19 Sunday Mar 2023
Posted in Uncategorized
First published in The Bluebird Word
Like a federation of flowers
with slick, shiny faces,
they sparkle in the light from above.
And dance with tiny ripples
that lap up on the shore by my toes.
Are those conspiratorial smirks I see?….
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18 Saturday Mar 2023
Posted in Publications
24 Friday Feb 2023
Posted in Uncategorized
Like sly evening shadows that slip toward the maw of dusk, my days have begun to fade in time. Pushing, struggling, shuffling, I stir knowing all will soon erode toward the eternal dust to come....
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Have you seen the iridescent breast of a hummingbird in reflections of morning light? Have you heard the echoes of a mockingbird announcing his new perch in a stalwart oak? Perhaps you have gazed on anxious moonbeams a-sparkle over light-hearted, chattering brooks....
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River of my dreams flowing passively by, yet immersed in unbridled joy watching moonbeams in rhythm with ripples below....
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01 Wednesday Feb 2023
Posted in Uncategorized
First published in Imspired.
A shimmering light flanks a storm of guests aflush in the widened doorway. Tired shoes flagged by time and pale garb draped over supple girths await the coming advance toward treasures and passing fancies of hidden deceit.... Read the rest here.
26 Thursday Jan 2023
Posted in Poems
Tags
Parked on a bench near the corner,
she sat with one hand clutching a purse,
the other one rocking a stroller.
In the gentle mist, I came to a stop
and eased out of the car. With an umbrella,
I moved to her side as a downpour ensued.
.
With her narrowed eyes locked onto mine,
she said, “It took you long enough to get here.”
“Ma’am?” I said. “Aren’t you from the studio?”
she said. “Um, no, I just stopped to offer
you cover from the rain,” I said.
Well… Cecil is taking his sweet time, you know.”
.
“Are you sure you’re not from the studio?”
“I’m sure.” It was becoming harder
to hear her voice in the thumping rain.
I looked down the street at a red and
white awning. “Perhaps I could offer
you some lunch.” “I could eat,” she said.
.
“And we can get your baby out of the rain.”
She laughed and looked under the sunshade
of the baby carriage. “You hear that, Marcus?
You’re a baby.” She cackled as I peered
into the carriage and saw a small dog standing,
his tail in vigorous motion.
.
At the door of the fast-food eatery,
she parked the buggy by the door
and pulled a tarp up over the sunshade
to prevent the rain from reaching the dog.
“You behave, Marcus. I’ll be back
with something good for you,” she said.
.
As we stepped into the restaurant,
she paused and looked up at me.
“You recognize me?” she said. I gazed
at the short, plump gray-haired woman,
her tattered sweater held together with safety pins.
“Um, no, I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure,” I said.
.
“I’m Miriam, Miriam McKinney. I was in Cleo’s entourage
in the movie Cleopatra. That was my debut film. Cecil said
my work was splendid and he’d call when he needed me next.
Damn him, he’s taking his sweet time. I’m a star. My time is coming
though, I know it is,” she said. She was looking at a compact mirror
and wiping away heavy eyebrow liner that had run in the rain.
.
We moved toward the counter where an associate
in a paper cadet hat stood beaming at us. “May I
help you?” he said with a big toothy grin. “What
will you have, Miriam?” I asked. She never broke
eye contact with the young man at the counter. She barked,
“Gimme a cheeseburger, animal style and a side of fries.”
.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, “and you, sir?” he said,
his eyes widening. I gazed up at the wall menu.
This was a new experience for me, but before I
could say anything, Miriam barked, “Give him a
Double-Double with fries and give us two pink lemonades,”
she said as she shuffled away toward a table.
.
My billfold in hand, I asked, “What do I owe you?”
The associate, his smile unwavering, said, “The guest
ahead of you has paid for your order.” I looked around.
No one was there. Though puzzled, I said, “Thank you,
thank you very much.” “A name for the order, sir?”
he said. Miriam shouted across the room, “Cleo.”
.
When I arrived at the table, she pulled
a faded newspaper from her purse, and
unfolded it. Her finger moved
to a photo on a page. “That’s me to the right
of Cleopatra. Claudette got it right. Liz overplayed
the part.” She shook her head. “What a disaster.”
.
With almost no delay, I heard the paper hat associate
shout, “Cleo.” I stepped up to the counter and took
the sack and two drinks. When I returned to the table,
Miriam had replaced the newspaper in her purse
and was looking at her fingernails. I sat down and
handed the sack to her so she could retrieve her sandwich.
.
She stood, grabbed the sack and one of the drinks and looked
down at me. “Are you sure you aren’t with the studio?”
“I’m sure,” I said. “Well, I thank you and Marcus thanks you,”
she said. She quickly turned and was gone. Flummoxed,
I peered down at the red palm motif on the cup
and drummed my fingers in rhythm with the rain.
.
“IN-N-OUT” is one of fifty-three poems in Fred’s new
book “MY LA, Poems by Fred Miller,” available on
15 Sunday Jan 2023
20 Tuesday Dec 2022
Posted in Uncategorized
First published in Winamop
Our reliable mantel clock ticks away through the early morning hours,
reminding me I am alone. A week ago, the village priest, in solemn
tones, presided over your last rites as we said our final goodbyes.
The womenfolk of the village have come and gone with carefully
chosen words, cakes, and casseroles. All is still except for Sam,
his tail in motion as I scratch his floppy ears….
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29 Saturday Oct 2022
Posted in Uncategorized
First published in Littoral Press UK.
Arriving home, I saw her eager little eyes
feasting on the Sesame Street fare of the day
with three small fingers placed between her lips.
Pausing to watch her, I recalled those rosy little
cheeks cuddled in the crook of her mother’s
arm, her long eyelashes at rest, her mouth agape.
One evening, I skipped a sentence in a bedtime story
only to feel her chubby hands against my cheeks
and heard a mighty protest: “No,” she said with
authority. I returned to the first page and began anew.
Once satisfied, she allowed me to cover her with a blanket. Her night
light glowing, I gazed on reflections of quarter moons, fairies, and stars
against a pale pink wall. And turned to her and whispered, “I love you,
Susan.” She blinked and replied “I know” before drifting off into dreamland.
29 Saturday Oct 2022
Posted in Uncategorized
First published in Littoral Press UK.
A morning Wall Street Journal covers
a shadow that has entered my space.
“A poem for some change?” he says.
My newspaper slowly descends at
this interruption. I gaze at his face, a
map rutted with country roads and lanes,
the whites of his eyes laced
with latitudes and longitudes
leading down paths to nowhere.
He pauses to search my mute countenance,
his look filled with suspicion and despair.
“A poem for some change?” he says again.
My paper now folded, I rise and lead him
to the counter and offer him breakfast.
He nods. “Coffee?” “That would be nice,” he says.
I signal the counterman, slide my credit card
into the slot and wait. Then I return to my seat,
leaving this sojourner studying me as I move away.
Soon I realize someone is again in my presence.
I glance over my paper at this would-be poet and wait.
He takes a breath and chimes in:
“The lightning bug is very brilliant,
he hasn’t any mind.
He goes stumbling through his existence
with his headlight on behind.”
A broken grin emerges across his face.
Through a tear in his tattered shirt, I spot
needle tracks, hallmarks of an endless hell.
My eyes lock onto a vision of fading hope. He nods and
shuffles away, his monk’s pate covering an abyss that
at one time must have housed insights and grand visions.
My ability to concentrate on financial updates shot,
I fold the paper and rise to leave. Passing him across the room,
I hear his simple plea recited again, “A poem for some change?”
11 Sunday Sep 2022
Posted in Uncategorized
First published in Fine Lines.
Wild sea fairies astir in sparkling amber nods
abide in soft rhythms with secreted zephyrs
fashioned by lively spirits that zip around and
gift alluring pleasures for eager eyes to see.
Dawning rains cloak purple haze in sparkling bonnets
while awaiting new glories of the morning light
to come as ramparts of desert bluebells fill the
hills with reflections of the vast expanse above.
Happy are those who are favored to stroll among
the baby blue eyes, lupine, and canyon flowers,
brushstrokes of assurance that traces of nature’s
pursuits teem across the scope of all creation.
Fred Miller 