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Jeff Miller Poem
Oh, reckless joy! The man sits barefoot in the long fire of his life. The man, who at times has been
shaken loose with God's embracing silence. He has howled at wisdom, intoxicated on Grace's red wine.
For whom but Divine could ever hang Stars, on nothing but thinnest of fishing line?
He shakes, pulls on a jug of fermentation; he has found no salvation.
An Angel nearby starts to cry.
Thinks, "Man can love a jug more than I.
The Angel sighed, and spoke, "I am right here"
Copyright © jeff Miller | Year Posted 2026
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Details |
Jeff Miller Poem
The coffee spills- black rivers on the floor- and I, barefoot, just laugh. The morning yawns, its breath
still thick with yesterday's small wars. But here's the joke: the sun keeps climbing on, unfazed by burnt
toast, unpaid bills, my socks that vanished in the wash. The cat just stares, unimpressed by my chaos.
Tick-tick-tock, the clock mocks my rush. Yet - somehow - the air is sweet like stolen sugar.
Gratitude is sly.
Copyright © jeff Miller | Year Posted 2026
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