Milled Poems

Trading Silence for Roses

Fragrances of roses wafted throughout the garden
No idea why I had been invited, but I cherished this scent
Others milled around in fancy frocks and expensive suits
My dress was a plain blue with tiny yellow daisies

“I hear you traded silence for roses,” someone said.
Thought he was talking to me. Turned to answer.
Found myself facing two gorgeous apricot rose bushes.
Knew I would have to speak eventually, but not yet.

Did not recognize the rest of the staff, as I was new.
School had not started yet; we were at an ice breaker.
Was going to ditch this activity but my mother talked me into it.
She loved roses and asked me to take pictures.

I pulled out my camera and began to get some close ups.
Pink, peach, red, yellow and white blooms posed innocently.
“I hear you traded silence for roses,” the same voice said.
I turned and faced the speaker. a handsome young lad.

“I guess we both did,” I replied.
He had a nice smile, beautiful light blue eyes.
“I am glad I am here,” he told me. “I do adore roses.”
He made many points in my mother’s book for this.

It's Spelled Spelt, Split and Wholesome

We wanted to break bread
that was pure, clean, pristine, 
stark white and wholesome,
with a crisp, but soft, 
light brown crust.

The field was prepared with
thrice washed and cleaned machinery,
and spread with N, P,  K fertilizer
applied overhead.

The soils was filtered to remove
all weeds, sticks and stones,
stubble and rubble,
so it was homogeneous,
with a uniform grain size,

The wheat seed was a proven, 
ancient old world genotype,
with its genome still intact.

The seed was milled to remove
all traces of wheat germ and bran,
then twice bleached to stark white.

The dough was leavened with soda
and baked well-timed, 
in a clean fan-draft oven,
at just the right temperature,
for just the right time.

Behold! There we have it!
Our pure white bread,
wholesome and perfect,
in every way, that we break
for breakfast at break of day.

Brain Over Brawn

Actions may thunder, but my words ignite,
A blade of wisdom, cutting sharper than might.
Not just whispers, but a raging inferno,
Lighting the world with the spark of the wise.

They lift, they strain, their muscles implore,
While I wield knowledge, a much sharper tool.
Strength is fleeting, a flicker, a spark,
While ideas burn bright, a light in the dark.

Every page turned is a fortress I build,
Each lesson a weapon, each thought finely milled.
They train for the battle, but I script the war,
A tactician of intellect, feared to the core.

They flex, they brawl, their power shakes ground,
Yet time is their rival—strength won’t rebound.
Flesh withers, bones crack, but my wisdom remains,
An empire of insight, not bound by chains.

So let them swing, let them roar and fight,
While I conquer in silence, yet shine just as bright.
For might may crumble, but mind reigns long,
It's brain over brawn—that is true.

The Pond Gulls

The town pond was drained,
revealing minnows
wriggling in the residual water
they milled and turned
in silvered arabesques
choregraphed by a rippling wind.

Large ocean-going gulls
descended out of a troubled sky,
they walked among the writhing small fry
plucked out the little fish
employing just the tip of their great beaks
as if sensible of the delicacy of such morsels.

Dark clouds foretold a storm,
strange but the gulls did not fly off
to feast on Lake Erie’s plentiful bounty,
they lingered here on this little pond
like diners at a buffet
skewering only these bitsy sprats,

while squalls fermented the Great Lakes
and much bigger fish flew unmolested
through those high cresting waves.

Little ponds it seems,
do not at all mirror
the courage of the free.

The Hole Story

The pumpkins placed upon the steps
To set a scary mood
Were attractive both to look at
And to squirrels, too, as food.

At first, they nibbled here and there
But then were on a roll
And chewed their way inside
Via an ever-growing hole.

On every pumpkin (there were four),
These entries could be found
And seeds or some discarded bits
Were scattered on the ground.

My husband caught, on video,
One squirrel peeking out,
Then exiting with one quick leap
While others milled about.

And soon another made his move,
An acrobatic dash,
His last until next year, for what
Was left’s now in the trash.

Peppercorns

If each peppercorn was a life,
each is saddled in surrender
of shunless damnation.
They dwell in anguish--
death row prisoners.
They huddle together
awaiting torsion
as the grinder rends
the season from their body.
All that remains is dust
milled over an entrée.

Naked women Anacreontic couplets

next to fountain nude she stood,
a delight for all manhood!

her skin was fair, curls so black,
muscles showed down to her back.

her hands were on both her breasts,
smile was invite to the guests.

a few more girls kept her side,
not demure, their legs were wide.

there was joy and laughter too,
men milled around, stole a view.

wine with beer made men bawdy,
some old spinsters went rowdy!

nudes remained by the fountain,
sculpted stones from rock mountain!

nude stone sculptors are a charm,
why profane in human form?

Breast of Roses

Breast of roses where her femininity used to be.
A scent of blossoms milled out by mastectomy.
The clippings praise and curse at the same time.
Her petals falling, weeping, assaulted, past prime.
Not fair…not the way she wanted to lose weight.
She ambles, learning to walk with this offsetting gait.
They were ample, with a perfect curvature, round.
She used to complain…now her buddies can’t be found.
With this primeval bouquet she’s not lost her life.
She’s more alive then ever after she’s been under the knife.
She’s a different scent, more vibrant with the love of her life.
He’s learned that what he would truly miss is his wife.

10/19/2022

A Meal In Five Senses

Within an overplay of paneled oak
and illumination fittingly low,
set upon a table, its style baroque
a lighted candle, its shimmering glow
plays an unopened bottle of Bordeaux

Distant soft murmurs of discrete lovers
a pop of cork, the chinking of a glass
gentle rustling of changed table covers,
the whooshing of a skirt as waitress pass.
Low background music with a mellow bass.

A rich old earthy scent from burning log
is mixed with fragrant kitchen spices, sweet
arouses memories of synagogue.
Pungent aroma from hot sizzling meat;
a whiff of petrol coming from the street.

The napkin soft, bread roll toasty, warm,
dinner plate hot, wine glass suitably chilled
all precisely the acceptable norm.
Granular grating as pepper is milled.
I press on the steak; it's perfectly grilled.

Fantastic flavors burst upon my buds
juicy, velvety, succulent, tender.
The wine my mouth with fruity perfume floods
I finish the last drop, then surrender
"I require another glass, bartender."

A Vintage Viewing

Images from a cogged apparatus.
Fingertips toggle milled brass
abreast a concertinaing leather.
Tripodal spread, pegged legs.

Women paused in pose,
a gilded stillness.
A plump bosom peek-show.
Wide-open lens revealing
knee’s, and ankles, 
silky ribbons; lace decorously draped
over a connivance of modesty.

A gentleman photographer
throws a dark curtain over 
his head.
The models are captured
framed as they are
inside a light-box of silence.

An artist has added a color tint,
their cheeks are rouged
lips glossily red.
A luster and filigree
of bygone corsetry teases the eye.

Posturing in an upper room.
A warm lamp licks Tiffany shades,
shadows halted in mid-flicker.
Feathers and brocade adjusted,
imagination moves, veils fall, 
flesh flexes.

Their legacy a démodé,
an optical glow from a yesteryear,
one to be admired in secret.

Captivate

As the sun rises the sky line's 
soft serrated edges spill vanilla cream; 

a girl who is shrouded feels crystal flakes 
on her face as she walks separate 

from the group of students 
within the milled land asleep still within a dream. 

A tiny abandoned bird's nest 
is revealed amongst a tree's branches 

as the last few leaves are stripped; 
the berries still cling...

the billowy clouds above glide away.
Birds later flit about the tree as the girl 

paints their colors as her wings, 
upon which the sunlight slides across a new day.


January 14, 2022

Spilled Cream

As the sun rises the horizon's soft serrated edges spill vanilla cream;

a shrouded girl feels crystal flakes on her face as she walks separate from the group of students within the milled land 

asleep still within a dream.
A tiny abandoned bird's nest is revealed amongst a tree's 

branches, with berries that cling...the billowy clouds above slide away.

The birds flit about as the girl later paints their colors as her wings, upon which the sun glides across a new day.

January 14, 2022

There Is Such Light

As the sun rises
the horizon becomes spilled cream;
a shrouded girl feels the crystal flakes on her face as the sky lightens, 
the milled land asleep still within a dream.
 
A tiny abandoned bird's nest is revealed amongst the berries that cling...
the billows above slide away.

The Robins flit about as the girl paints their colors as her wings,
upon which the sun glides into a new day.


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Winter Magic

The chilled blue of a noon sky 
drapes over a coating of diamonds  on a milled earth. 

Cocoa branches shake in the mulish winds.
Yellow feathers are the hue of the sun. 

A red cardinal is the color of gleaming berries.
Their wings lift against the brazen edges of Winter.

I Am the Grease Jar

Of glass I started at a shop,
But then they filled me up to top.
And day by day, I would decrease,
But now I serve just for the grease.

Sometimes I wish I was refilled,
With pickled food or grains a-milled. 
Despite the options rich and rife,
I hold the grease my second life.

And when I sit below the sink,
I really can’t but help to think,
Of flavors that I hold inside,
Out from the meat and tossed aside.

Instead of going down the drain,
On into me the grease does strain.
Tucked inside and stored away,
Maybe reused another day.

It’s wishful thinking, I confess,
For no one gets what I possess.
These flavors used to cook the food,
Will often never be reused.

And so one day, it will begin,
With me inside a garbage bin.
Until that day, I am at peace,
To do my job to hold the grease.

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