Head Space
I still know my childhood best friend's
telephone number even though
I'll never dial it again.
I've taught certain poems so many times
I can recite them on demand, yet
some claim that has no practical application.
Most find my ability to name the American
presidents by years in office amusing
before urging me to remember “something important”
(like last night's winning Powerball numbers?).
I embrace my savant-esque ability to rattle off
every Bob Dylan album and the songs featured
on them. I prefer not to cram my head
with empty crap on the radio and celebrity
gossip, thank you very much.
Want something proofread, I'm the resident
grammarian, but if it's scores to last night's
game, I suggest turning on ESPN.
I've actually read the whole Constitution,
not cherry-picked excerpts. Ditto
the Declaration of Independence,
the United Nations' Declaration of Human Rights,
the Bible, the Koran, the Bhagavad Gita.
Although not identifying as Buddhist
anymore, I still adhere to the Noble Truths
while traveling the Eightfold Path.
Now that you know where I'm coming from
I trust you'll understand when I forget
where I've left the car keys or what
you needed me to pick up from the grocery
store on my way home. There's only
so much RAM to go around.
The Bottom of My Heart
Please trust only what comes
from the bottom of my heart.
Believe me, not even I listen
to the other parts.
The top, for example,
is known for cupidity,
so it's prone to utter
just about anything.
The middle is nice
but fickle;
it has a hard time
accepting the middle.
The sides are always
picking fights like fraternal
twins at dinner.
One's conservative,
the other liberal.
This leaves the bottom,
dark and deep.
You'll have no problems
falling asleep
knowing what it says
is what it believes,
and when wounded,
actually bleeds.
So don't pack your bags
until you hear all sides.
Then if you choose to leave, fine.
Real gods require blood
(golden shovel form based on an excerpt from Their Eyes Were Watching God by Zora Neale Hurston)
Please don't give me it all. Half
is enough for me. Reserve the rest for the gods,
for that is where the worshippers are.
Here are only the idle worshipped
who don't understand the mess they're in.
Sitting around with old wine
in new bottles, a buffet, and
a bouquet of flowers
doesn't get us any closer to real
spiritual fulfillment. The gods
I need, what I really require,
are unattainable without blood.
Past Lives
--for Lydia
Your eyes remind me of a goddess I used to worship
eons ago, when my family paid the Pharaoh
for permission to pray.
Your hair takes me back to a mountain in Outer Mongolia,
where in another life I used to weave secret silk
for the emperor’s mistress.
Perhaps we were the first Romeo and Juliet,
star-crossed, ill-timed, traversing history
for the most recent juncture to inevitably unite us.
Til the Cows Come Home
They're apparently the demarcation line,
the 38th parallel, the proverbial point
of no return. I'm not sure what they'll
bring us (except some milk and maybe anthrax),
or what's supposed to be different once they've arrived.
All I know is, since you told me
you'd love me until then,
I can't stop watching the horizon,
listening for lowing.
Selfie Face
This is apparently how we smile now;
at least that’s what posterity might assume
after we’ve passed on to it our clouds
and timelines. Gone are the albums
full of cheezy grins, occasional dazzlers
captured in the perfect light, peace signs
behind unassuming relatives’ heads.
We’ve all become ducks now, jutting
out pursed lips as if outside the frames
above us hang guillotines of mistletoe
threatening kisses that never come.
***
Ted Millar teaches English at Mahopac High School. His work has appeared in Little Somethings Press, Grand Little Things, Words and Whispers, Fleas on the Dog, Better Than Starbucks, Straight Forward Poetry, Reflecting Pool: Poets and the Creative Process (Codhill Press, 2018), Crossways, Caesura, Circle Show, The Broke Bohemian, The Voices Project, Third Wednesday, Tiny Poetry: Macropoetics, Scintilla, GFT Press, Inklette, The Grief Diaries, Cactus Heart, Aji, Wordpool Press, The Artistic Muse, Chronogram, Brickplight and Inkwell. He was among 65 poets to have work accepted for the 2018 Arts Mid-Hudson exhibit Artists Respond to Poetry.
In addition to writing poetry, he is also a frequent contributor to Liberal America, Liberal Nation Rising, OpEd News, and Medium.
He lives in the heart of apple and wine country in New York’s Hudson Valley with his wife and two children.
