The Hum of Traffic

poetry from robert c. miller

National Blog Posting Month is upon us! write a post, or check one out new ones I’m posting here!

The WordPress.com Blog

It’s November 1st, and National Blog Posting Month–NaBloPoMo–is upon us. Time to put your thinking cap on, fire up the computer, chug some extra coffee, and get a-postin’! Bookmark these resources for days when you need a little something extra, and leave a link to your site in the comments so other NaBloPoMo participants on WordPress.com can find you.

On The Daily Post…

A new writing prompt goes up at The Daily Post every weekday at 11AM EST (we also tweet them out on the @freshly_pressed handle). If you need additional inspiration, head over to Plinky.

Weekly writing and photo challenges give you two more opportunities a week to be part of NaBloPoMo and deepen your participation in the WordPress.com community. Browse past challenges for even more ideas.

Take inspiration from fellow bloggers: you can start by taking a look at our Focus On posts, which highlight blogs and…

View original post 183 more words

Advertisements

Portrait of a Dead Bluejay

I.

The city hisses

such in and outs

with constancy

 

that the weightlessness

of the fragile blue

—jay

 

was nothing

to the pounding of the machines

and the grey

 

of skies

pushing down

his cupped breast.

 

II.

Against the terrace—stepped

brick in brown and red—

how like a wall to him now, the plantings

 

along the top, hostas

and a spray of acorns and cedar leaves

withered because—

 

they were banned

from water in the city; or,

the asphalt took it all

 

and the jay was dead; or, something unfair

so I took it as a gift,

that the biting air

 

was early November—preserving

the blue

of the jay

 

beneath

the grey of the dark months

to come.

 

All this way

to rest for a winter

until the summer

 

light returns

again

to take him home

Calvin and Hobbes – Stars and Infinity (Comic Strip) – Karma Jello

 

 

New Piece I did about the Georgian Bay and Lakeland Cemetery in Minneapolis

Through Lakes to the River

I.

I was use to being given away

by my clumsiness or deft movement

to the attentions of animals.

 

When seeing

was accidental, stumbling

more than anything—I had never wished nor dreamt

 

that clicks of hooves against rock would echo out

to my ears and give away the fearful young buck,

to me.

 

He was anxious—

an adolescent for a drink and running

reeds to eat, to drape halfway out his mouth, to chew on in thought—

 

but I was full of knowing what he did not

and stalked forward to prove

my knowledge, and tell a story

 

that I had was in control. The small river

running into the Bay

laughed at my attempts

 

and where I had once known of him,

he then knew of me,

along the pebbled shore of the Georgian Bay—

 

II.

For all the magic, those were…

View original post 269 more words

Rock model #2

Nine Ways of Looking at the Leaves

I.

The calling of fall

leaves—winding down

stairs, walking out the

front door of her apartment

for the last time

 

 

II.

Crumpled and crushed

crunched satisfaction

echoing cyclical

anticipation

 

 

III.

Autumnal yellow and orange

holds down hidden grasses

homogeny of hue

questions on monotony

 

 

IV.

Eyes divorce

focus Monet

paints

 

 

V.

To be—but grass

and feel

the sky falling

 

 

VI.

Palm to palm

shaped

my passed great grandmother’s

hand

lain tenderly

toward a withered

dried out posture

 

 

VII.

To be young again and wade

in yesterday’s playpool

knee deep in

passing time

 

 

VIII.

As good steward

as any

who yearly feeds thine neighbor

detritus and thanks

 

 

IX.

To feel victorious

or ashamed

being the final leaf

clinging

.

How Can I be More Like the Sandhill Cranes

who, like me, were also born in the sandy counties

of central Wisconsin, but have a piece of tundra in them.

 

They were given special lands,

wilderness sanctuaries that allowed them solitude

in their preferred habitat.

 

I was not.

And find myself envying them

when I feel away from home.

 

Clutching my binoculars, adjusting to the gentle rock of the boat

I magnified my fascination on a sedge of cranes

in the midst of ancient rites.

 

Who moved like they knew the land,

and had flown their annual pilgrimage

for this privilege.

 

(We could have departed on the very same day)

 

males singing, strutting, and poking at the wet earth

knowing perfectly well what they came for.

 

another day we caught them in flight

necks stretched outcurved

back and

forward again, dignified and stark

lines compelling me to testify

they know precisely what they are doing here

 

The cranes attend to the business of living elsewhere,

but once a year follow their cryptochromes

(I believe we all must have some)

home without the guilt of leaving responsibility behind.

Breaking Ice, Back Tomorrow

Through the gusting of the Lake we climbed,

slow waterfalls of rock, choosing the long way,

our hearts quivered and trembled to forget

 

the coldness of never-knowing through childhood

games and idle adventure. Only to circle back on ourselves,

looking for the darkest corners, hidden

 

in lake drenched stone. We sacrificed our fingers’ freedom for a chance

to fish pieces of memory froze knowable,

slats, from the water’s surface,

 

Portraits of the puddles’

faceless faceswe clutched the sheets of ice, barely,

did we understand that in smashing them

 

down to hear sweet mimicry of glass

shattering on rock, we had lost our way.

What hides in puddled shadows

 

of eroding rocks and fallen trees and freshwater spray?

To hold names is grasping a truth I cannot know after

breaking ice, back tomorrow.

The Crust of the Earth

Here’s a piece from my Chapbook entitled “the Lost Water fables”

 

 

Long ago someone went to work on this land.

Called out, kneading

the crust of the Earth.

 

Fistful by fistfulred hard folds

and faults. Heavenly loafs

risen in ovens of the epochs

 

tossed about in beautifully careless dunes

frozen in time.

The trouble they must have gone to,

 

mixing that dough and measuring

the coarse grain

shoreline by shoreline,

 

one rocky outcropping at a time.

They rolled out Superior coastline,

Boreal lakebed, Canadian Shield.

 

Hideouts with names like Artist’s Point.

Stunning recipes

spotted with lead, nickel, and zinc,borrowed

 

from the lake Superior

who took them from the Glacier

in a story long ago.

 

The lake floor gathers crumbs over time,

consuming the tales in endless waves

but the crust remains

 

stale and lasting, hard

in the hardness of the gale winds

and the bone-cold swells.

 

I’ve seen the bread, bits of it in my hand,

studied fragments of stories unearthed

from the belly of the lake, but what I’d give

 

to take a mouthful of the heel,

halfway swallowed to the water’s hungry gullet

chew till the wetness is taken from my mouth

 

%d bloggers like this: