Sunday, October 20, 2013


  <\a man with a future>
  <\a man with dreams>
  <\a man with nothing to lose>
  <\a man with everything to lose>
    they live with me still:
    taste of her thighs
    on humid nights
    in Ithaca. Me in the library
    decoding symbolic
    logic with a key
    that made no sense
    but worked
    out in the proof.
     it - whatever
     it is - remains.
     whether I will
     or no: brain cells
     puzzling out
     like a wishing 
      it will come
      to pass 
      or not:
      the house
      in Old Town,
      or true love.
      the days shorten
      along with
      the years.
       i pull your hair
       from the fire,
       your skin blackened
       on the severed head
       my father threw there
       in a rage of sorrow
       that earth knows
       when scrying 
       the skies for rain,
       his animal cry
       sinking its teeth
       into the tongues
       of withered 
       wheat fields.

Copyright 2013 Charles David Miller. All rights reserved.

Tuesday, May 7, 2013



Copyright 2013 Charles David Miller. All rights reserved.



          My life spirit
          Seeks the body
          Of you, world 


        We are star dust
        We are the heavens

Wednesday, May 1, 2013


Francis Bacon, Head (1948)

  </solar system>
   seeing by destruction
   and creation
   in desert sands
   where the gold
   of setting suns
   on dark east mountains
   spills blood
      why do I fill space
      born from body's
      rooting need,
      spirit's loneliness
      or obscure light
      of beauty flown
      in an idle glance?
        what is does not remain,
        the song dies in the throat
        of the warbler, the knot
        in the crotch unties
        in the womb
         piecing together a scrap
         book of joy and triumph,
         the empty spaces
         reporting who and what
         I never am, where
         the voices of the past
         vie for unity, a piece
         of infinity tasting
         a dying tongue

Copyright 2013 Charles David Miller. All rights reserved.

Saturday, April 27, 2013

Letter of the Companion

Giotto Bondone
c 1306, Scrovegni Chapel, Padua, Italy

Dear friends in the Spirit,
may God's peace and joy be with you,
and the end of the age
sweep away the evil abroad.

We arrived in the town by the
wasteland road and met no ill
weather. Our brothers
drawn to cruelty and despair
lay in wait by the roadside.
Times are hard but here seem worse;
the land grows nothing in the drought
and still soldiers come for their tax.

Your brother, my husband,
knows well the road and brought us clear.
He traveled before among the angry ones.
We own nothing but the clothes on our backs,
and pose them no harm. We spoke new words
and the Spirit broke the hard heart.
Men with blood on their hands
wept and beat the dust with fists for sorrow.

Like children they asked to be clean
of what the times have made them do.
I held them in my arms like a mother
and sister. I told them
a great comforter has come to sweep away the pain
in the land. We spoke the Master's name
over them to drive off demons
that plague their dreams and harden
their hearts with anger and grief and death.

Some stared in amazement. I, a woman,
saw their tears. Their shame made them
hide their eyes from me. They spoke with hate.
"A woman should not see our shame,"
they said. I wept for them.
"God will see your sins on the last day.
His Spirit sees all and I am in His Spirit.
Leave this evil you do. Do not let the joy
the Spirit gives die in your anger.
Has not a great sorrow left your heart?
Follow the Spirit and cleanse yourselves
for when the end of the age comes."

Some were angered still more by my words and left
our circle, back to the shadows by the road.
Those who stayed wept at our feet and begged forgiveness.
They led us to the village, where the people ran for
fear when they saw us with thieves. One of
the brothers has a family in that town. They
cried for joy when he that they thought dead
appeared alive. They fell at our feet and kissed them.

When the villagers learned how we
cured the evil of their sins, wonder filled
their eyes, and their voices turned to whispers
as they spoke about God and his mercy, for
He alone can turn what was dead into life.

Peter praised the Spirit and spoke the words
of the Messiah to them. But in the village
men do not hear or see as clearly as in the desert.
So many voices drown the sound of the Lord's name,
and the truth is seed thrown on dust.

The women came to see a strange thing.
They fingered my clothes frayed by the wind,
and asked how I could put up with a
man who spoke such wild things and gave me
nothing but the street for a bed. Again, the
Spirit filled me and I witnessed to them the
power of the Lord to overcome all need and
desire in this world. The Spirit made
my legs tremble with lightness.
The words filled the breath from my lips
like a song from a bird in a green valley
when day begins and dew wets the grass.

Again, few listened. They laughed
and made fun of me and my poor things, and called
me no better than a slave. They mocked my words.
I did not feed my anger with their pride. I said
the Teacher too had suffered insults. Keep your
heart free from bitterness and hate, He said, and
fear the Lord whose Spirit will comfort you in
evil times. Some of the women stayed with
me by the fire when the others left.
They helped me prepare a meal and water.
We slept that night in a farmer's attic.

The Lord's work bears wonderful fruit, my friends.
I write from a small inn where the owner lets us stay.
Peter has a chill and fever.
Our lives are in the hands of God.
Whether we live or die, He decides.
I am not my own and His Spirit
fills me with psalms. I would
die in the street doing His work.
It is all one in the name of the Lord.
I pray he sends you his Spirit of love
as he does for me. All blessings be yours...

Published for Poetics prompt

copyright 2013 Charles David Miller. All rights reserved.


      being born
      Into nothing
      You carved
      Me formless
      Yet squawking
      For a shape
      And direction
        Seeking me
        In all I am

        Am not
          Seeking you
          For all you are
          Have been
          Will be
          In loss
          And desire
               Lost from

                  Full with
                  Of signs
                  Of nothing
                    Of all
                    That is


copyright 2013 Charles David Miller. All rights reserved.

Moonlight Above Shed

A toolshed knows only moonlight when it nests in the arms of Spring.

Friday, April 26, 2013


     in seeking
     so much
     I lost
     what's worth

Tuesday, April 23, 2013


  </land of never to be>
     The nightmare
     Born from
        I see a mirage
        In the desert heat
        It looks like me
         Speaking in the cool
         Breath soughed
         By palm trees
         Words as sweet
         As pomegranate seeds
             <בּת קול>

            </בּת קול>

bat kol (Hebrew בּת קול) - The voice of God, literally "daughter of a voice"
Copyright 2013 Charles David Miller. All rights reserved.