Friday, February 26, 2010

Rock Lobster

Rock Lobster

She came to work on Halloween
dressed as a giant red lobster,
with claws and everything.
She just sauntered in, and sat in her swivel chair,
and began to log into her computer,
like it was a perfectly normal thing to do.

Her antennae scraped against the door jams,
She ate melted butter and herbs for lunch,
with a few tablespoons of bread crumbs.

They said she looked delicious after that.
So she kept her claws up,
and watched for the bibs and the shell crackers.

What a lovely crustacean was she.
It was a shame,
when that evening she walked out in all her
red, shelled, sea faring glory,
and came back the next day,
just a girl.

~Jenny Miller

Thursday, February 25, 2010

God Is In The Audience

It must be so amusing to watch us,
like children playing make believe,
the stories so grandiose and untrue,
but very entertaining.
And endearing, we are sure.
As long as we as actors
at some point walk off the stage,
and not take ourselves too seriously.
It evokes love, like watching an
elementary pageant,
of us bumping into one another,
playing all sorts of characters.
Thank you for this chance.
And thank you for watching,
with a smile on your face.
~Jenny Miller

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Ishtar, Astarte and The Aquarian Age

I think over the last few years she has driven me crazy,
I mean, slight insanity.
With her "blinding light".
And path of "seeking".
Hungry mouths are constantly at her door,
seeking a morsel,
to satisfy their belly’s
if only for a meal.
Her ancient origins must have made the pharaohs mad,
did she drive them to mummification?
Her riddles, her rhymes,
her mysteries beyond all time.
They come to her door, seeking answers,
asking me, asking them,
we really do not have them,
but they keep knocking, knocking, knocking.
At the gas station the Hindu woman smelled wonderful,
as she handed me the pack of cigarettes,
the incense wafted through the air,
I said good morning to God as I drove away,
and knew that the Hindus love him too,
but I think incense of the heart is best.

~Jenny Miller

Thursday, February 11, 2010

The Ghost of Noel Way

It was a small apartment, and old, older than it seemed.
Brown shag carpeting lined the floors, dirty from years of unknown tenants and guests.
Guests who slept on couches.
The kitchen sink stopped working long ago and needed to be filled with the drip of water
from the faucet to do dishes that pilled up on the lime green counter tiles.
The stove stood alone and was layered with the grease of occasional cooked dinners and haphazard lunches, and late night snacks creatively prepared after visits to bars.
Cookie sheets sat with partially eaten spagettio nachos made on baked pita bread.
The bathroom, with its bright window smelled of mildew from the many early morning summer showers left to rot in the intrusive sun.
In the afternoon it served as a sauna for weary workers returning home.
This is where the ghost would like to spend his time.
He frequently traveled from the hall between the bathroom and the bedroom.
On dark nights, especially lonely weekends in the apartment with only one or no occupant, he liked to come out for a visit, to make his presence known.
He sat on the edge of the bed, or rattled the pipes, or shadowed across the hall making weary souls reluctant to turn in for the night.
He passed the days in invisible silence, with a promise to return each evening, until being banished out of his earthbound home.
But he was called back, gratefully.
He infiltrated the plumbing and made a terrible racket which could be heard from the laundry room below.
They left one day, left him alone and the apartment empty with only a few gratuitous piles of trash and such on floors.
He sifted through them to find a clue, to pass the time.
Then finally one day the workers came, and put in new floors,
painted his walls, and prepared the space for the new guests.
He did not like them, they did not pay any mind or attention to him as the last tenants did.
They did not care for his late night roamings and hauntings and such.
There were no fights or disagreements to keep him occupied or curious.
So one night, amongst the many trees that surrounded the small duplex like a rain forest,
he went up on the roof and stomped up and down, he stomped so hard, he caved in the bedroom ceiling, right onto the husband and wife.
She had to be rushed to the hospital.
And there he sat, lonely once more as the wind blew against the plastic tarp,
and the emptiness bored him to death.

~Jenny Miller

Wednesday, February 10, 2010


Magic words
milk pouring out of noses
in a riot of humor
onto red cups and plates.
Brushes broken on back sides.
Endless worlds and stories created
by the water, and in the black widows den.
Edges of twin beds worn from sitting a while
and visiting,
or crying,
with hugs or laughter.
Dresser drawers
that held spontaneous explosions.
Green and blue stripped bedspreads,
and white rimmed shorts,
with tube socks pulled up to knees.
A hand on the shoulder,
a hand in 4 hands.
Wagons circled,
going their separate ways,
until they must circle again.
Children born,
and more children born,
stories that will be told,
of selfless love, and unbreakable bonds,
of helping hearts,
and DNA that bears the mark,
of the children who will never forget,
each other.

~Jenny Miller

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

The Perfumes of God

What’s out there in the blackness?
Can we pierce it, travel through it with our souls?
Are you there, and here?
Is there really a smell to humanity,
and spirit?
Can you really smell our essence,
our thoughts, good and bad?
Perfumes, or stench?
Do whole cities have a smell,
do whole planets, solar systems,
and universes, and who-knows-what-verses?
Do some of them stink up or perfume the whole place?
Can we travel there someday, even if we do not have a body?
Especially if we do not have a body?
Will we see all of the stars, and galaxies that are hidden
in the darkness?
Will we see YOU?
Do I smell?
~Jenny Miller

Friday, February 5, 2010

Sing Me Home

Sing me home,
sing me home,
growing again in the bones.
Give me a beacon of light,
I remember your humor
at everything,
even tragic,
and your love of simple things,
and your simple graceful ways,
of rolling with life,
on the golden sea of grass,
where the prairie goes on forever,
your gentleness,
your unselfishness,
your slow voice,
your comfort,
your animals,
the carrots, the straw, the birds
so tenderly cared for with broken wings,
and stumps for legs.
Surely there is a front row seat for you in heaven,
and if not, then there is no justice in this universe.
We should all be so lucky to be more like you my friend.

~~Jenny Miller

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

Made Up Stories As Told by a Frenchman

Ahh..she makes wonderful candied apples every Halloween,
dipped in all sorts of chocolates and caramels, candies and nuts.
She eats hers with a knife and fork, that’s the only way to do it.
But everyone else, especially the children just dive in.
They wait all year for them.

But then there are the other holidays, the petite gateaus with ganache for birthdays,
the homemade popcorn served steaming in paper cones on cold nights.
The cookies with fruit spreads, chocolate kisses and powdered sugar galore
at Christmas.
And the Easter egg cupcakes with their little nests of coconut and jelly beans and chocolate on top are to die for.

And then, then there are the rich cheese fondues she prepares,
to accompany sparkling glasses of red wines, with crusty warm
fresh baked breads. Oh my fromage.

And you should see the wreaths she weaves from magic every year,
of autumn leaves collected on long walks in the forest,
dried to perfection and assembled effortlessly to grapevine,
and the red berries and sparkles and pine cones in the winter.
Given away each year after they have graced the doorway, living room,
and kitchen.

Her art is a monifique swirl of unknown colors and glitters and figures
that whisper subtly to you, you have to find them amongst the paint,
and layers of collage. She cannot hang onto them, they are all whisked away to galleries,
all over the world. She seems sad to let them go.

Of course she does this all with a profound sense of peace, and in beautiful
high heels. She seems to know something we do not.
It is a secret, or perhaps we are all living the secret,
and she the reality.

~~Jenny Miller

Monday, February 1, 2010

My Inner Critic is Gay and wears plaid pants

"So you missed the boat.." he says.
What boat?
"Exactly," he says.
Where was it going anyways?
"You know," he says, "it was going THERE."
Well where the hell is there?
"You know–THERE," he says.
Well how do I know that I ever wanted to go THERE in the first place?
"Cause EVERYONE wants to go THERE, EVERYONE knows THAT," he said as he crossed one leg over the other in his tailored plaid pants.
His cheap cologne wafted my way, it smelled great.

Ok, so if I were to have gotten THERE, what would I be doing anyways?
"What everyone else THERE would be doing, duugh lady, your not a sharp one are you?"
Well would it have been fun, would things be different now?
"Hmmm, I want to say everyone would think so, but I’m not a time traveler."
Me neither.
"I guess we’ll never find out then, but I’ve done my job here, you still missed the boat."
Thanks, thanks a lot.

~Jenny Miller