209 possibilities,
sin-dromes you might pass on to your off-
spring, ancestral history, that
disease your great great great great
gramps kept (how great is that?)---what's
hiding under your hood,
nuts & bolts
                 already they tinker, fix the inner space
so the blurred line ends with the next man-
ufactured birthing
                        complete w/ pre-emptive cosmetic surgery
we need a checklist:
athletic ability (check)
asthma (nope)
endowment (check, check, check)
poetic (well, let me think on that)

nip/tuck----tick, tick, tick (BING!), schlupp out pops
our uber child (widget)
              isn't (s)he cute
& if we're god, who's left to blame
                        when it all goes wrong

the emperor has no clothes on,
            the devil wears prada
                 junk mail recycled
                                    & i'll
                                        keep my jeans on

(a little while at least)

Over @ dVerse Poets, I am tending pub for Poetics and my prompt today comes from the visual arts of my blog friend Leovi ...I have several pics picked out for us to write from, but stop over and check out the amazing photography...and see you at the pub at 3 pm EST. Write it.

55 - (sorry no pictures)

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Fri, 24 May 2013 10:16:00 +0000

photo by star5112

but i'll help you envision:

Thor's winged helmet,
onyx cape
& my one pair of underwear
(blue w/ black diamonds)
usually reserved for doctor visits
pulled over olive shorts---

top rope elbow drop, off the couch
from one, while the other son
holds my ankles

OhNo, Mr. Magnifico
laid low,

i'll surely feel this tomorrow.

a horrid tale of family wrestling in 55 words, for the microfiction master of disaster g-man.

FormForAll: in you i find my art, now

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Thu, 23 May 2013 10:17:00 +0000

photo by andy cameron-huff

there is something
to be said of silence
it's almost as sexual as moving
your bowels

if traffic were life's metaphor,
New York would be a poem
written atop a wind tossed newspaper
(layered on your legs
they act as insulation)
amid a million feet scuffling
sidewalks, going---
cells eared, convos, horn horking
hawkers, subWay, voices, chAos/noise rising---
there is something.

a senior in high school, i
an art student, adrift & bus tripped
to the city with twenty others
all freaks in our own way
MOMA, MET-ing inspiration's lips
i bought pants
for a girl i met & minuetted
the ferry deck to Staten Island---
like so many words left without a chance
to be said, of silence

Les Mis---made a bed of me,
slick the sheets with a night long sweat,
& i breathless at her ovation
'empty chairs & empty tables'
my friends once sat, red & black
echo'n the chamber, freedom's wedding ring
i wore, awakening to what's more
as the cast sang at last from the barricade
wave/the flag/waving---
it's almost as sexual, as moving

& tonight, as the movie ends,
in the comfort of our own home
that same loud silence spills the mouth
of the lion---your name written on my eyelids,
i see as a blind man
the radiance one love allows
& verse & verse yet to come
(hold me in the quiet awe, i scratch these words)
feel the hearTdepth of my HOWL,
(in) your bowels

Over @ dVerse Poets, Sam has us writing glosa's---a 14th century form where you take four lines of another poet as the opening 4 lines, the cabeza---then write a 10 line stanza ending in each of the lines...rhyming the 6th & 9th lines with the closing line...really it sounds more complicated than it really is...the italicizes lines are from Nikki Giovanni's poem "Something to be said for Silence"...i rather adore Giovanni's poetry, so their use is to be in honor as well...doors open at 3 pm EST.

hush

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Wed, 22 May 2013 09:54:00 +0000

a little shoe in the rubble
of what once was a school

does the color matter?
it's burned in my retina

"the storm steals your breath
as it passes,"

the newsman says,
a bit disheveled, continues,

"it's no longer
search & rescue"

all my sentences
end in only one punctuation

awake again, my fingers ache
from digging in my sleep,
await to hear his stirring,
selfishly relieved

a little shoe in the rubble
of what once was a school

does the color matter?

written for poetry jam
really all that has been on my mind the last day has been the tornado and the rescue efforts. prayers for the families affect...and of the children.

OpenLinkNight: things forgotten on the long walk to Rome

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Tue, 21 May 2013 10:03:00 +0000

photo by ell brown

we're a couple skin bags, full of wishbones,
blowing dandelion desires in the breeze
& coming up weeds

'i don't think we'll make it,'
he says,
us curb-sitting the road,
another on the way to rome
'the intimacy, it's...'

a-gutter roll away from the drain,
easy enough to see
'you talked about it?'

'we don't,'
breathless, except the wolf
on his heels, he blows smoke rings
at heaven---a fig leaf
to hide his nakedness
with, 'she---'

'dating?'
'not really'
'fighting?'
'uh, yeah.'
'good.'
'what?'

'well, the difference between WORDS
and SWORD is where you put your
own S,' which comes out in a hiss
like ass

he laughs, 'why you got to go poet
on me man,'

'i just---' understand
how words fit, make each other more
as they play & some days its easier

to skip a metaphor across the surface
of the lake than watch the splash
as it sinks

a car roars, passing,
rooster tails left over rain behind
'so, it's me?'
(et tu, brute?)

'not all of it, but---'
we lapse into silence,
watch---
             a leaf fall
                     (still
          green)
spin lazily
   across
   a
   shallow
puddle---

"tell me how you won her love,
in the beginning."

Over @ dVerse Poets, it's OpenLinkNight - where we celebrate verse & sample a bit of each other's---write some, come read some---have a bit of fun. Doors open at 3 pm EST.

i don't know about you but

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Mon, 20 May 2013 10:07:00 +0000

photo by dino ahmad ali

he came to life between the Boss' Born to Run
& Freebird by Skynyrd,
like me a son of John Williams symphony
whose first notes have us on sand dunes
looking out at the moons and dreaming of rebellion

i don't know it yet, but any man that introduces himself,
'you ain't got to worry bout me, we ain't family'
can't be half bad---

on a hill, outside the clubhouse, overlooking the lake,
'great' house & dock, even in the daylight,
a soft glow on our faces, my son & i sit
by the fire---with the hired help

my richER relatives inside & my wife, parents, aunts
& uncles (not as well off) all munching hor d'odurves
finger foods, in golf shirts, cachi pants & sweater vests,
not us---

& he, bald, cord thin---strong, stokes the flame,
pops his teeth plate out, takes a pocket knife
& whittles 'em a bit---pops 'em back in

laughs at the width my sons eyes hit,
'sorry, had to fix a little catch, ey's rubbin'
me raw.

tell ya the story'n how i got 'em if yaunt'
& as golf balls thWock out across the water,
whistling a cool breeze, we swap stories---

his of eighteen wheels & roads'd make Kerouac blush,
had a family once, works a bunch o' odd jobs
having the best we ain't family reunion ever

til my son runs one of the golf carts
over a tree and gets stuck---at least i wasn't
the one that gave a ten year old the keys,
but---

The highways jammed with broken heroes
on a last chance power drive
Everybodys out on the run tonight
but there's no place left to hide...
...baby we were born to run...

*lyrics in italics are to Born to Run by Bruce Springsteen.
Had a little fun with this one---no permanent damage was done to the golf cart in the making of this poem---it was still running when we left, quickly after that---smiles.
for mlm

with new wine skins to fill

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Sun, 19 May 2013 11:04:00 +0000

photo by hryck

down the brick path, off the back of the house
where the meditation bench used to sit, the arbor
casts shadows, a fresh crown of green adorning
the skeletal tendrils of the grape vine---
last years birth, this years death

there is a pattern to pruning i seeK first with my eyes,
then see with my fingers, feeling life blood
flow, along the knots & offshoots, the small hum
versus silence

CRACK                        crack
          crack       CRACK

an understanding---some death has purpose
providing support for new life to grow along,
find its way---up, & even some green must be cut
away, for the good of the whole

joining the pile whose passing feeds the flames,
becomes ash, mixes with rain, feeds the soil,
to come again, in some small way, flowers
&weeds, both start as seeds&some we give,
value, the rest we burn

smoke to the sky,
smoke
to
the
   sky,
come down
                the fruit
make new wine

written for woven dreams
shared at poetsunited