Best Milled Poems
This time around, I will not scatter these grains
to land where the weeds might choke them.
This time around, I will collect these kernels
and take them to the gristmill in my head
to crack under all that weight and break free…
Turning while the other is static
Between these stones lay our thoughts—
(the bran, the germ, the endosperm)
Fibrous fertility re(de)fined.
Crushing each layer to smithereens
Grinding and grinding, round and round
Negligent space between these stones
‘til I can think no more.
I gather my bushel of milled thoughts (ground yet still whole),
add some yeast, sugar and water.
We rest and we rise,
we take the punches and fall,
but we embrace the heat and rise again.
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---I smile as I bite into my warm, buttered pan de sal
mesmerized by the sun, glowing in the east...
06042018
When I was growing up,
Daily they packed my outgrown:
Shoes, shirts,suits and trousers;
And paid me commendation
As they milled around me
Like night ants around light!
When I was geisha-guy
And my frame was fame
And my gaiety was deity
Oh they milled around me
Like day ants around rose
When worker I was
And my table was the host
To all that delighted belly
Oh they rounded me about
Applauded me with their belch
After my grain and grape.
Now my hairs are white
And my frame is gone
My teeth have left
Sight is dim, hearing is poor;
How quick they dessert me
Like a cinema after the show.
It is home alone
As they call me demented
The brats that once me hailed
No one to tell goodbye
Sad today I must go
My end is now.
One night about 25 years ago
I was sat in my car at Cothelstone
Dx-ing on my CB radio in the wee hours
when my two dogs started to growl
every hair on their bodies on end
a most putrid smell entered my car
I heard the sound of hoofs churning
knowing it must be the headless horseman
I kept my eyes down as 't is said death comes
to those who look Thor in the eyes.
I was unwilling to drive away
as earlier I had erected an antenna
outside of the car fixed to a tree
the smell was almost over powering
and I could feel its gaze upon me
it felt as if Thor was willing me to look
my dogs were whimpering then howling
no way was I raising my eyes oh no!!
'T was but an hour or so till dawn
slowly the smell faded and my dogs calmed down
As soon as it was light enough
I let them out and got the antenna down
vowing never again to spend a night here
thoroughly spooked by this experience
I looked around and saw churned ground
with clear hoof prints as the horse had
milled around my car, calling back my dogs
who gladly jumped in, we drove off
I have returned since but only in daylight
DX-ing long distance radio contacts
this is a true story there are many tales of Thor the headless horseman who rides the
hills from East Quantockhead through Shervage Wood past Will's Neck through
Cothelstone to the Quantock edge and back all agree if you look into his eyes within
a few weeks you will be pushing up the daisy's. All I can say is I have seldom been so terrified
Picture it.
3:00 AM
Niagara Falls, Canada
We are rudely awakened
by an intermittent buzzing
very loud
irritating, nerve grating.
“What is that?” I ask.
“Fire alarm,” he answers.
We get up, wide awake now.
“Maybe it’s just a drill,”
he says, hopefully.
A disembodied voice
“Please remain calm, please stay
in your room while we investigate.”
The message is repeated at intervals.
He goes back to bed.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“It’s probably a false alarm,”
he answers. I wonder.
I’m thinking that if it’s real
we’re wasting precious time.
We’re on the ninth floor.
I’m thinking of the arthritis
in my knees, knowing we would
not be allowed to use the elevators.
I get dressed, make coffee,
immediately apply my makeup,
check my hair.
The word is passed along the halls
“Evacuate, evacuate the hotel!”
I grab my purse, jewelry,
camera and poetry notebook.
He puts shoes on bare feet,
exits the room wearing only
a tee-shirt and sweat pants.
The stairs are crowded with people
in various stages of undress:
Fuzzy slippers, long sleep shirts,
flip-flops, nylon jogging shorts
flimsy gowns, satin boxers.
A moving mass, silently descending.
Outside, hundreds milled around,
quietly watching the fire trucks
parked at the curb, motors running,
red lights flashing.
I un-sheath my camera, begin
capturing the moment.
When the all-clear sounds,
he starts back upstairs.
“I’m going back to bed,”
he announces, and begins
the climb back upstairs.
“Not me,” I say, “I’ll see you later.”
I find a chair in the lobby,
sit down to watch drama unfold.
A couple from Toronto had
walked down from the 22nd
floor, she with a cane
(hip replacement surgery).
A young woman from Louisiana
with Aloette Cosmetics,
roses in arms,
waiting for the shuttle bus.
Families with small children.
A bride, whose new husband
had walked off without her
gives him an angry message,
a rude gesture, a divorce threat.
Free Starbucks coffee supplied
by the hotel, followed by a bill,
shoved under the door,
seven hundred sixty-three dollars.
“For three nights!” he rages.
“It was worth it,” I say,
“I wouldn’t have missed it!”
I married a kangaroo at Queensland
And bought paparazzi milled chilled and canned
When they were all served
With apples preserved
They stalked in ," dudes, Kang is not so bland"
Obliging black arms, their crooked
fingers cut freezing as they
reach for winter greys, blues of sky,
untouchable. Shaking, bending.
Mulish winds sweep lands- violence
loved, admired. They are framed
within my eyes green as last summer's
carpeting, where the trees were rooted.
Embroidered. Weaving native
life. Earth milled, the purest white
hush to lull. Charming. Dreamlike.
Persistent as memories.
Strategically set on a hill
Overlooking the meadow still
Pulchritudinous from the start
Beauty enough to capture one's heart
Stones were chosen with every care
Stones with colors very rare
All the framing was checked and placed
So there would be no mistake
High on the magnificent hill
Trees of the forest were milled
So each timber was sturdy and strong
To protect the occupants from any wrong
The inviting porch drew people in
Open and wide with pillows thin
Golden door of oak was made
Just the right touch, just the right shade
Inside the fireplace logically placed
Designed to warm each heart and face
Children came to live on the hill
Each child's personality brought a thrill
The hill is lonely now
There is room and too spare
It is said to weep at night
But still puts out its light
(Read Psalms 139:13-14;Jeremiah 1:4-5. Could this house be a metaphor)
A hush fell o'er the Little Kirk Presbyterian Congregation,
Anticipating the annual Sunday School Christmas presentation.
The solemn flock, (usually obsessed with predestination),
Relaxed in their pews to enjoy Jesus' birthday celebration!
For weeks, moms had fashioned halos, stars and angels' wings,
Also, beards, crowns and robes for the trio of royal kings.
Over and over, harried teachers rehearsed the little dears.
This promised to be the smoothest pageant production in years!
Alas, things didn't go as conceived from the very start!
Kids bawled for Mom and Dad while others forgot their part!
Tho' Cindy Lou could at times be quite the prima donna,
She was chosen to star in the role of Mary the Madonna.
Little angels hovered about, their wings all askew.
The shepherds milled about not knowing what to do.
Joseph toyed with the Jesus doll and it cried, "I want my mama!"
Causing parishioners to titter, detracting from the drama!
The pastor read the Christmas Story from the account in Luke.
The kids harmonized on "Away in the Manger", a propitious fluke!
They portrayed the Christmas Miracle, despite some serious flaws,
And for their efforts received a standing round of applause!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)
The mushroom cloud stunk up the smog,
And milled the metal into the ground.
We were left with all our hairs blown off,
Soot black, standing without a sound.
All of the earth was madly aflame,
Like the wick of a thick, drooping candle.
People were pulling their skin off of the pavement,
As you grinned with the pride of a vandal.
We stood alone, like Adam and Eve,
Like Noah after the Flood.
When they all died out, you kissed my forehead,
And parted the sea of blood.
Then you took my mangled hand in yours,
And we walked beyond the gloom.
You had held the gaze of my vulnerable eyes,
And all you said was, “Boom.”
Yesterday, the snow fell, laced lazily
all across the frozen field; grace fell down.
My heart raced, apace in a minor key
troubles fled erased from me, was my frown.
Seemed semblances filled my life-weary head
so God's beauty nudged my heart-weary soul;
far off, hills became instilled white purebred
away from mad machines joy milled bold.
Now, black is white, fresh and new, clean and pure
it takes a hold of blight and sings ... out;
looks at frowns ignite, giggles light, demure.
As, the day brites sledders scream "Watch out!"
Though winter's gray days we'll recall this sight.
They're our days, our nights, dressed in Winter white.
Here we dawdle, coats, scarfs and boots in Winter white.
to freeze as frames of memory, joy's root in Winter white.
Stay with me, dream awhile, we could build an igloo?
Oh, won't you make snow angels, beauts, in Winter white.
I could put snow down your coat, toss a ball or two
believe me, " I could, I could catch YOU toots in Winter white!"
In frozen splendor, we will still, "Isn't he so cute!"
Yesterday is forever captured now SHOOT! in Winter white.
Sonnet with a Ghazal Chaser ;)
see about the poem
dedicated to Chan [nuff rhyme for you hon?]
“Is this place Hell” a prisoner asked his first day there;
No, just a stop along the way.
Andersonville Prison, 1864. Hell Upon Earth.
The hounds of hell waited for those stranded in battle by
canon shot, hunted down by the rain of bullets from the gray
coats; a place to avoid like the plague.
They came, perhaps 45,000; no one knows for sure.
They learned fast to stand far back from the Dead Line;
where a bullet was a mercy.
They were the walking dead and the already dead
that didn’t know it; men of bones and taut skin held
in place by memories of who they were before this place.
Their mouths and eyes moving as they milled around, some falling down in place, stepped over by those with the strength. An endless sea of pallor stretched across excrement covered ground, filth and
disease baking in the blistering Georgia sun.
Hunger is the constant companion, always demanding
an equal share as thirsty men gulped down defiled brackish
water, and always a foul smell retched up the land,
soaking the pores of the living.
Andersonville, where hell found sanctuary on the
land and devoured it with pleasure. Sixteen acres of
torment where time stopped and days were measured in the
corpses counted in the morning.
Death was a way home into the soft red
Georgia soil and some 13,000 found their way there.
Skeletons walking in rags, living in a place where surviving was
the only cause worth fighting for now.
Here feudal kingdoms reigned supreme.
“The Raiders,” they called themselves; thieves who wore the
same blue coat of arms. Carnal house creatures falling on the weak, vultures swooping down for the kill, sucking at the remains.
One bloody night those calling themselves “The Regulators”
swooped in and took their revenge on the Raider scum.
Hung six of them up high, put the rest of their evil to rest;
the war of blue against blue was over.
Andersonville, where surviving waged war on living and memories festered like an open wound. It was a place where staying alive was always one day closer to dying.
Screamin’ Bill Wilcox was quite a man,
Carved from a block of stone
With a face of leather, deeply tanned
And a voice you could hear in Rome.
A cow hand he was, best with a rop
Could ride both bull or stead,
Quick with a joke, quick with a laugh
Quicker still dealing with thieves.
One cold night on old Montana’s plain
The heard milled, restless, unsettled
Then ray when they heard a lone wolf’s howl,
A test to a puncher’s mettle.
Screaming Bill road out ahead hollering
His voice booming and proud
The cattle swerved in a moment’s spell
And Screamin’ Bill went down.
We found nothing much left of Bill
Just his trampled, yellow hat
We buried him with it, twas only right
Then rode, a herd to catch.
Month went by and the job rolled on,
Long hours for little pay,
And we rode out to green Idaho
A new herd to drive away.
One gray evening the clouds moved in
Lightning crashed across the land,
The cattle spooked, into a grand stampede
With thundering hooves they ran.
And I alone out in the great range
Was answering nature’s call,
Turned and saw a crush of steers
A writhing and churning wall…
Just then a men he cut across
Hollering out ‘This a-way!’
The cattle turned and charged at him,
But he whooped as if at play!
The next day found the heard amidst
A stretch of fertile grass,
Feeding quietly, quite content
No thought of the near past.
I road along to find the man
Who’d saved my life last night,
I found only a yellow hat,
Glinting in the sunlight.
The others they did cross themselves,
But on my face a smile played,
Because I knew right then, for all of time
Screamin’ Bill would ride the plains
My pooch has funky tastes
To sniff out bizarre caviar of freshly milled
Tissue paste
Pounce like cougars
Not for meat treats, but Kleenex filled
Boogers
He's got
A nose for skilled
Snot
My pooch has funky tastes
Not for meat treats, but Kleenex filled
Snot
9/03/20
For 'Let's Minichu on Bizarre' contest
Sponsor: Mohan Chutani
misprision of Treason the contemporaries are they to infect defect dissect or to redirect an offense of then treating them to high treason as critics drug them to gallows of literacy hung them cut them down alive entrails be taken out and burned while he is alive head be cut off that his body be divided into four parts that his head and quarters be at the king's disposal but new mintage is still milled out artistic expression is encouraged but as then even so now you have your crickets some for support others would kick it like stylen whimsically Williamisms styley words to find define refine and mine That which is inalienable cannot be bought, sold, or transferred from one individual to another God given rights to express or newly express words by the Word for Word say what you will better for poet to hang on the gallows than say nothing at all but now not some one's treasure or favorite term but He who knows will know
and some day far away the words you shared by-and-by may bring a smile
'...the burnt out end of smoky days' - T.S. Eliot
l
The evening rumbles in
and grumbles, tea is served, the kettle
whistles, bread
is buttered, weary workers settle,
nibble, drink their tea and chatter,
as the platter's
passed around and cakes are proffered
in the cozy parlour, lamp-lit,
rum is offered,
daily bread, and thankful for it.
Curtains closed against the weather,
children say their prayers together,
snug and safe now, sister, brother.
ll
The morning sun prods sleepyheads
to service and to play,
the colliery beckons
and the women make the beds.
The cobbled backstreets glisten
from the rain the night before.
The siren calls
and all the miners listen,
they heed its strident roar
and step into their coveralls.
lll
You take fresh linens from the chest,
it's time to straighten up the nest,
then gargle, and repair your face
to meet the challenges and woes,
you hold your children to your breast
and wonder how by heaven's grace
you'll pay the rent, afford the food,
as praying to the Lord you stand and shiver,
arms and legs are shaking, all a'quiver,
a dreadful vision haunts your eyes,
the poor house, shameful to conceive,
you lie upon the bed and weep,
how will you cope, how will you sleep?
no items left to compromise,
a constant struggle to believe.
lV
He wrestles with his conscience, tried
and troubled, thoughts of fraud and theft
beset him constantly, he's torn,
his sickened heart is worn, bereft.
He looks into the eyes of strangers,
each consumed with his own fears,
distraught, and never satisfied,
into a world of want stillborn,
condemned to worry all these years.
We suffer with these souls who struggle
through a life of toil and grief,
tread-milled with no hope of cheer
or expectation of relief.