Poems from the Past

Miter Man


What woe we feel.

Our Heirophant is dead.

Gone to Heaven--

We're sure, as we carry him

Down to the cellar. The Crypt.

Our Expositor, who so wisely

Told the youth of the world, (the one that goes 'round the Sun)

Told to those afraid of AIDS and billions of babies,

No condoms, please.

Or you'll burn in Hell.

No homosexual love, please.

Or... the flames.

How we mourn. Millions of us.

Rome is a sea of tears filled with wails

(echoing the wails of those the priests abused).

On every digital screen we see him,

Lying stiff on a platform. All dressed up.

Who, now, will tell our women to cleave to men?

Who will offer us compassion,

As we suffer the Cross like Jesus --

The Cross of Christian existence in a sad, secular, warring world?

Goodbye, Daddy Pope.

Rest assured,

No one can fill your empty Hat.



--Jack Miller on the funeral day of John Paul II



Poem written to a friend murdered in 1986:

22 Years On

This spring the azaleas are pink cotton
The red-tips are making a come-back
The feral cat keeps squirrels choking
In branches of dangling oak pollen.

Your bones lie still in the dirt of Tulsa
You would love this new Sarah Brightman
Song, I muse. How would we be
Now that New Age is old?

Don't stop thinking about tomorrow
Has become Live one day at a time.
War we thought gone thirty-four years ago
Is again: Mindless mayhem. Blood for oil.

Monarch butterflies flit just as ever
And the springtime birds are singing.

Jack Miller (spring, 2008)


Transition

Shall we move as smoothly as fingers, gliding in scented oil,
Down each others spine, from touch to words?
What idea shall we share, what repast
Eat, what warm stimulant sip, what game of words
Play, unless the letters we choose spell out
The intimacy of the substance spilled upon each other?
Our words cannot come only from the language of thought;
They must arise from the inmost tissue of desire, surrender.

When we look with peace upon each others face,
When our eyes enjoy the familiar glance,
we see the closed lids of our kiss--unspoken words given
Tongue to tongue. Our open eyes, in empathy, see still
The tension, strain, release and outpouring of our flesh.
We hear the words from our lips when we feel
Their touch and taste.

When we do sit side by side, at last, two old bodies
Porched in rocking chairs, our embraces, our nights
Clasped together from lust to childhood sleep,
Will rest upon us like the healing hands of Jesus
On foolish brows. Like our own hands in the morning shower
Cleansing away from each others flesh
The soil of the soul's solitude.

(For Dar, 1991) Jack Miller