Poetry offerings from M. A. Miller
 

WEIGHT OF THE WORLD

OUR SHAME, NEVER TO FACE

THE PEDDLER'S PUSH

MUSIC'S FIRST CHANCE

TO FRIENDLESS FACES

CREEK OF MY YOUTH



 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 


WEIGHT OF THE WORLD
 
Float as we do in the play of time and space;
Position and distance, be drama's minor players.
Circular pattern fixed with impossible change;
'Til the weight of the world we do hinder.

We extract, refine, expend and deplete;
Resource's gifts in jeopardy we place.
We package, solicit, purchase and dispose;
Empty offerings back to this generous Earth.

A growing need to shelter, feed and transport;
Fight for balance skewed by our swelling herds.
Farther stretch across land's mighty expanse;
Turning green to black then black to gray.

An ounce to lose on this tiny sphere;
Chanced to be gained in orbit's foundation.
'Til the weight of the world we do hinder;
Our blissful stay to keep in God's creation.
 

- M.A. Miller

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OUR SHAME, NEVER TO FACE

 
Clouds swirl from such distance, no movement to pace;
In air above so great, bird of prey scarce to venture.
Earth's blue curve, naked against blackness of space;
Thirst from sea to sea and drink deep hues of azure.

Vast terrain of sandy topaz with shine of struck gold;
Tanned skinned deserts lay toasting in sun's plume.
Great forests, green of emerald cut facets to behold;
Hunger from shore to shore and feast upon its bloom.

Barren white caps, opposite poles of iced exemption;
Give vibrant life still to frozen seas and empty skies.
Peaks of grandeur rising to puncture sphere's protection;
Battling fierce wind's erosion where precipice lies.

If all to view this world with eyes afresh;
Harm not to come of our sapphire in ebony space.
If all to view this Earth with spirits enmeshed;
Shame of our meaningful existence, never to face.

- M.A. Miller
 

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THE PEDDLER'S PUSH

 
The peddler's push, humble ballet of strength and grace;
Wares of fruit and thought to village market brought.
His daily trek, the retraced path of time, lessons of his life;
Offering seeds of wisdom with every sale to consume.

Little bastards stealing his apples, run without chase;
His look away, compassion to feed their souls be his goal.
Behind trees they flee, eating their spoils in fury at his intent;
Their time to come when meals of benevolence they give.

Fair virgin in window's stoop, fruits of flirtation ripened;
Plums of prudence and passion, wit's libations for her to savor.
Save the seed 'til matrimony comes to call, his heed;
Too early without gardener to tend, brings only fruit to spoil.

Crotchety old bag, biting every hand that feeds;
To give an extra peach so sweet, softens misery's claim.
Youth's smile returns to dine, succulent's feast begins;
Contagious cheer be sweeter than any fruits to share.

To village comes the peddler's push;
Paths crossed imparts sustenance of life.
Fruit to buy, brings joy and wisdom's blossom;
Eat your fill, to waste not, but to feed the next.
 

- M.A. Miller

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TO FRIENDLESS FACES
 
Ponder at the absolute silence of space;
Loneliness must be ever so loud.
Isolated from the music of a voice;
An inner scream be the only relief.

Deepest cold ever known, not to be endured;
To be without friends, just as warm.
Chilled from the absence of a shared life;
Heat from empty hearts comes not.

Sympathy's ears, deaf to the scream;
Compassion's blood, warms only its own.
We turn away without remorse and flee;
We look not into forlorn eyes of fear.

To this practice keep no more;
Give voice to loneliness and sorrow.
Run fast to friendless faces and empty hearts;
Give of these gifts to keep, not to borrow.
 

- M.A. Miller

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MUSIC'S FIRST CHANCE




No other tones had been heard, save for nature itself;
Emulation's infancy, barely crawling, struggled to exist.

The first song, not even a wince towards melody;
Crude instruments of voice, never continuous in single pitch.

Concerto's call on the horizon of man, but not in this time;
Tongues confused not far beyond an animal's groan.

When would it come?
What was the spark?
Who bore music's first chance at life?

Fauna's song - young, untested, undeveloped, unheard;
Still surpassing the language of man by eons.

Bones crashed on grasslands long gone;
Rhythm, catching its breath, nearly counted among the dead.

The beating of hooves keeping constant time;
Echoing through valleys like the stampede of millions.

When would it come?
What was the spark?
Who bore music's first chance at life?

Creatures from blue depths with voices stretched across fathoms;
Know the source, but keep it like guarded children.

Mindless reverberation never entered the intent;
Mere play with noise was reserved for waves of surf.

There was purpose in these tones, deeper than we know;
To find reason would impart purpose in our own.

When would it come?
What was the spark?
Who bore music's first chance at life?
 


- M.A. Miller

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CREEK OF MY YOUTH






Where water and woods met -- Nature's playground;
Toys of choice became stone, mud, fish and claw.
Running from boredom's pursuit, but too slow to catch;
"To the Creek, To the Creek", would come the call.

Arrival nearly always fraught with danger's breath;
Black snakes, black spiders, black dogs, black leeches.
Swift be our pace from home to foot's first drowning;
Don't be last in line, race to any of Creek's beaches.

Only hushed sighs of relief breaking golden silence;
'Til cricket and frog recover from our rude interruption.
Return of their song, sweet music signaling journey's end;
At last, water's gurgled flow reminds us of our intention.

Salamanders of different color at the turn of every rock;
After giving chase, nothing dry to be worn nor tails to hold.
Turtles of yellow, red and black ready for their new home.
Locked tight in their shells, for none were ever so bold.

Minnows so fast, hours spent to corral only the slowest;
Never to eat, never to keep -- Our objective in the hurried chase.
An occasional bamboo pole to angle for sporting advantage;
From dawn to dark, rod doing battle with weeds and bait.

Tadpoles convening by the millions in standing pools;
In our wooded laboratory to see, mutants between frog and fish.
Easy to catch, but hard to feed thus never to be full grown;
Carry them in a jar to frighten girls and make them squeamish.

Crawfish scooting under rounded rocks and slimy stumps;
Elusive and clever, traveling backwards finds chase's escape.
Be quick with the hand from behind to catch and snare;
Or suffer the pinch of sharp claw to become our fate.

At day's retreat, leaving be our struggle to compete;
The danger to face on trip's return, never to be insipid.
"Come back again", would Creek's call be for the morrow;
Arrive once more to seek and learn, our lesson to be intrepid.

 
- M.A. Miller

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