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Bess Rose Miller |
| Bess
Miller, whose book, From Kentucky Roots, was published in October
of 2003, continues to write poetry, as well as essays, and short
historical pieces, some about her ancestors. Bess is a genealogist,
and it is natural that some of her research finds it way into
her poems and other writings. She is also writing a book for
children--not a picture book--but a book aimed at 4th--6th graders.
She tells us it is almost finished and promises to stick with
it until there is a satisfactory ending. |
New
Works:
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Ghosts
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Rift
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Ghosts
The
peonies are blooming again this May
just as they have for forty springs or so.
Standing in the moonlight they give off a
Ghostly glow
as if from flowers of years and years ago. But in the morning, they're quite another
thing
to
see--
their white, many petaled heads
gleam and nod and welcome me
into my garden, and dark green shoulders
rustle in the soft May breeze.
And from the middle
of just one bush
spring forth a clump of buds, ready to bloom
and grow
these buds will not blossom white, I know,
but a deep, true rose for Grandmother told
me so.
She, who gave me the ancestors of these flowers,
claimed the rose ones will last and last
long after the white have shed petals of snow
on bright, green spring grass
and leave only skeletons of their
flowerings.
Now, the peonies spread their fragrance
On moon-lit air
in gentle, immortal remembrance of one
who gave these flowers to grow and multiply.
Though she is spent and gone,
I fancy I see her small, quick form
move in the moonlight, swaying in the breeze,
as if to greet me once again in peony blossoming
time
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Rift
You are moving away
gradually the crevice
opened at our feet--
you on one side--
I on the other.
At first
I did not
notice,
so slow the movement
so sly the pace
but as age crept on
you became the child--
I the mother.
I reach
out to you
but the breach is
too
wide--
you do not hear me
and my words drift
by your ears
misunderstood.
For we speak
a different language now--
you creep back into
childhood's patois
and fears of life
and love.
I cannot reach you
and the gap
widens--slowly
O so slowly--
and takes you
farther away
slight inch by inch
each day.
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