Month / March 2015

by bcmiller2014

Mower Blades

You never complained,
faced your pain, saw your
abuse, stood your ground, 
claimed your voice, asked for 
help, or held on for something 
better.  
You never asked
what Dad was like when we 
worked alone in the scorching
sun, mowing, slicing living 
things into forced submission. 
He was always kind to flowers, 
and dogs, and never heard his 
own father’s voice when he 
wielded words like a wicked set of pruning shears, all sticky with sap 
on the steel. 
Bend down, gather, lift, discard,
bend, tie, carry, start again. 
I claim my voice, I face
my pain. I see my abuse. I
stand my ground. I ask for help, I
hold on for something better. 
I know all about Dad. He’s fine. 
He’s an ass. He’s a trustworthy 
man in most corporeal matters. 
You are always kind to books
and cats and never hear 
your own mother’s voice when 
you wield your words like
poison darts, sticky and sweet
on the needles. 
by bcmiller2014

Dark Matter

Sliding into what you

feel I lose my self.  I lose
the thoughts that make 
me someone, not you.  
Instead I look inside 
my mind and find your 
visions, your desperate 
need to find meaning,
and I know that my
center has been 
swallowed by your
emptiness. 
Climbing out of what you
want I find myself, my
tainted thoughts
uncentered but intact.
To mine them I drive 
hard, guzzle fuel, must
recharge to resist 
your gravity, to pull
as from a well what’s
been lost. I define
words I never have
spoken. 
by bcmiller2014

Daily

Suspended in an ocean of

sameness, blue deepening 
to black below, colors 
cease to exist.  There are no
corners, few extraordinary 
moments except when we
unexpectedly survive an
encounter with very large
teeth. Rays of sunlight cut 
the surface like golden
glass, marine life breaking
through in great shimmering 
pods. These sightings occur 
at odd times, when we may or
may not recognize our
singular insignificance. They
give us a perspective of
scale. 
by bcmiller2014

Rule Breaker

He doesn’t speed up for

street signs. Not ever. He’s
a pedestrian crossing 
before an impatient line of
cars, their drivers with 
feet twitching, eager to
be done with the “in 
between” time after a task
has been accomplished but
before the entertainment or
the friend or the dinner has
been reached, worthless-
seeming breathing 
happening without an
official job. 
Well, 
     okay, living
is a job, but it rarely 
counts unless we’re 
considered productive. 
Perhaps
he is reminding them that
being is productive. Caring
about the unhappy person
bustling so briskly with 
sadness falling like a mist all
around her and simply 
sending a kind thought
is productive. Thinking about
words like bees as they swarm 
in short clusters and separate,
travelling for miles before 
returning home
is productive. 
He’s an efficiency-
driven man, unless
standard behavior dictates,
and then he becomes the
wild bee on a great journey.