WaystationOne

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

Poetics: the world is your fortune cookie---CRACK IT!

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Sat, 18 May 2013 11:02:00 +0000

Asheboro Zoo, NC

a man (hair disheveled, soiled lab coat)
looks to the sky, intent, lips moving

[subtitle: A giant snake! Where is that come from?]

his arms fly out, a woman falling into them
eyes wide / a brick wall falls, shattering /
electrical sparks in the dark, she
looks into his eyes, barely parts her lips

[subtitle: Oh doctor, the 7 % of Americans
that believe they need more than one wife
have, in their anger, released the great serpent
Phallus from his prison.]

power lines fall / transformers explode into flame,
the man thrusts a fist in the air

[subtitle: We need---]

(blue oyster cult guitar rift) the ocean boils,
bubbling as beneath is unleashed

[subtitle: GODZILLA!]

a sound like opening gramma's rusted garden gate
with bass

[subtitle: ROAR!]

~~~~~

'hey, what's happening?'

'oh, an otter caught a snake and has drug
it into the water'

the man joins, my sons & i & mothers,
infants in strollers, even caffeine-amped children
pausing as nature, though contained in a cage
is undeterred---they resurface, quick strIKe
to the eye & slithering away fast across the pool
the prey slips a crack---the otter clAcK, smAcK,
splASHing---trying to smush his face in,
get a claw on---

the little one, now coiled to the back, waiting
& after a moment, everyone, once entranced,
walks away/show over---each only knowing which
they were rooting for---& what that means

the otter still slapping & splashing,
driven on by the hunger of want
he has no hope

of understanding,
nor thought to the consequences of achieving.

Over at dVerse, Kelvin has us writing with an Asian flare today---and Godzilla was my first Asian experience, though i loved watching the movies at gramma's house on Sunday afternoons---even tried to get a bit Zen for you...smiles. Doors open at 3 pm EST.

meeting the bar: us beeing us&them

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Thu, 16 May 2013 10:06:00 +0000

photo by Lord Jim

i will move mountains or die trying

& begin by laying down,
back to the curb, concrete grit
eating into my shoulders

the world spins on, cloud forms unform/
reform/inform the sky, kids play,
foot steps shush grass with each step/
various pace(s), words pass lip to lip
& sometimes find their way
into the ear,
around---arms spread, i hold them

an inch off the ground so the breeze
catches in the curling hairs along them, a bumble
blackNyellowBlackNyellow hovers
six off my face

a yellow patch between its eyes, a crown---
back legs lowered&rubbing together---away
it flies into the azure until only a dot

then back, curious----staring, i raise
a hand for him to land&closer, til his wing wind
tickles the tips, we're both scared

of the touch that comes next, he zips
&i pull back, we try again, daring our natures
to let it, but there's still mountains to move

& i'll die
            trying
                                  trying
                                                             trying

Over @dVerse Poets today, Anna has us writing about velleity and volition...come join the fun.

And for g-man, a story in 55 words...

photo by betsyweber

55-it's not the size of your words but what you do with them

bing*

i click the webmail page

ooo----an invitation
to a meeting
                 at the media center

& the first time i asked,
                 "where?"

"oh, the library"
                  "ah"

why is it we can't
just say that?

what we mean.
what i mean

is
       why all the fancy
       Bovine Sanitation?

what's more----
impressing or the impression?

clear night, stars visible only to those that see

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Wed, 15 May 2013 10:00:00 +0000

photo by shawnzrossi

'are WE clear?'
          it's hard to miss the menace in his voice
just an octave (or four) above i care
more than wanting you to be compliant
nor the grAve-walk chill o' his sun blocking form
shadow tilted into, not out---thrust
as a dark exclamation point
punKtuated by the tip of his finger

seven year old          in shock on the soccer field & i feel the clench
          deep in the pit, anus pucker, tightening shoulders
          & crAck my knuckles,

as she stands stock still
& he settles back in disinteresT,
presses the phone his ear & says,
           'nah, i'm at practice with my kid'

as if an inconvenience, this chance to be with---

'wait, wait, hold on---
go get your ball,
          GET over there
   and GET your BALL

i'm here
kids, don't take care of anything,'

back to what's important, he retreats to the car,
yap, yap, yap-ping away-away-away from her
about whatever's more important/
/shuts the car door&his daughter

grabs her ball, where it rolled off the field
rejoins a friend standing around talking whatever
while the rest of the team plays around them
five-on-three(&them)him on the phone
flipping through a magazine on the steering wheel
& the game
              goes on & on & on

'crystal,'
i answer for her///want to rip this page
from my notebook & make him eat each line
in small bites making digestion easy, re-play
word4word, just to see if i can find a heartbeat

but don't

& try not to think about dinner,
meticulously prepared in such a way that it hits
just the right temp
when he walks in and asks,
                                      or his waiting wife---

how close we all come to this man, at times,
focus on the game & roarROARroar
when a goal just happens,
                      to go in.

written for poetry jam

OpenLinkNight: knowing you knowing me

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Tue, 14 May 2013 09:59:00 +0000

T & Cole

if i was a fish
i'd nibble your worm

even knowing a hook
awaited

& that you like
yours blackened
before partaking

knowing you savor
every bite

Just a quick little post-it note love poem for OpenLinkNight @ dVerse Poets---where the heart matters, not the size...smiles...doors open at 3 pm EST.

IDentity

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Mon, 13 May 2013 10:12:00 +0000

photo by thierry ehrmann

i tried explaining it once, but how do you explain what you don't understand.

~~~~~~~

i wake up,

& the sun is in my eyes, not like in the sky, but really in my eyes. then gone in black hole rainbows, as if the Polaroid has caught fire. then there are trees. no, humans leaning over me. crowding.

the stiff weave of the couch scratches my fingertips, rough. & everyone is talking. there are some in uniform. my grandfather is there, his handlebar moustache curling up into the wrinkles of his face. tobacco on his breathe. paramedics.

shadows return, only the warm glow of the lamp in the corner. my pajamas are wet, sweat thru, my face is cold. i ache. i want to sleep. why are all these people here? i feel my heart like the aftershock of thunder. there is no rain.

"you stay here. we'll be right back."

they leave. i am alone, with their voices. the windows are dark. there is no sun.

it is later, they have kept me away for 24 hours. my eyes burn, scream at me to let them close, things swim, i swim, each movement is full of sensation.

the hospital hall is dimly lit and a nurse leads me down to a door at the end. beyond the door, the room is small. a bed. a computer.

"lay down sweety."

i do.

"i am going to put these things on your head. it might feel cold. don't touch them."

she smells like a mom.

her hand disappears, pulls a wire loose, dabs it and then disappears above my eyes. they are cold. then cold again. and soon i don't feel each cold kiss of a new wire, only the parting of hair, again. again. again.

i might have slept. i awake. they flash lights. i might sleep. it is over. i touch my head and my hair is sticky, stiff and lumpy.

"we'll wash it out when we get home."

i am tired.

we go home.

i take white pills each night. two pills each night. like a code to keep.

until it happens again.

~~~~~~~~~~

"so what's wrong with you?"

"it's like a short circuit in my brain. it causes these seizures. they are looking for the reason."

&what they said, i won't repeat. like i won't repeat the story again, for many years. well after i stop taking the pills. well after they mysteriously disappear, much like they started. well after i stop thinking one day i might wake up again, on the couch, surrounded by people or that the next person i tell will respond the same way.

written for mlm.
i was in my early teens the last time.

green, as the eyes she gave me

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Sun, 12 May 2013 15:19:00 +0000

photo by brianac37

it's not that i envy my son's
their grandmother, it's just
                   different---

we're waiting in the WalMart
parking lot, boys excited---

"can we get ice cream?"
                      "no"

"gramma will get us some."
                       "no,
don't even ask her"

"look, they are here"

k-Thump, thump, thump, thump
doors slam & their off/across
the asphalt

"gramma, gramma, gramma,
daddy says you are mean"

"how so?" i get the look,
sauntering up

"he said you made him go outside
and pick his own switch off the tree
before you beat him."

"i did,
but he earned it, trust me"

"and he said
we can't have any ice cream"

"now, who's being mean,"
she smiles, "let's get some,"
leading the way
to a trailer in the corner,

giant inflatable cone atop
doubling over in a wind dance
of laughter,

as i lick sticky off my fingers,
crunch the last bit of cone
& laugh myself

at grace,
   eventually
& new growth
           that comes with
           occasional pruning.

written for woven dreams & Poets United
Happy Mother's Day to all the moms & the hopeful moms. i am at my parents with 3 generations of moms, so i will try to be good, and not have to go out to the bush. ha.

Poetics: on days i'm tempted to have a sex change

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Sat, 11 May 2013 10:54:00 +0000

photo by Luis Rodero-Merino

birds &
         bees &

mashed potatoes with butter,
salt & pepper for flavor, green peas
flank steak, tea
                          "her brother's in jail
for raping a girl," my son says
between bites---
                        CHOKE

this girl told them over lunch
kids don't filter, it's just a fact
in fourth grade,
                       "what's rape?"
                    he asks,
&then for dessert----

birds &
bees &

it's spring---teens
just discovering their bodies,
find any corner to find others, orifice
humming hormone lullabies, trying to sync a harmony
it seems, i just had one student suspended
a year---for sex in the hallway, all the way
on the floor, where feet tread not minutes before

how's that work? "hey babe,
i got a special treat, let's do it
on the linoleum---in the dirt&crumbs" ummm---

ick.
   i have to walk on that & now image-
ine your bare butt, sweat stain &

twitter's a-fire with the rumor---it's a game
called humpNdump, my heart hurts & my wife works
knots from my shoulders with firm thumbs
un-tying as the news replays Cleveland

it's days like these i'm tempted toward a sex change
a little snip/cut to prove the feminist
MEN SUCK! &i'm forced to walk
this path, what---my manhood entrusted
to temptation's impetus placed
in those that never matured beyond adolescence
like letting kids play with loaded weapons
& wondering why they come home///
missing appendages

just NOT the right ONE

birds &
   bees &

i digress, it's a mess i stress myself trying to fix
what's baroque as bach with our moral compass,
in a world that's forgot what is meant by romance---

i knock
      soft, say
        "son, let me explain what it means
to be (hu)man..."

Over @ dVerse Poets, Mary has us writing on temptation---and i went a bit out the box, but it's honest so...what tempts you? come tell us in verse @ 3 PM EST.

While I am being long winded, thanks for reading. I appreciate all my online friends and you keep me going many a day. Peace.

FormForAll: life, undeterred

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Thu, 09 May 2013 10:19:00 +0000

photo by merawrfloor

in a wheel chair walk, he crosses
the back parking lot
a little Samuel L Jackson's Mr. Glass'

fragile-ness with weight, "what
up?"   "just goin' ta practice."
"oh you have a student?"    "not

no more, i just watch," no malice,
he offers his left hand, "hads a stroke
few years back an loss

mah right."   which hangs like a broke
clock, stuck on the half hour
in the lap of his black

stained work pants, our
eyes meet, his wide, behind
thick specs, my hawk/his fro, beards similar

all scrag, hiding kind
teeth--- "you a teacher?"
"yeah, that's what they say, but don't mind

it."   "ha. these kids are
something ain't they?"    "for sure man, for sure"
i slide low, crank the car

halt the bass, say "see you later"
& already rolling, he parrots "for sure man, for sure"

Over at dVerse Poets, Tony has us writing terza rima---a chained rhyme--ABA BCB CDC DED...rather fun one to try...i might have modernized it a bit...smiles....anyway, doors open at 3 pm.

if i'm allergic, there will be a reaction

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Wed, 08 May 2013 10:15:00 +0000

bees buzzzzzz,
              flit flower to flower
gather the stuff
                   that makes honey
         flow

neck nape,
                                      sternum
                      inner thigh

sting.
   sting.
   sting.

me.
   (sigh)
   hive mind
   hive mined
   honey comb

written for poetry jam.
photo by my blog friend vanessa kilmer

OpenLinkNight: the loss of charity

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Tue, 07 May 2013 07:30:00 +0000

photo by Lee Haywood

a body in the roadside ditch
cools & stiffens

'i saw him this morning---
thought he was taking a nap'

sun warm---now, a fly swarm,
a meal, breeding ground

'yep, thanks for calling,'
rubs his head, says,
'what do i do now?'

'Charity,
seems an odd name for a boy.'

'Ha,
we rescued him about ten years back,
thus---

what do i do now?'

again he asks,
and bury him
doesn't seem the right response,
so i let it sit

& we stand,
talking this/that
as crooked tree shadow fingers
twine across the grass
just touch-ing
the now still side,

'I'll
go get the truck, uh-'

'I'll
keep him company
til ya get back'

& he does
& i do,

chewing a blade of grass,
knowing better than try to shue
the flies, from this man's best friend

we all do
what we do

Over @ dVerse Poets, it's OpenLinkNight....or will be at 3 pm EST & if you wanna write a verse and come rub elbows with poets from around the world...come join in.

Signs&wonders

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Sun, 05 May 2013 11:52:00 +0000

photo by ryan bieber

Bright sunlight gives no heat, spring is bi-polar by nature. Kids, in primary color jerseys, careen around the green grass, ricochet off each other, after the soccer ball. Occasionally, almost by accident, they find the goal---whoop & holler, until order is restored with a whistle. A ball drops & off they go again. It's chaos, beautiful chaos.

A torn leather cover of a baseball red string stitching twisting out, a paper cup, receipt with a note, sucker wrapper, silver can---they all catch at the base of the chain link, in the clippings---make music in the wind. Clink. Tink. Flutter. & the birds. & the birds.

Parents of all shapes sit in chairs, on blankets or stand. Some pace, down the side, keeping near the action. All cast shadows. Voices encourage---either their child of choice or the neighbor to keep telling them the story they're sharing. Siblings run a path in the earth, back and forth to the playground. "is the game done? is the game done?"

At one chalk line edge, an elder man, in a sloped front golf hat, peers though black binoculars, the kind one might use to watch birds. He follows bodies & ball, watching for his grandson. He wears a light wind breaker over a button down shirt, neatly tucked in tan pants which end at shined Sunday shoes. In a chair, a few feet behind him, his wife pulls her blanket closed, her grey hair caught in the breeze like a spinaker.

By the shed, where equipment is kept, ants build a tower of pebbled dirt. Well over an inch off the hard pack and supported by smaller turrets, it sticks like a finger, a hand pushing up from under. Workers emerge from grass, scale its surface and enter the darkness, each with a small bit more. Rain, an errant foot---it would all be gone & they'd get another piece, start over, have it back by next week.

Game over, everyone gets in cars. My son's team lost, no matter. Dust clouds rise from gravel-tire kisses---home, the lake, the next sport, work. Other cars pull in for another game. The ants keep building.

A red lettered sign on the side of the dumpster reads, "Acceptable Use Only."

A piece by Brahms comes on the radio. We turn right, head on.

written for woven dreams

Poetics: mythConceptions&mythAdventures

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Sat, 04 May 2013 09:30:00 +0000

photo by pranksky

in the middle of the maze---a minotaur
half man, the rest bull---sh...
depending on how you look at it
like asking half full or empty
when all i am is thirsty

& know better than leave
breadcrumbs, eaten by birds
as appetizers when they dream
of my spleen---if you let'em
they'll pick your bones clean

i choose string, loose
thread from my pants, unravel
leftRightLeft round, about, pass back
over, searching for the ceNter---

&arriving, aren't we always,
somewhere, unclothed &where
there should be a monster
stand before a mirror, receiving
joseph's coat of many colors, stitched
in the myths we walk with &
seldom meet---our heroes
trajectories passing close enough
for vague impressions, looks
across the room, but

never sit at the same table,
over coffee discussing us or the weather
"hey i think today it should rain"
"ok, but let's localize it on (insert name)"
ha. divinity's got it in for me,
now that's intimacy

& i guess, i guess
that's why the myth of you & myth of me
will never intersect, nor myth us---our stories
our own as we leftRightLeft
around the maze---alone,

gods sitting impotent
on the sidelines, where we placed
them to be
gobbled up
like breadcrumbs.

Over @ dVerse Poets, Fred has us delving into myths&legends for Poetics---doors open at 3 pm EST

MeetingTheBar: missed/TAKEN identities

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Thu, 02 May 2013 10:42:00 +0000

photo by Salim Virji

middle school metal lockers have teeth
we all come to understand---BANGrattle
slamming shut exposing our nakedness

a towel can't hide once inside tiled communal showers,
silver heads spewing water like great phallus(es)
---nothing like us

or me---we're not created equal (don't compare)
how could you--DON'T look (peek)
or you're branded a faggot, which will follow
you around school, like the zit that keeps
migrating around your face, puberty is a bitch

fickle where she sows hair or endows,
holding back some seed til later in the season

hahahahaha.
ha.

look how tiny

maybe he's a girl

ha.

no fear, they stand legs spread & dangling,
men among boys & Quequay, real name: Bobby,
tits sagging over rolls of fat, waits in his shit
stained underwear til forced by the coach to hit
the shower & leaves them on, water soaking
through his pants as he heads to next class

& if as you read you can't help but scratch
yourself know this----1000 camels are thankful
to be rid of their fleas & for the prayers
i prayed, not just for bobby,
but for me.

Over @ dVerse Poets, victoria has us focusing on voice...and what we are passionate about...it twists my guts to see people be bullied, have their identity determined by others out of power...it fuels my compassion for those that may be perceived by some as less...but there is the edge that often hides under there as well for the abusers...doors open at 3 pm EST...have at it.

ritual&

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Wed, 01 May 2013 12:02:00 +0000

photo by George Rex

Tssschk---

bubblesHiss PoP-
ing as i step
in/sYnk
deep, muscles
re-
    lax---soak

absorb all heat
til a chill
sets in
          & fingers wrinkle
scrub pink

chThunk, flip
the drain lever
grrr-
     glug-
           ging

only a ring left
of all i am leaving
around the round grate
teeth

& i stand alone,
in the mirror with my body,

pure,
clean

as any animal
prepped as
a pleasing sacrifice

on the altar
of you---neck bared/
eyes open

trust enough
to watch

my own
taking

the mystery
which when gone
leaves the fire
guttering

written for poetry jam

OpenLinkNight: in the echoes, forward

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Tue, 30 Apr 2013 02:57:00 +0000

relic @ amherst museum

he tries words on his tongue
like clothes in a changing room
(too tight, too big,
                      just right)
grunts & whistles are the best we get
some days

listen close,

you'll make out
enough to follow---Sports Ilustrated
open on his desk & he's
tugging my shirt

"Mhr Wahers"

"yeah buddy, what's up?"

at the knees his legs swing sideways
in a duck walk, camo calf supports
keep him upright & he
                   points

"ha wun"

"i run?"
              (NodYes)

"bwoon"

"bathroom?"
                    (NoNod)

"bwoon---
bwoon"
                    (handsDrama-
ticly) "Bwoon!"

a smoke cloud out front the runners,
out a store, on the street
blood on the concrete "BWOON!"

"ha wun...BWOON!"

"yes, it's sad
so many hurt" (NodYes)

"ha wun"
"yes, you run"
"bwoon!"

& i want to say no, it won't
but---

he drools a bit
pads the wet off the picture
turns the page.
turns the page.
turns
before i am ready

bell ringing

Over @ dVerse Poets it is OpenLinkNight---and the poetry is flowing, spill a bit of your own on the bar when the doors open Tuesday at 3 pm EST.

The kid in the poem is a special friend I have been visiting before school every morning---we have some of the most fascinating conversations.

state of love&trust

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Sun, 28 Apr 2013 10:50:00 +0000

photo by Paul Carroll

thirst has no curfew
& hunger---

just another form of grace,
letting you know you are alive

today

coffee, hot, warms my hands
as i listen to flowers open

from the FRONT
porch, as the sun rises
over the mountains
like a big full breast

all the world, her
children---restless
for breakfast

i watch her
make her way a/cross
the grass, taking each
& hairs stand in honor
on my arm, pores open
as hungry mouths

blood rush
flushes (sigh)

& i,
(i'm)patiently,
waiting my turn

shared with Woven Dreams ...titled borrowed from Pearl Jam

Poetics: boat tR.I.P. on the alphabet soup

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Sat, 27 Apr 2013 09:00:00 +0000

photo by Chapuisat1987

freedom.

freedom from
              WHAT?

inhibition. conscience.
from others telling me who/what
i am. i'm gonna be, make
my own decisions &

try
       not to

think of trails or the visuals
after dropping 2 hits, i have enough
nighmares when the mind drifts
(to lucy)

they left me

all the rest, happy, following
the rabbit, to the sculpture garden
playing in the psychodelic storybook

while, i

sweat, wet, straight thru my shirt
a constraining white jacket, heart
RATE ~ RICHTER scaling
& voices/choices/consequences

bullet my brain

on the phone with my mom,
i try to play it cool, eye for an eXit

"no. i. am. good."

measure my words, black out
in technicolor dreams, Hoy Gising
Hoy Gising
         Hoy GISiNG

light bright/ache deep
ants on my skin, each leg touchDown felt
no end in sight, ride

'hey, you want another---'

no i mailed that letter in, paid
postage, on the tip of my tongue

freedom.
free. dum.
dum. free
tR.I.P. to the other side
o'
L.S.D.

Over @ dVerse, Karin has us 'trip'-ing....take a trip, try not to trip or well...hopefully yours is not a bad trip like mine was...long ago...doors open at 3 pm EST.

FormForAll: Long Night (to the rhythm of breathing)

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Thu, 25 Apr 2013 10:14:00 +0000

photo by Tom Barber Photography

Long night (to the rhythm of breathing)

Manhunt! city in lock///down,
                               siren silent & wait-ing,
couch bound, deck boards in the wind,
                    storm/lightning CRASH headlights stroll the wall
no U in morning, not yet
                    i listen for cries of sun's birthing

what weights us down keeps us in place

flat bottom aluminum boat bobs, the end of an anchor chain
water slapping the hull, like back slapping a buddy, "come on"
fluttering by, little butterfly "how do you get so light?"

Over @ dVerse Poets, Sam has us writing sijo...a Korean poetry...three lines, 14-16 syllables per line, 44-46 syllables total...kinda like a longer haiku...i broke the lines down in the first one so they would not roll over on the page...doors open at 3 pm EST

The first is based on what is going on in my city last night---perhaps they have caught them this morning. The second a bit more peaceful and contemplative.

riding ridges of today's fingerprints

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Wed, 24 Apr 2013 10:01:00 +0000

sign @ the cove

hard concrete side walk
leads to the pier, by the boat ramp
bites my butt, back, side
as i lounge on one elbow

peepers (pinkletinks) & lap
of the water sing lazy Sunday
lullabies& my son

kicks jewels to the sky
sun shimmering
his leg forward & back
skChoosh---skChoosh...

i'm wet, he's wet &we don't care
our skin blushes, a nice breeze
off the cove, old man at the end
says "nothing"

when asked about catches
as if that's the point

it's nice, but---

along the shore, waves worn rock
exposes roots of trees
which stretch like long fingers,
as we paddle passed,
playing at the corpse cold surface
of spring

for Poetry Jam, and while it never mentions 'carrying on' for me it symbolizes that---one of the writes from my break...

OpenLinkNight: fresh wind ~ fresh fire

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Tue, 23 Apr 2013 09:44:00 +0000

photo by quinnanya

where better to find the almighty
than in an art gallery

it's a creation thing---a woman framed
in silver hair, veined with original black, eyes
wide as turnips & wonder filled--an elder
poet, forty - fifty year disciple, calloused
pen to paper fingers, child tall

STOPS

me, coming off stage, drawn close
til breath is wind on cheek, not so much
a whisper, as a rushing tornado tip toe-ing
between us, says "you found words
haven't you"

puzzling,
"what do you mean?"

"it's an old saying,"
raising her hands, she dances them
"how they---"

spreads her arms, then brings them in,
a clasp---a big BANG, but silent...infinite
uniVerse meets infinite Atom, on a pin head
beyond galaxies, and ricocheting

her tongue tip touches the parchment
of her lips & writes anticipation
in fluid flourish

"it's how they sound colliding,"
i say

&

"alright, it's time for open mic,'
interrupts, out the speakers

"i'll catch you

later," never happens & in the car,
keeping the road between head lights
i watch the fires in the sky wink

burning /
burning
beyond sickle smile moon

Over @ dVerse, it's OpenLinkNight---i am hosting---doors open at 3 PM. See you there.

Thanks for all the love the last 9 days. It's good to be back. See you soon. Smiles.

one last thought

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Sun, 14 Apr 2013 12:02:00 +0000

thin light filters through the window creating lines of shadow where the blinds block the sun---the lines creep across the desk, touch the computer, kiss the man that sits in a chair. he covers his mouth with a hang and drags fingers down pulling his beard---hard enough to feel the pinch and remind himself he’s awake.

releasing the hairs, he ponders the ink that highlights the creases in his palms & knuckles. he rubs a thumb across them & smiles around the pen held tight in his teeth. a stack of notebooks sits on a corner of the desk, full of words, some jumbled & some with meaning, others feeling & finally some tinged with madness. it is good.

“I always wanted an end like Crockett & Tubbs,” he says to the empty room, “unloading a machine gun into the sky & watching the drug dealers erupt in a ball of flame.”

he knows though a story has a mind of its own & sometimes the end is even a surprise to the one writing it. still, he wants the last word(s). ‘the end,’ seems so dramatic yet anticlimactic at the same time.

taking the pen from his teeth, he leafs through the one notebook that has yet to join the stack---each day, a month, two months of thoughts winding their way to now. closing the computer, he places the notebook on top & reads, reads & relives each pen stroke to the final blank page.

he scribbles across it in quick slashes, pressing perhaps harder than he needs. placing the pen on the desk, it rolls slow, over & over to the edge, spins just a bit as it goes over and clatters to the floor.

he doesn’t retrieve it. someone will pick it up & if not it will be there when he needs it again. leaving the notebook open, he stands, stretches until his bones release the form they have been bent into for---years---sighs

thinks of friends & hopes if they ever see him across the room, they will smile at a thought or memory, give a wave & maybe later remember his name, as they eat dinner or on the subway, in a car, heading somewhere, when the mind wanders

& he crosses the room to the door, pausing only to mark the progress of the light through the window, it follows him toward the exit, reaching fingers to pull him back in

“not now,” he says, closing the door, the click of it settling into place echoes the words, his last words on the page

thank you