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Delilah Miller

Sky-Minded

Blue sky,
blue sky.

Looking at you, wishing the day by.

Blue sky,
purple sky.

Storm coming in, here it is, there's the eye.

Blue sky,
grey sky.

The earth is wailing, the thunder yells, and the clouds cry.

Blue sky,
grey sky,
black sky.

Tore away at the moon, swallowed stars, listened to the sun die.

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Chicago Streets

So good to be home
and out of the heat.
All those excess people reminded I'm alone
as I explored the busy Chicago streets.

So good to be mild
and not full of heat.
All those old buildings reminded I'm only a child
as I explored the ancient Chicago streets.

So good to be recognized
and not sweating in the heat.
All those dollars spent reminded me of the love I'm still denied.
as I explored the poor Chicago streets.

So good to be back from running away
and back from the heavy, humid heat.
All of the luggage and vacations reminded me problems come to stay.
as I left, for a long time, those Chicago streets.

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Those Ineluctable Sticky Spots

'Sucking too hard on your lollipop, oh, love's gonna get you down.' Mika

All that's left are feelings like sticky traces
lingering in the empty candy pot.
Gone are dreams of a gingerbread home someplace
filled and trimmed with with every sweet life has in stock.
Gone are your ooey-gooey whispers of affection
that dripped from your lips enough to make your teeth rot.
My sweetest loving couldn't feed your growing appetite,
and you ate it all up like I was your candy shop.
Soon all my sugar had no rush,
only the sickness of eating candy enough to make you pop.
Now, there's only a hollow in my chest,
lined with those ineluctable sticky spots
gathering dust
and teardrops.

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Erin's Idea of Me

If you read this, and find it's not my usual style, you're correct. This is a poem my best friend wrote about me and I liked the odd quirks and pretty imagery she used. Of course, I'm biased. Anyway, I played with her lines and broke them up to give them a different feel. Let me know what you think and I'll let her know!


How can I tell you and make you
believe that the curve of your
hip and the plateau of your
backside is no less than
those Botticelli transcribed?

How can I tell you and make
you believe that that
slightly arched eyebrow
and ever pondering eye
trying to find meaning
in a hopeless epic is no
less than beautiful?

How can I tell you and make
you believe the fact that
your laugh, at once

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Ant Farm life won't make you happy

Over the short years,
we've fired comments at each other
that were like deadly darts
in the skin of some clever animal,
long-ago immune, only faking tears
And
I will
be a
slightly evolved animal
until my dying day.

At least, it was so
until he threw an untainted spear into my ribs!
'You're too honest.'
As if deception was his immunity!
As if lies should be at the dart's end!
So offensive was my naivete,
thinking the dishonestly truly a poison.

What years had really happened?

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My White Skirt

'Through our own recovered innocence we discern the innocence of our neighbors.'
-Henry David Thoreau


See this white skirt?
I won't worry
as long as this skirt
swishes at my smooth knees,
rippling and laughing,
like a bright and silent flirt.
You're going to cut your pinkie,
as always,
you're never alert.

I won't think of consequences, piling up,
dirtying me like mud caking.
Treat me like a princess,
or like a sheet set,
but my life is a big mess
and you don't have a big enough net

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