Category / Poetry

by bcmiller2014

Putting it Out There

It’s been a while.  Hi!  I just posted on my vlog about being vulnerable, so here I go in written form.

I hid in the corner, back then,

so young, so

shamed by being my

self, shaking, feeling

anxious for no reason and so

so

stupid.

You saw me and coaxed me

out as though I were feral,

or as if I were hiding in

a shell somewhere where people

payed money to stare and tap

and wish I were more brave.

You saw me in there and I don’t know

how you did it because I didn’t

know how to be seen or even

what color my sad fins had

joined to become after they

began life as hands.  I

felt loved.  I felt safe

enough to let my 20” deep

aquarium thick glass to keep the

sharks in/out wall

down

and all the water flooding through

the entry.  And it was good.  God.

I miss you so much.  But you

left me full, with fingers and lungs and

the ability to breathe air in the

company of others.

 

by bcmiller2014

Sick

So I may be sick so

what’s new, what’s 
extraordinary, what 
makes me get out of
bed each day, after I’ve
cursed and snoozed the
morning alarm for at 
least a half an hour? I
was sick yesterday and
it didn’t stop me from 
going to the store or 
wondering if you needed
new socks. Being sick is
only temporary, no matter 
the end, so why change
today and leave life before
it’s done?  I’m not a 
microwave kind of girl. I’ll
stay in the oven until my
bits are crispy if it means
more time with you. 
by bcmiller2014

Broken Beauty

A shack by the sea, a 

bit of broken paper
lost in the breeze from 
off the Sound, dancing
along the brink 
in irregular fits and 
starts, enjoying the 
randomness of it, or at
least I would, if I were
paper. 
A view from the shack, a 
cracked window looking
over the vast cradle swinging
back and forth, rocked by
the moon, and the frothing
edge singing over 
stones, weeping for all
the earth’s groaning, still
gleaming, still holding 
the beauty of sacred life.  

 

by bcmiller2014

To Hold

To hold things inside, to

withhold all those simple
thoughts that rise like 
bubbles to the surface, all
those feelings that bloom
in whichever intense shades
they embody as though 
they were balloons all 
filled with transparent life 
barely contained by ebullient 
hues, is to kill oneself, breath
by breathe, stealing moments
from a possible future. 
To break out, to learn how to
speak, how to walk while 
looking at more than 
the uneven path is to enrage
death itself, which will fight
for recapture and, God 
willing fail, but only after 
battle wounds have bled
into the free earth and 
paid, ironically, for grace. 
by bcmiller2014

Compounded

She calls in the morning, when
I’m waiting for alarm, breathing
the regretful morning, wishing
for light beyond sunlight and air
beyond breeze. She has no special 
ring tone, warning and dread 
having cancelled each others’ performance. I roll over. Groan. 
When I was small she’d care for
me when I was sick. I used to dream
of being ill, but then I wouldn’t admit
it when I was. She didn’t complain.
Never, forever in agony, and 
everyone admired that.
We were closer than mother and 
daughter. We were confidants, the
only other people in the world who
understood. And she needed me. 
I was her support, her best friend,
her reason for meaning. 
She sniffles on the phone and 
says she’s fine, her voice crackling
like a brittle leaf in autumn. The words 
are always different than the 
interpretations, but vague enough
to make me doubt myself. 
My spirit is emptied by her now, 
poured out without a conscious 
thought, painted on an underpass 
along an empty highway.  I drive
under my own graffiti, always 
desperate, no matter the colors in use.   
  
by bcmiller2014

Footing

When I walk I stare at my toes

and think of the language of
shoes. I purchase them based 
on vocabulary and definitely,
attitude. 
I used to walk, eyes up, shoulders
back like I was trained, Dad’s hand 
wrapped around my neck, gripping, directing to the desired task, or 
person for whom I’d smile like a 
puppet with no words but a sort of 
weak ventriloquism. 
Dad wore black loafers with tassels,
or occasionally wingtips. He never
looked at them but then, he could
always speak for himself.  

 

by bcmiller2014

Flower Petal Feelings

Trained to hold 

in, hold
on and on I
press these down, my
flower petal feelings 
heaped then
stamped like
wet concrete. 
They look solid,
look like stone cut
with the marble for St. 
Peter’s. They
are not. There
is no glue, no
mineral adhesive 
to accompany the
pressure so they
are motionless only 
when my lungs are
still. One breath and 
each petal is aloft, 
brushing my face instead 
of running down in
rivulets, but making
themselves known,
nonetheless.   

 

by bcmiller2014

Kittens

Is it a box, where the feelings 

go, whenever they’re pushed 
away?  They don’t cease 
living just because they’re
unwanted. Perhaps they 
become more like feral kittens,
their round eyes peering out
from around decking material
but always too frightened to 
come out as long as 
someone is watching. It’s a 
shame, really, when what 
they really need is a kind 
hand to reach down and gently
rub behind their ears, a soft
voice to reassure them.