logo
FacebookGoogleYouTubeRSS
FacebookGoogleYouTubeRSS
  • 3 Cranes Fine Art Gallery
  • Location
  • Contact Us

Tag Archives: A. Leon Miler

August 12, 2018
Leave a comment
alienmiler
Blogs and Musings
A. Leon Miler, villanelle

Villanelle

August 12, 2018 Blogs and Musings Leave a comment

I wrote this villanelle some time ago, and just revised it.  

(poem and graphic by A. Leon Miler)

To sing the song once it’s begun

Will find its way through out the day

Returns to start when all is done,

 

Or rainy days without the sun

Or greening leaves that spring through gray

To sing the song once it’s begun,

 

Or daffodils that bloom, they run

In haste, the days of March don’t stay,

Returns to start when all is done,

 

As summer days begin in sun

Sublime, involves the rest to play,

To sing the song once it’s begun,

 

The winds, they blow around, and gone;

Around and round, they don’t delay,

Returns to start when all is done.

 

Flower chains and a red ribbon

For you, my girls, to be so gay,

To sing the song once it’s begun

Returns to start when all is done.

Leave a comment
August 12, 2018
Leave a comment
alienmiler
Blogs and Musings
A. Leon Miler, Leon Miler, new mexico, socorro

A Song for Socorro

August 12, 2018 Blogs and Musings Leave a comment

A Song for Socorro

May good things come to you
Like rain on the mountain 
Where the streams overflow.

May good things come to you 
Like a song in the night 
When there’s dancing to be done, 
The plaza’s warm and love’s the light,

May good things come to you.

Come away with me my love,
The thunder’s quit rolling, 
The lightning’s on distant hills, 
The breeze blows cool in the valley 
Where the cottonwoods grow 
Beneath the stars spread like a cloud 
On a storm washed night.

Come away with me my love 
To the hills beyond where wild horses go, 
This night’s for freedom,
The day’s for toil,
We can leave foot prints in plowed Fields, 
No one will see, 
Save night hawks and owls.

In the hour of earnestness
Some strive for our souls,
Some for our votes.
Do the earnest ever laugh
For the pleasure of laughing?
Must every joke carry a knife
Hidden to hurt?
Can love songs ever be sung
Just for love?
Can dancing ever be done
Just for joy?

Awake, your time has come.
They’re singing on the plaza,
The band has struck the chord,
The dancing has begun.

May good things come to you 
Like a song in the night 
While there’s dancing yet to be done, 
The plaza’s warm and love’s the light;-

May good things come to you.

May He who made the morning star to shine 
And the evening star to set 
Bless you with a heart full of peace. 
May He who hung Pleiades with care 
Bless your children with warmth
When the winter brings chill.
May He who makes the sun to rise
Make your future clear
As the morning’s first light,
May you find delight in each breaking day.
May good things come to you.

Leave a comment
August 12, 2018
Leave a comment
alienmiler
Blogs and Musings
A. Leon Miler, blackbirds, crows, freedom, Leon Miler, ravens

Freedom is a Blackbird

August 12, 2018 Blogs and Musings Leave a comment

raven2

Freedom is a blackbird

living on the road,

eats what he eats for free,

and the rest he steals.

Freedom is a blackbird,

takes at any moment

only what can be taken,

and does not pursue the rest.

Passive in the face of what

cannot be won,

he sheds no tears for me

engaged in active futility.

What does freedom bring for gifts?

Freedom is perched up high

looking to take.

Freedom shall give nothing

but a wasted & wanton feather.

When freedom flies away

and I remain on the road,

and what remains

washes away in a winter rain

leaving me stranded

like yesterday’s news in a thornbush,

when freedom flies away

what will I say?

Is Freedom a bandit?

blackbirds

Leave a comment
August 11, 2018
Leave a comment
alienmiler
Blogs and Musings
A. Leon Miler, harmony, Leon Miler, reason, shakespeare

We were young and not to be denied….

August 11, 2018 Blogs and Musings Leave a comment

I met Reason once, when I was young. The night was a fine night, and I think I had a bit too much adult beverage, because I was feeling fanciful. We discussed things well into the early hours of the morning when I offered Reason a kiss. She told me to get lost, and we really haven’t discussed anything much since. Occasionally we cross paths in the grocery store, but that’s about it. As for rationality, if you divide 880 by 440 you get perfect harmony, but since art is not art if it’s perfect in every part, the 4th comes out to 1.3348 rather than a neat 1.333…, the 5th comes out to 1.4983 rather than a neat 1.5, and this is not even considering the minor 6th .

Shakespeare sang the blues, or, at least his sonnets do:

     Shakespeare Sang the Blues

Shakespeare Sang the Blues

(A) That (D) time of (A) year thou (D) mayst in me be- (A) hold

(E) When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

(D)Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

(A) Bare ruined choirs, where (E) late the sweet birds (A) sang.

All the wretched roaches of the choir stood to sing, rank on rank, down the sidewalk they came!  Like rosy cheeked choirboys, their diminutive voices ring harmoniously into the cooling night time air:

“That time of year”, they sang,

“thou mayest in me behold……”

And the leaves were falling, racing before the wind, sometimes flying, but in the end falling down to the sidewalk below.

A Night at Woodrat’s Cactus Inn:

Woodrat's Cactus Inn

Woodrat’s Cactus Inn

Bratney McDougal came dressed for the ball

His whiskers neatly combed

With top hat, white gloves and all.

Gayly he asked with whom he should dance,

Ah, such a night, with a promise of romance

Brittney Bryce was quite demure,- quiet and shy,

She stood in the corner with cookies and drinks nearby.

Love seemed certain as the setting sun

Waiting for the waltzes, the dancing’s begun.

The shrew snuck out the backdoor,

The skink was nervous to the core,

Dancing each step according to Hoyle,

Leading the lady as though she were royal,

Bratney McDougal swept Brittney Bryce

Clean off her feet three times and thrice

Singing:

Robin, robin, roses and run,

Round about and do it again,

Through the grass and under the sun,

Robin, robin, ribbon and rain,

You call the dance, we’ll play it through,

Too fast, too slow, you can’t complain,

Robin, robin, rushes and rue,

Call me your love, our love is true!

The night would have ended perfectly if a panicked quail hadn’t upset the drinks in her quite unsettled emotional state as she fled the Cactus Inn in unsettled haste, but all told, it was still a most excellent ball.

Leave a comment
August 11, 2018
Leave a comment
alienmiler
Blogs and Musings
A. Leon Miler, battle of maldon, blackness, box of blackness, ravens, watercolors

Box of Blackness

August 11, 2018 Blogs and Musings Leave a comment

Box of Blackness

(text and graphics by A. Leon Miler)

The rain washed away the last of the sidewalk chalk mural from the blacktop surface as the water pooled up into a parking lot playa. Tomorrow, the pool will be filled with tree frog tadpoles. If they are lucky, the pool will be refreshed by another rain so they can mature into yet another generation of tree frogs. Meanwhile, the mural just vanished, washed down the street with all its complexities of line and shade, with all its nuances gone. I don’t know that I’d call it a masterpiece, and I doubt that I’ll weep for its loss. Nevertheless, that one face had a bit of “the Girl With the Pearl Earring” to it, and the horses running wild had their swirling charm. But the rains came on time and now it is all a memory.

You always stood like that, in the doorway, with your hands in your back pockets. I was never quite sure whether you were smiling or smirking, and I guess it really doesn’t matter. You’re just a memory, a black shadow caught up in the box. And I would not have brought the box up either if you hadn’t made such a deal of it. I was buying a birthday present for someone at the bookstore, the sales clerk asked if I needed help, and, for no reason, I asked if he had a box of blackness. It was a joke, for crying out loud, but he reached down below the counter and pulled a box out, said it was the only one he’d ever seen, that no one had ever shown any interest in it before, and I could have it for a good price.

I remember how you opened the box. You looked in with half interest, set it aside and reached for your beer. And, as you sat, the shadows began to stir, shadows layered deeper than you can comprehend, shadows side by side with no seeming context; an ancient chieftain crying out over an apparent betrayal, a garbage collector reaching the end of his route, faceless people troubling the shadows, all in a box of blackness; shadows vague and gossamer, ancient memories, happy times, bad times, looking for paradise times, always seeking; restless shadows like the breeze pushed ripples on the water over hidden currents, over concealed depths.

It did no good to reach into the box to retrieve a fleeting image. All that was to be had in doing so was blackness without substance. You had to wait. Be still. With patience, the shadows would resolve themselves in fleeting, spectral moments; and, maybe inside your heart you could feel laughter or tears.

There, in my hands, were countless dreams, visions, aspirations. They were shadows, once attained, only to be blown away like words shouted into the wind, yet somehow captured,- a box of blackness.

When we were young, you drew hopscotch boxes on the sidewalk, blue chalk, white chalk, red chalk, and you sang: “Three six nine, the goose drink wine / The monkey chewed tobacco on the street car line / The line broke, the monkey got choked / And they all went to heaven in a little row boat….” Then we grew older and drew wild horses and other images in blacktop places and freeway underpasses, but even the colors have turned dark and dirty, blown by hot dry winds into a box of blackness.

Was not Birhtnoth the Earl of Essex when he stood on Blackwater’s shore near to Maldon and called challenge to the enemy? The tide turned, and all turned to blackness as I’ve been told. And so I’m left here with this box of blackness and nowhere to go.

I thought I saw you from the corner of my vision, but when I turned, it was only a fleeting shadow seeking shelter in a box of blackness.

I look back in vain for a glimpse of spring, the smell of dampness in the woods across the road, but its only a fleeing memory seeking shelter in a box of blackness.

The hills beyond the Rio Grande always catch the last light day has to throw its way, showing pinks and purples in the horizontal layers of sedimentary rock, as they have for time out of mind. Not much really happens over there, just a home for owls, coyotes, and wild horses. They aren’t imposing hills, just a slight uplift in the Rio Grande rift, called the Quebradas rather than a name suggesting altitude. We wandered through the bosque on the river’s bank, with the Quebradas a band of black beyond the other shore. We wandered hand in hand into the small hours of the morning, but that too, is just raindrops on the midnight water flowing into a box of blackness.

Tonight you can see the lights on the interstate. The big dipper is low in the north. The moon is awfully bright with mooncast shadows strewn across the desert. Toss cat’s moon in the mix, he’s just playing with me, paw poised to strike, and I’m here thoughtless and worn, holding tight this box of blackness.

Leave a comment

Your Shopping Cart

Your cart is empty

Pages

  • A. Leon Miler Bio.
  • Abstractions
  • Contact Us
  • Location
  • Sandhill Crane Page
  • A. Leon Miler’s Water Color Gallery
  • A. Leon Miler’s Oil and Acrylic Paintings
  • A. Leon Miler’s Pen and Ink Gallery
  • A. Leon Miler’s Colored and Graphite Pencil Drawings
  • A. Leon Miler’s Cartoons and Fun Stuff
  • A. Leon Miler’s Frogs
  • 3 Cranes Fine Art Gallery
    • Special

Recent Posts

  • A Rio Grande Fish Story (photos, art, and text by A. Leon Miler)
  • A Swallow’s Song:
  • There’s Restlessness In the Breeze…. (graphics and text by A. Leon Miler)
  • Platypus and Lady (graphics and text by A. Leon Miler)
  • Villanelle
  • A Song for Socorro
  • Freedom is a Blackbird
  • The Day that Billy Died
  • All for a Dream
  • We were young and not to be denied….
  • The Trestle
  • Box of Blackness
© My Website