WaystationOne

a broken hush

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 15:00:00 +0000

here
      in the 61st day of winter
the world has fallen

to the hush
                of snow,
                           broken

only by glee-filled
         down hill squeals

Magpie Tales: No Quarter

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Sun, 19 Feb 2012 19:30:00 +0000

JESUS SAVES, is written
in black magic marker, block letters
on the bathroom stall door

above, for a good time call
and some number & i
            almost
              do
                           but fear
if the pastor answers,
it might be all he has to offer

as if our happiness were the true measure
of a life
          well lived.

written in response to the picture prompt, which can be viewed at Magpie Tales.

Poetics: IN the END

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Sat, 18 Feb 2012 13:04:00 +0000

Pompeii

A touch---

Feel the BASS in your chest
   air thick with each breathe
   ash, & ash, & ash
Feel the BASS in yoUR CHEST
   ground liquefies beneath
             earth sky earth sky
             lines blur between
             falling into each other
FEel the BASS in yoUR CHEST
             the gods have returned
   the gods are here
             the gods are insane
             the gods
             oh my god
             bodies, mouths wide
             screaming loud but unheard
   100, 1000 lions roar apocalypse

fire, fiRE, oil & fIrE

where are the children? where
am i? damp, sweat, piss, blood
god, i, ash & ash
fade to grey, then black,
      fingertips on a shoe
a sandal, a..a table leg,
i

orange-red, a light, bright, blink,
      black, heat, blink

black, breathe, can't,
    black, breathe,
black, can't
i

break
     release
          breathe
finger hovering over the stone that once was
--was a body, sitting now between stalls, fresh
fruit in the market, it's curled, seeking safety

---and at a touch
i cross time, there, the moment where
hearts stopped--her heart's stopped---
first thoughts in the face of---

of--but then, a woman, her child
on a day of celebration, they are smiling,
laughing, she sees
               her husband, smiles, crossing
the stones when---

the BASS begins, (this is the end) feel it
      in your CHEST (this is the end)
this is the end---

and you never
    never saw it coming, even through
you have felt the tremors for weeks, months
    years, and swore, it
                               would
                               never
                               happen

to you---

At dVerse Poets today, I am manning the pub and bringing friends, in particular, Reena from Missing Moments, who has graciously allowed us to use some of her wonderful pictures for our poetry prompt today. Trust me, there are some pretty amazing shots, but---you will have to tune in at 3 pm EST to see which ones...smiles.

And do stop over at Missing Moments and check out an artist behind the lens.

55/MTB - at the grocery

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Fri, 17 Feb 2012 14:58:00 +0000

Mr. Jones, that drives the bus,
wears a hat, Built Ford Tough,
& as we pass, in the parking lot,

he out,
i in

he shuffling not so fast,
i in a rush

waves his long-fingered hand,
creased like a leather map
& shares a word

his wife waiting patiently
by his Chrysler in a handicap spot.

Tell a story in 55 words. Give it a try or just read more, go see g-man.

Over @ dVerse today, for Meeting the Bar, we are celebrating modern heroes. In yesterday's poem i celebrated my wife. Thought i would look outside the house for one today and find an everyday hero or heroes.

Meeting the Bar - Heroes (&Villains)

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Thu, 16 Feb 2012 19:21:00 +0000

57 channels (and nothin' on),
the Boss sang --- now i have hundreds
at the click of a button, and still got nothin'
this is how we measure our progress,
more but no substance

In this season of superheroes,
at the movies, everyone wears spandex
or muscles plasticized in some unattainable
                 place,

we set them on pedestals
                we can no longer reach.
                Our heroes

are mass produced and paraded through
and when one actor gets old, we find another
younger, start over, rewrite their origin,
begin again---the last Superman had an
illegitimate kid, perhaps that makes him
more believable, i guess

he has kryptonite to bring him down
but---as a kid i waited for my mutant powers to man-
ifest because i knew they were coming, b'cause this
              could not be it---flipped
pages back and forth measuring the angles
of john romita jr, shadows of jack kirby,
designed costumes,
       picked names
            & practiced

when the time came,
i was more villain than anything,

nursing a stiletto chest wound & spinning webs
to trap & take as many with me as i could, mis-
understood & ready to write a last issue,
                      end-ing circulation, or at least
dilute the ache with a drink, a drug, a late night escape,
                       billowing hospital gown as my cape

(breathe)

Heroes don't always make the movies or
after school specials, much less the comic books,
sometimes they wear jeans and their power
is limited to seeing---
       this is where she found me---
             & she loved me

anyway--

so do i know heroes, yes
i have kissed their lips & will again
when i get home---and if there is nothin' on
(the tv tonight),
                   well then...

Today @ dVerse Poets, Victoria has a wonderful post on celebrating our modern heroes. She will be opening the doors around 3 pm, so if you are feeling poetic, do join in. Smiles.

Bubbles, along the surface of the deep

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Wed, 15 Feb 2012 16:09:00 +0000

Dawn is a slow fade, the mystery of night dissipating in the vibrancy of color. A deer nibbles breakfast at the base of the hill, the muscles of his legs as the shift ever so slightly undulate the fur of his body in moving shadows. Birds dip low, briefly land and return to perch in the trees working their catch in their beak.

Through the window, i watch, as warm water fills the sink. My hand strays beneath the faucets stream as i wait. A few dishes remain from last night, remnants of dinner dried on their faces. Around and over it flows, between fingers, lending its heat.

Hours ago, in the shower, i let the cascade beat my neck and work my shoulders, little rivers running through my hair into my beard pulling it down in wet tendrils where the water continued in long lines eventually finding the drain. Steam thickens the air. I like it hot enough to pink my skin, so when she steps in, she gasps and turns the knobs to a more comfortable temperature.

Soap slicks the body as we wash, places we can not reach ourselves. Places we neglect in our day to day, yet feel deep when clean. Everything and nothing gurgling, then gone, and nothing between.

The deer meanders into the woods, meal complete and i lever the water off, sink mostly full and lower the dishes in one by one. They clink and clatter against each other then settle to the bottom, beneath a blanket of bubbles. The sun, now above the trees, pierces the window playing along their skin in swirling rainbows.
written for Theme Thursday

OpenLinkNight: Canvas Hearts

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Tue, 14 Feb 2012 12:02:00 +0000

Four score and seven years ago
our fathers brought forth on this continent,
a new nation,

conceived in Liberty,
and dedicated to the proposition
that all men are created equal---

but we know thats not true
and this aint a size thing, not what you do
before but after the ring, yeah
script fliped when the lips tripped with 'i do'
and don't, soon as you get home
once hot, now---heh, guess not,
romance, a body that needs exhuming
to search for evidence of its existence---
yeah rome is burning, all heat consumed by ashes,
leaking like ceasar, perpetrated by cassius

clay could rope a dope but when you won't swing
you got no hope and'll kiss the canvas mat
1-2-3 now ten count, yeah you out---what's that,
laid back on the couch, getting while the gettings good
---then you passed out
snore a dull roar, yeah boy you got a pretty mouth
& a silver tongue, enough to seal the deal but what you got
when it comes undone

Four score and seven years ago
has it really been that long since you last tried to woo
instead'a just expecting her in the bedroom,
St Valentine's a martyr, so one day a year---
you can try harder, it's the Hallmark & you been carded,
yeah this is a song for the broken hearted,
it's time to leave Egypt, water's parted,
don't know bout you but my love needs more than 24 hours
they say the dandelions a weed not a flower
who we got to model the role, but our fathers
but then again, ain't all men created equal
and there's a reason her answer is two advil
ooo how bad's that feel, you can deny
but it's mad real

Time to plant the flag in this hill, nah not like that,
but this, a new nation of understanding what
love is, not a one day plan from a one night man,
in a one minute stand, where ladies got no reason
to say "you mean that's it?"---damn,
time to grow up boy be a man,
open your ears, and don't skip dedicate to a proposition
romance is a life style, not position, once more back to Lincoln
cause---

In the end, it's not the years in your life that count.
It's the life in your years.

OpenLinkNight @ dVerse Poets - time to get all poetic, and you have the perfect reason...it's Valentine's Day...you love it, you hate it...either way let those emotions come out and find a place on the page....tonight, my good friend Claudia is manning the pub...see you at 3 pm EST.

The picture was taken by Lady Fi another long time blog friend.

Happy Valentines Day everyone. I will be cooking an elaborate dinner for my lady tonight.

Magpie Tale: Black & White

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Sun, 12 Feb 2012 20:36:00 +0000

There was a time she would have been sent away to live with a distant relative, some school of reform, labeled crazy or even burned at the stake---

They, being inferior stock, would hang by the throat with rope, dancing beneath the trees until their tongues lolled, or roasted on spit---

In preservation of what?

We've come a long since---
right?

Is it always black & white?

this is a Magpie Tale.

Poetics: resurrection/man

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Sat, 11 Feb 2012 12:45:00 +0000

Caught behind a chip truck
going up
         the mountain,
a quick stitch in time,
a life time
a hem, shortening moments
        they spill faster
through the hour glass

i am going nowhere
           going to be late---

i found one once lying on its
     side in the ditch, unwinding
the road too fast down the back
side, spilt wood chip strewn
     across the asphalt, a mess
in broken resurrection promises
     (or was it dreams)

shoveled & swept it off in the weeds
as a crane raised what was left
           taking it to the mill,
where ghosts rise in a great white pillar
of smoke, at river's edge---

my boys call it the poop plant,
be-cause it stinketh, the process
by which it be-comes paper, be
comes books, be-comes notes,
      be- revolutionary thoughts, revolting
against the name 'stationary'---

insidious things with spindly legs that crawl
                        our
                        cranial cavities,
i feel them even now
       who & what i read yesterday
three weeks ago
                   a year, they are
having a party, noshing
neurons, building atomic bombs
      with sledge hammers

as the truck coughs black
              shuddering the last few feet
to the top,

death is just a comma, not a period
         in consecutive life sentences,
and if i am late, find me
      on the book shelf, run
your fingers along my spine
      as much
              for
              me as you and read
              me
back to life

i found one once lying on its
    side in a ditch

Today at dVerse, Charles Miller (of no relation) is leading us on a merry romp through philosophy in our poetry prompt. i wrote mine on an employment application as i was sitting in Wendy's--recycling you know...smiles...anyway so come join us at 3 pm EST today to get the full scoop.

While all true moments here i strung them together as a great big metaphor for life...feeling stuck, the things we leave behind, and my own thoughts on what comes next.

55 - Star Eyed Blind

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Thu, 09 Feb 2012 13:13:00 +0000

we built a rickety rocket ship
from boards out back dad's shop
and banged nails unbent---

piled in with our
precious things, comic books
& napkin wrapped cookies,
dreaming we'd truly lift off,
star eyed blind---

back when anything could happen,
afternoons & weekends,
for no other reason than we believed
it would & did.

55 words-that's all you get...tell a story then tell g-man. Thursday nites @ 8 pm.

i am posting early. my boys are out of school on break the second part of this week so i am doing a bit more playing than usual and may not be as quick to respond to comments the next couple days.

OpenLinkNight: Patriot Games

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Tue, 07 Feb 2012 11:57:00 +0000

Tom Brady is not to blame for losing the Super Bowl game,
just ask his wife, you "can't expect him to F'n pass & catch"
while those who don't just stand and watch, much less drop

oh i bet that was an interesting ride home after

as she stroked him, like women do men, husbands
with wives, coaches and pats on the butt, or buddies
around a campfire, 'it's not your fault, if only'---

all well intentioned of course, wanting to soothe turn
of the worm where stomach meets intestines,
he'll feel with each pause, rewind, play, pause, rewind
his eyes taking in each mis-step, missed ball, blown call,
thrown pass, safety, sack, SportsCenter's top ten play

And when he hears the sound bite once more, her absolving
him and turning on his team, will he Clint Eastwood or MIA?
slip them the finger surreptitiously or carpe the day---

Yeah, it's halftime America, and only the ego can answer
which to please and depending on which way he leans,
it could make him a prime candidate for the presidency,
only turning political means less interesting commercials

As for me, i'd rather the humbling of reality,
than the pop---
of an over inflated fantasy
and another four years of it's all about me.

It's OpenLinkNight, and my turn behind the bar @ dVerse Poets, so write something poetic and come join me and a whole bunch of friends as we sling verse. I will be opening the doors at 3 pm EST. See you there.

Magpie Tales: Fragile Life

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 04:00:00 +0000

There is always a crowd where dead bodies are concerned. The fresher the better. Neighbors lining fences watching the stretcher for some sign, perhaps a finger sneaking from underneath the shroud, to dispel the mystery life, that ends in death. Strangers seeking a simple glimpse beyond the pulled back veil, happy not to hail a ride, second saddle on the pale horse, this time.

They whisper. Some prayers. Others their version of truth, formulated behind the safety of lifted slats on the mini blind. "I just knew he was going to be no good for her. Why, I heard them yelling just the other night." "Did you know, I was told by..." And fifteen seconds in the lens of a camera to fill space on the evening news.

"When we get out of this car, you will see things you hope you never see. It will haunt your dreams and drive you crazy if you let it. Do yourself a favor. That body, it's evidence. Treat it with respect, but at the end of the day, it's evidence," and we are out of the patrol car, our soles wearing thin on sun hot asphalt.

Pill bottle, paper, half a CD, bills due. Plastic confetti glittered from every imaginable piece. A hat, a shoe, pennies, a paperback with a dog eared page. Fluid rainbow rivers running and every car slows to a crawl to take in the chaos of a car wreck. Against one back seat window a little face framed by hands flat on the glass and we are eye to eye and then gone.

This is my first time. Male, age 38, truck driver. From Alabama, by the license in his wallet. His kid's soccer picture tucked behind, orange and black uniform, posed with the ball before the goal. Fell asleep coming down the exit ramp, plowing the concrete center column of the bridge. Maybe he never woke up.

We gather everything, information in paperwork boxes for filing, keep traffic moving and are back in the car, on to the next and that evidence trick...it's like the lie we tell ourselves about leaving work at work...it just doesn't work.

this is a Magpie Tale.

Poetics: Black, i take her

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Sat, 04 Feb 2012 13:00:00 +0000

"When I grind it,
it smells like soy sauce,"
the boy barrista behind the counter
says, his curls slithering for his eyes
as he folds scalded milk
into espresso

"Smooth though," i

& he, "Yeah, it's one coffee
i can drink black."

but i've been drinking it
like that since days on the docks,
loading, unloading my way through
high school, among the old men

old men then, now i empathize
their cheers of "go young man"
between sip & steam blow
as i tossed mine back to move
twice as many boxes, thinking
it impressive

a young man's folly, to finish quick
my oldest lover, wet lipped & warm
i take her in my mouth, no longer
ever green or cherry, heady & deep
upon my tongue, tight roping veins
in bare feet, i am young in her, i am
days and nights along her surface, culture,
moments, memories writhe
each taste & she flaunts
her boldness without need
to tease or be dressed
sweet or cut with milk---

"Black is the only way i take mine,"
i tell him, "any other is not to accept her
for who she is."

He is off to another customer already,
but one day perhaps he will understand
and i let the cup settle atop the wood table
admiring the way the sun slices
across her body, whisper

"good morning..."

Over at dVerse Poets today, Mark Kerstetter is tending the pub and having us focus on an object, making it come alive. I probably went a bit afar a field but, it was some good coffee this morning and i could not help myself. Drop in at 3 pm EST and he will explain it far better than I. See you there.

submitted as well to Poetry Jam.

55 & 55 - Variations in Martian

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 18:07:00 +0000

Over at dVerse Poets today Semaphore has us writing Maritian poetry, which is rather fun. I have two versions, each with very different messages. Doors open at 3 pm EST.

Driving round the Terminus, Rolex & Lexus

A (k)night is lost without sex-tant,
an index arm & indicator to measure
the angle of heaven to earth, plotting
course, chart vast nebulas,
skimming black hole rims
with milky way trails, o'conquest

there's no sound in space
without molecules to vibrate

& they may name (y)our constellation
but does it really give it meaning?

~~~~~
Once more around the Term-in-us

night is lost without a sextant,

along my index arm, an indicator

measuring heaven's angles

to earth, plotted course, chart

vast nebulas, skim black hole rims

coupling comets leaving, milky way trails

birthing u-n-i-verses

there's no sound in space

without molecules to vibrate, what

will they name our constellation?

ground control, we'll re-enter

next orbit

Each is written in 55 words, one of which should make up for schlepping off my 55 on my son last week to appease the host with the most that makes us fit the 5 x 5 box, g-man.

Sequences & Ratios III

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 17:28:00 +0000

God hates gays, they are all going to hell, his bomb drops in class,
regardless of shrapnel, This is how i was raised, so this is how it is,
and nothing you can say can ever make a difference.

And at fourteen, he's secure in his conviction, force fed ignorance,
by the same man who froze his dog in the ice box, before burning him.
Trust no one, because you are the only one you can depend on, and difference
is just another reason to the son of the sun, on whose back he beats on.

We both lean on the edge of a plexiglas box, full of pledges
people make at the end of the Holocaust museum. Unable to speak,
with nothing needing to be spoken, raw and reeling, laid open
by witnessing just what the seeds planted within of him are saying
when allowed to germinate.

His body rocks with contractions at what is being birthed
in the broken places and he can't fill his lungs with air fast enough
to fight the clench of held breath when the epiphany, a stuttering utterance
equivalent to a keening wail of how wrong he is and what he was taught
vomits forth in an endless stream on my shoulder as i hug him.

It's going to be ok, i repeat, over and over again until the storm of emotion
abates and in the box before us, mixed in among the other promises made
in the face of such an ugly truth, one girl the same age as him spelled it:

I pledge to remind me everday I am beutiful.

And the difference is, now he is beginning to see it too.

Closing out the story of my trip to DC, by bringing in the whole reason i took my friend in the first place. Connecting the Sequences and Ratios. Thanks for taking the hard road with me.

Tagged into Theme Thursday and Imperfect Prose.

OpenLinkNight: Sequences & Ratios II

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 11:38:00 +0000

A. Bogen

They press papers in my hand
before we pile on the elevator

for identification, in case
i am stopped, and i am to memorize them
because they are me, now
and they will know if i can't LIvE
up to them

Dejan Dusan Popovic,
born March 1, 1897
in Surcin, Yugoslavia
a doctor of Obstetrics-Gynecology

The walls are steel. Hard. Pitted. Stained.
Everything is hard here in a building three stories
tall telling millions of stories, telling
one story,

Starred arms and Marked stores,
protested for the measurement of a man,
charts of eye color, tassels of hair held
to match, calipers for the nose
all to determine your worth, unless
of course you were homosexual, jewish
or handicapped, they were---

hate. hatE. HAtE.

on a train car now, which carry them
to the ghetto, all packed in pressing against
and sweating, i smell them, their bodies
i smell them, even holding my breathe,
even when---

the furnace where they burn the bodies
after the gas, and i can no longer move
and there is no bench, just a chain to cling
as my legs give way and weep, i---

taste their ash on the back of my throat,
the heat, and every wall has eyes, hundreds
of them staring at me, asking questions---

Dejan Dusan Popovic, mArch 1st,
YugoslaviA, one of nine childreN, I
just need to sit, but there is no bench,
and each corner is taken by ghosts in black
&white pictures, flesh defining bone structures,
caricatures of living death
with eyes, eyes, I can't count high enough to add
up all, but I know 1.5 million children, 1.5 mil-
lion children and how many more---

i

no one is saying a word, language lost for what
we ArE
experiencing, reading, watching like a rApe,
our eyEs stapled oPen and can't look away & i
am sTucK in the secoNd act, before saLvaTion beCaUse
no one KnowS itS cominG, we doIn reTro but
theY muSt not haVe

it is tOO muCh, mAke it StOp

because i am beyond numb
             and feeling every thing

everything is HARD here
i smell their bodies
i taste their ash
i am Dejan Dusan Popovic, Yugoslavia
          (i keep walking)
they break my legs, my hands, gouge my eyes
          (parts of me will never leave this museum)
and skin me alive and i live like that
         (taste, smell, weep, weep--)
for nearly a year, before they
hang me

weep

OpenLinkNight @ dVerse Poets - We write poetry and then come together and celebrate verse. Go write something. Or just drop in to enjoy the people and listen for a bit. Doors open at 3 pm EST.

This is part II in a series on my day in DC last Saturday. Have at least one more day in me, maybe two.

Sequences & Ratios

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 02:54:00 +0000

happy hands man
dancing while he runs
the mall between Lincoln
and etched wall
names of soldiers fallen

oblivious to the rest of us
ear buds in, at ease in
his spandex skin
under the spotlight of the sun

almost blinding on
a cold January morn

all the flowers turn
their heads in the passing

then once more trace fingers
along loved ones
& others

This is a Magpie Tale.

Written on my trip to DC on Saturday.

Poetics: blue balls & wrist watches

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Sat, 28 Jan 2012 10:15:00 +0000

found graffiti

Live for greatness, the ad for Rolex
on the back of Travel & Leisure

          whispers

soft fingers along my ear & her
fierce eyes thumb through my book
scent marking each page, dress cut
below glossy breasts, just a hint

and what? what?
        she wants to sell me

           a time piece, no

because who needs a mortgage
just to tell time, never be late but
its moments---she pedals,

a bike down a dirt lane, tires on pebbles
grind and skritch, green grass lined, the sun
beams bubble, her short floral dress, wisp
of wind & her legs tan as fried chicken
with promises of secret ingredients, sticky
finger lickin', running them slow along
the length with her tongue

        greatness

she teases, taps the crystal face as hands count
d
o
    w
       n until she's gone,
                      a slow dancing vapor, gasping
flower unfurled damp & heady,
            entwined round
                      a pole, upside down and sliding,
           of what
could have been if---

only i wore a watch, but my wrist is empty
of such constraints, acidic coffee krinkles
the corner of my eyes as i take the last sip,
savoring its bite, then rise from the bench,
cross the tile floor, trash the cup & head
for the door

           leaving greatness

by where i sat, to shine
                        for someone
                                           else.

Over at dVerse Poets today, Sheila has brought in Karin from ManicDaily to stir the 'currents under' our poetry prompt for poetics today. Hehe. Should be a fun go. Doors open at 3 pm EST.

Also linking to Poetry Jam.

55 - Monkeys & Space don't mix (by Logan) & Fit for Human Consumption (my response)

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 23:14:00 +0000

Albert was the first that tried
    he suffocated and he died
Albert2 made it to space
    but crash landed
    making a crater with his face
Able & Mrs. Baker's success caused hysteria
    but he died in surgery, under anesthesia
Gordo's ship had parachute failure
    Monkeys are glad
    they don't get shot
    into space any longer.

The above 55 word poem was written by my son Logan (9) for a science poetry contest. All the names are the monkey astronauts that paved the wave for our invasion of space. Smiles. Write a story in 55 words. Give it a try or just read more, go see g-man.

And over at dVerse Poets, Gay is challenging us with French Ballade's, which is kinda like being beaten with a rubber hose while counting syllables and rhyming. Really is is probably fun for some that are not as addicted to free form writing like me. But I gave it a try below, in response to my son's poem.

Fit for Human Consumption

Too risky? Let's send a monkey
into space, to do man's business,
close enough, not revolutionary
when they come back home lifeless
and we can still call it success
as we breach the final frontier
keeping our sunday best bloodless,
who's really the animal here?

It's consistent with who we be
when no one's there bearing witness
intelligence's comedy
turning tragically witless,
just smiling in front of the press,
no tears, dominion's volunteers
for our own salubriousness,
who's really the animal here?

Hold on, as long as it's not me
what's all the fuss, no need to stress
not like they have feelings really
but where do we turn our head next
in this morality morass
a slippery slope without care
even our own, broke'n hopeless
who's really the animal here?

What we sacrifice for progress
(or who) from our mirrors leer
three monkeys, deaf, blind & mute, yes
Really who's the animal here?

maintaining positive balances

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 18:14:00 +0000

You are in the kitchen,
or watching one of those
home make-over shows on TV
that make you cry
when i slip into
the bathroom
to do my business

fifteen or twenty minutes
go by
before i emerge to continue
on about the evening

we play games
or whatever until bed,
your body to my back
with nothing but heartbeats
between us

& when you rise in
the morning,
a soft click as the light comes on
in the bathroom, door
closing, i wait in the warm
spot of your leaving

listening for the shower,
that never thunders through the wall
and i smile
knowing you found it

sorry about wearing your eye liner
down & i'll clean the mirror
when you want
but when that feeling hits
in the pit of your being
some love notes
just won't wait.

Theme Thursday ~ Imperfect Prose

As of yet, she has not asked me to clean off the note I left for her on the mirror. Go figure.

OpenLinkNight: Upside down stamps

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 15:03:00 +0000

Why is it we expect honor among predators
     whose core intention is their own coronation
     this is not Camelot, nor some fictional play
     enacted out by two bit actors in the public theatres

Guinevere's waded into Manhattan from the harbor,
     laid down her tablet, bent over & taken up jousting,
     not surprising when under tarnish her torch is just sputtering
     it's all over the nightly news at six,
     but king Arthur's cronies are obviously oblivious,

The round table is taking bets, ante in is 300 Clevelands,
     pocket change to hustlers sporting private jets
     fueled by corporate sponsorships,
     ok lets be PC and call them endorsements
     just don't get caught up in the fine print
     of, in return, what they expect
     & in our silence what we accept,
     great divide growing between us & our political connects

(Record scaAAtCccH) Is this thing on? Let me clear my throat

And remind you we have the right to vote
     (for whoever they put in front of us),
     our rubber stamp to make it due process,
     indoctrinated from birth by the school & the steeple,
     that silent devotion is what makes you humble,
     cause that's how it works in the land of and for
     and by the invisible people,

But before you rattle your swords & get to fist pumping
     or jump just because someone says jump in,
     ask yourself this, how far are you willing to go
     when the revolution gets uncomfortable---
     realizing we are responsible cut bets on political saviors
     wielding excalibre & start acting like 'We the People'

Want something other than a messy divorce, founded in ignorance
     like a spouse on the couch, behind whose back we bad mouth
     for our own impotence, raising children bearing scars
     of a broken nation cause we were too busy pointing fingers
     to take action---a more perfect union, it don't just happen

OpenLinkNight @ dVerse Poets - where poets from all over the world come to sling verse. It opens today at 3 pm EST. Be there.

Wrote this after a trip to Washington this weekend, walking around our nation's history, seeing Occupy and those gathering for the anniversary of Roe v. Wade, talking with a few of them. And of course seeing what we have been presented as far as choices in the upcoming presidential election. And no Mr. candidate it is not because I am jealous of what you have. Smiles.

Magpie Tales: A marriage of Sushi

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 03:58:00 +0000

Why a woman chooses to bind herself to rice, I do not understand.

Labor intensive to cultivate and in need of ample water, yet still she lays upon this seed, exposed herself, to what it might bring. Named together, they are 'sour tasting', but that is history. History upon which artistry is built in the hands of a master. Married with wasabi, a splash of salty soy sauce---a delicacy to be savored.

Some conundrums are not meant for understanding, only to be appreciated.

And that I do, most vigorously.

written for Magpie Tales.

Poetics: Somewhere along the Border

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Sat, 21 Jan 2012 13:28:00 +0000

I am not the guard at the border,
     but the one they bring the body
        not for the autopsy

but whats left to sew up after
   attempting to put back together
        some semblance of a life

& there are nights my fingers bleed
     where the needles nicked,
        my skin not thick enough
        not always

i order chicken salad on wheat, comfort
by choice, with potato chips and a pickle
spear, root beer---not noticing my friend's

selection, focus being what he is saying,
concerned with decisions his daughter is making,
wondering how to handle while
allowing her to feel trusted & empowered ,
not see him as "one of those parents"

"what if i am over reacting?
        what if i push her away?
                what if..."

"she comes home pregnant," i interrupt, "how cool
will you be then?"

Still stuck in the tension between being her friend
and giving parental direction, as if she needs one more
person unwilling to listen to what she is really saying,
and I refuse to give permission to shirk the responsibility,
providing a place to lay the guilt when it happens

Will opinion polls & popularity ratings
keep you warm on those nights?

"Isn't it worth a conversation?"

A reuben. He ordered a reuben, which the waitress
delivers, sits untouched beside chips, but no pickle---

it crunches with each bite i take, sour on the back
of my tongue, as i watch his eyes for more than
a night of American Idol & ice cream

absently rubbing old callouses
     on the tips of my fingers,
        just to feel their texture.

Today @ dVerse Poets, Claudia has us crossing more than our Ts for Poetics. So get ready to make a run for the 'border' come 3 pm EST when the poetry goes live and in living color.

55 - I think I left my deity around here somewhere, can you help me find it?

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 00:44:00 +0000

OMG they text
     chasing HEr
          down side streets
along worn wood pew backs,
                           little dips where bowed heads rest

prayer rugs east,
                        tongued communion cups,
furious grunts, during bathroom visits,

             counted beads, conjugal picnics &
forest floor tree knots, not finding
     HEr anywhere, cause sHE

looks nothing like
                     who they see
in the mirror.

                  OMg

Tell a story in 55 words. Give it a try or just read more, go see g-man.

Over at dVerse Poets, we are looking at Imagist poetry, which I understand on some level and on others I have no clue. Victoria leads us on this merry chase, there are several online articles and examples. I did not use any metaphor that I can see, so I got at least one thing right. The worst that can happen is you fail and write again tomorrow. Ha. Do check it out.

The owl picture is a random picture I found online, having nothing to do with the poem...or does it. Hmmm. Haha.

Inputs, Outputs & Permission slips for the living

noreply@blogger.com (Brian Miller) — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 03:51:00 +0000

Girl holding balloon

The corner produce cart is empty,
end of day folded, down & locked

A brunette, redhead & a blond
stand on the island, no joke

traffic lines in coming and goings,
everyone with somewhere
   to be
   every make & model crawls the streets

Balloons (red, blue & gold) in the wind,
              dance tether's ends
curled in their fingers, headlights
     glint their party dresses

Some special occasion awaits,
                                 be it
     a birth, union, re-union, anniversary

could be any number
     of things, or just be-cause

                but someone
has reason to celebrate,
                                  so i do

as the light greens,
     my foot no longer on the brake.

Theme Thursday ~ Imperfect Prose