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Danny's Poetry

“Inspired by Kahlil Gibran, reading Danny Miller’s poetry has the feeling of mantra, a poetic, zen-like reminder or ode. It’s the type of poetry you want to remember in the back of your mind as to allow it to expose itself when the hammer falls and the need bares its teeth.” —Examiner.Com

For me, the very process of composing poems embodies letting go of control. I usually begin by jotting down evocative words and phrases, not knowing where they may eventually fit, or in fact whether I will even use them later. I usually then put the written sketches away, sometimes for several months. I later take a fresh look at them and make revisions. As this process continues, I am careful not to press for completion. I trust that the right words and structure will come when the time is right. The process is very much the same as planting a seed (of thought or intention), watering it from time to time, and letting it bloom in its own time and way.

I encourage you, too, to try writing some poems in this way. It is very liberating-and for me, spiritual.

I particularly enjoy composing poems for special occasions. The poem below entitled Lana’s Gifts was written in honor of my daughter Lana’s bat mitzvah in 2010. The poem entitled Judith’s Rose was written in honor of my mother’s 80th birthday, and the poem First Love was written in honor of Sigute’s and my marriage in 1996.

Vacuum of the unknown,
Uneven compass
From Entrance to Exit, and
Thought to action.

Abode to worry and anxiety,
Suffering abyss when our
Wants aren’t of this Moment,
And our fears can’t find their courage.

A translucent Shrine,
Sensed vaguely as
The Space Between
And seen only as

Yet in its Halls
Expectations cease,
Interests align,
Denial discovers Awareness,
Resistance shrinks to Acceptance, and
Our quest for Serenity eases as
Real Truth Reveals.

Not earlier loves,
Forged by expectant young hearts
And minds more lustful
Than wise.

Where changes came fast,
But few as one.
And where our child’s past
Fogged our marital screens.

Not loves where souls still searched,
And hearts still yearned.
Where vulnerable bruises
Went unheeded with loud cries.

No, I speak of a love more wise,
Between two people more whole.
One graced with clear vision
And teachings from mistakes past.

A love that honors thy self,
as much as the union.
That lightens the spirit,
And inspires the mind.

One whose pillars are trust and respect,
And mortar truth and honesty.
And whose greener grass
Lies within its fence.
Yes, I speak of a Love
Where souls dance with grace,
And where full hearts and warm bodies
Securely embrace.
This Love of which I speak
Is…Last Love.
This Love of which I speak
Is…First Love.

Trumpeting her own message from the start,
This Daughter of the Commandments
Burst forth on a holy day
Her fiery eyes alerting the world.

She adventured with her young soul twin, Schamana,
Played eager patient of her daddy’s Dr. McGillicutty
Chatty mate of her pals Bert and Ernie, and was
The inspired lullaby of her “Mother’s Little Baby”

She soared early on wings of courage
With determined heart and mind,
Boldly facing her ticking challenges,
Knowing God wanted her to show the way.

Enmeshed in two cultures far apart
Bridged over prejudiced waters,
She danced “horas” and twirled Lithuanian “sokis”,
Chanted Hebrew and sang sweet “dainos”,
Rejoicing fully in the beauty of each.

Though her journey still unfolds
We know this to be true:
She brings us divine gifts as
The Juliet of our love’s warm desires,
The Miriam of our wistful dances,
The Indigo wisdom of our soul’s longful search,
The Mary Poppins spirit to her many friends,
The blessing cup runneth over to her family, and
A bright ray of hope for our threatened world.

Into an age of Innocence,
From Parents with ways of Old,
This shy flower entered
–Wreathed in Love and Tradition.

With her Father’s safe shoulders always near,
Her Mother’s sweet smells so close,
And her gentle Brother’s love so sure,
This soft bulb bloomed bright
As her warm heart touched all.

Her true beauty went unnoticed mainly by her,
Until a wild swimmer named “Moz”
With his motorcycle flair
And Montgomery Clift looks,
Quickly “dibbed” his Ava Gardner.

With their Black & Whites barely dry,
Her first harvest of the Red Lands came,
As Lombardo’s sweet sounds
Were quickly muted by Foreign Blasts.
This woman-child faced real life
Now unsheltered,
And frightened though she was,
She remained true to the Ways of Old,
Always faithful to her man,
And good mother to her young.

Yes, this robin chose to fly late,
But her artist’s wings were always there.
And now she glides comfortably
In the Age of New.

Though Judith’s Rose bloomed in Autumn
Its petals are strong and wise, and
This Woman of the Flowers
Still glows with the warmth and love
That was there Eight of Ten ago.

Obsessed with Control,
We can’t let go.
But shorten life’s list,
The more we resist.

No longer diminish.
Let things be,
Begin to feel free.

To travel this Path,
Use its new Math.
Accept and allow—
Even meow.

Look to the Waves,
Follow their Sways.
Cresting in the Wind
Nature’s magic Within.

Sometimes in tandem,
Always random.
Feel the Peace.

Life’s Rhythm of Truth,
Lost in Youth,
Follows no pattern, yet
Brightens Life’s Lantern.

A master of disguise
With tentacles so long,
Flourishing like wild mint
In the tepid soil of our minds.

With us unbeknownst
Its heavy silence so loud, it
Feeds our anxiety, but
Nourishes only our doubts.

Deceit’s best lover
So blind-fold brave,
Sharks our dreams,
Tons our creativity.

Yet…truly a coward until unmasked.
Stare its stare,
Deflect its glare,
Strip it bare.

Reveal this thing FEAR
For what it truly is,
A wimp hiding in our frail armor
Parading as Fiction’s Best Seller.

Engulfed with anger,
We retreat.
Ensnared by fear,
We hide.

Webbed by doubts,
We avoid.
Immersed in pities,
We remain
In exile—
With no default mode.

To return,
Joust the fears,
Lose the anger,
Embrace the truth, and
Face the danger.

Our lines silent too often
Or scribbled with grey voices,
Forever trampled, until
Only frustration is clear.

The haze blinds all
As we become lost in our yielding,
And wander into pin-ball dissonance
Where only our absence is seen.

Our shouts scream internal,
Resentment festers unbridled,
Until turmoil wrenched navels
Yank what was uncomfortably given.

And when we finally mark our lines,
Screeches from addicts we’ve spawned
Crook our hands, and
Guilt our minds.

But don’t erase your translucent chalk,
Heed the child’s clear shout,
“That’s mine!”
Setting it straight.

So, too, announce your needs, and
Return from your Angel’s Exile
Along your Lines of Peace.