this evening
r.miller
From here the language floods over,
out on the old east coast.
Looking at the water of the Chesapeake
with eyes so inclined to romance,
you almost see masts on the ships.
Forgetting a nearer history produced diesel.
The cold
blowing in off the Atlantic,
is what I had hoped for.
Even to be dressed this way with
a woolen coat
buttoned high.
And to walk down-cast
at reeds and sand,
kicking and turning over smooth sticks and stones.
Of course it is a clean emotion. Proudly
held up by stoicism and solitude.
Probably, it is just the wind
or watching the gulls.
Another man is crouching low
looking out.
Commonly dressed,
I am sure a sailor.
His eyes on the low skyline.
This is when men are at their best.
This is when they love the most.
When words are not used
and their hearts beat inside them.
a novice with art
by r.miller
The scarcity of a good thing
you can debate.
Some men spend a
twiddling retirement sketching birds;
others, can’t keep the bastards off the tomato plants.
Love seems to be everywhere,
just like wandering eyes.
Art is everywhere and
good art is no longer a metanarrative.
The Bible says a good woman
who can find?
And I am unconcerned with feminism.
Music is out there
and somewhere coptic scholars attend a conference.
Somewhere, a Juilliard acceptance letter.
For another it’s parol.
But even now,
as I write outside
the birds are everywhere.
corruption
by r.miller
you cannot model this thing
and there is no rest.
bitter like the end of a bottle.
bitter like a fine thing you once had.
and when you had it
you did it less than tenderly.
you cannot live this thing down
and it will not let you rest.
it is after you like a thing alive
and bears down
with teeth in.
and this thing you cannot
beat
lures well.
it seems, like a thinking thing,
to know how you respond.
and you always respond
to this thing.
down to a whisper
by r.miller
how is it now i need your hand so dearly.
how a simple sickness brings me down to whisper.
you gesture with things all too good
for a man to deserve.
so bless your loving heart but
i could hardly stand to see you quite so pale.
to do those kind things
looking into your eyes.
but my dear i’ll be there
as the years cast off youth
the lines pull low and
with a kiss i’ll swear not to go
before you.
if it happens
that i can hold it off
may God do us this good thing
that I lie down later.
and watch you go so that you
may not see such pain,
as the one who waits a bit longer.
a good end
by r.miller
My heart’ll always loose over time
and here your whispers do much
like the wine working well with the blood
and a good end is for recollection.
so we said it well the first time
with the roses and music
We did it the way, others would do it again.
of comfort
by r.miller
If I have comfort
I may speak plainly.
It may seem a confident thing to stand well
and
discuss. Or debate.
But peace often retreats
and then I may speak
simply
or simply evade.
So I wonder a bit about confidence and
comfort.
About peace and those about to suffer.
About how often convictions last.
So I may have my comfort
and never ask plainly
Whether I live
or
whether I die?
Black Pageant
by r.miller
the old photos
the very old.
with cracked glass
and the look of a dimly
somber afternoon.
pallid faces.
the women are wearing head coverings.
those reserved
for lament.
and as a procession dissects the crowd,
men bear along as if precisely after a war.
trees are leafless,
and it is still a photo,
but it is silent.
windless.
reverence.
at least here,
reverence.
the man is still,
laid flat.
at length he is carried by a nation.
the theatre is silent.
the laborers at rest.
the pugilist,
waits.
somewhere outside the edge,
unframed.
men of color wait
and wonder.
you see
by r.miller
It's not good for the writing
being around writers.
Or in little smoke filled rooms
when they read it.
And don't believe in voice.
Don't believe in performance.
Believe in solitude
or simply
don't believe in any of it
at all.
