the old man’s opus And Other Poems

By Terry Jude Miller

the old man’s opus

darkness at my window
 so frequent the visit
its presence almost disregarded

the perfect light by which
  to set pencil to the endpoint
of infinity—everything moves on

                                                  from here

I place the slippered foot upon that path
  only after looking back—only after 
turning into a pillar of salt—blown away
  grain by grain—like something forgotten

here is that song—that catalog of seasons
  played through like Vivaldi’s 
at times a flittering butterfly
  at time flies upon a corpse

all of it traveling somewhere
  from its own space of creation
like infant gasses going nova
  like a blown dandelion

its keepsake staccato is a bell
  buried in snow—the voices 
of the dead find volume
  grow from the mud of grief

lost loves—many the kindle
 that refused to become flame
their faces on my pillow
 smile then fade into linen

friends swept away by distance
  or event—the music we made
like a broken umbrella—a comedy
  of tears that protects me from nothing

my children—the coda that returns
 me to myself—that renews
what was nearly discarded 
 who are writing songs
of their own

and you—my love—adagio 
  for strings—sad violin
of many voices—you have
  never left my side

stand by me now at this dot
  on the plane of plenty
more to come—see that
  flickering in the distance

let’s go see 
  what it is

I am this line

you are that one
where we cross
changes each of us
forever—stubborn
ink becomes filigree
or dotted or parsed
into repeating patterns
in new directions

pity the parallels
those who isolate
their journey—never
to taste the path
of another out of fear
of being changed

look at what you’ve 
done to me—my linear
life now angelic arcs
and French curves
bending into caressing cardioid
I’m no longer one horizon
—but many

Reprieve

after Dilruba Ahmed

I forgive you for coming to poetry
so late in life—you really should
have known better—but at least
you’ve made it to the temple.

I forgive you for not finding
the peace that came in the form
of a white dove on the patio—a 
song sung until sunset—at least
you fed him sunflower seeds.

I forgive you for not forgiving yourself.
You stumbled drunk through grief—blinded 
by emptiness, until you opened like a moonflower
as you finally understood darkness.

I forgive you for considering taking
your life—recognizing that your life
is not yours to take—and that there
is less detriment in sharing pain
than in spilling blood.

I forgive you for all this—I should have 
done so long ago. 

Terry Jude Miller is a Pushcart Prize-nominated poet from Houston. He received the 2018 Catherine Case Lubbe Manuscript Prize for his book, The Drawn Cat’s Dream. His work has been published in the Southern Poetry Anthology, The Lily Poetry Review, The Comstock Review, and The Oakland Review and in scores of other publications. He serves as 1^st Vice Chancellor for the National Federation of State Poetry Societies.