Sunday, May 1, 2016


I know, this is kinda awkward.

It's like showing up at home, after being gone for a very long time.

After people gave up that you might ever come back.
Knowing you are a different person than the one that left.

Ok, so maybe it is just me.


My name is Brian Miller. Once upon a time, I wrote a lot. Here and at other places.
For years.

Until I disappeared.

I am still alive.


My family is doing well. The boys are bigger than ever.
They will both be in middle school next year. Can you believe it?
T is still working at the University. I am still a high school teacher.

I still write, rarely.
Maybe we can talk about that one later.


I got your emails --- and if I did not respond.
Sorry. It's complicated.

I was enjoying the silence.


So what is new?

I graduate with my Master's in May.
Wait, it is May.

Ok, in 2 weeks.
I am so glad,

to be done.


And a few weeks after that I leave for Nepal.

Which is why I am back?

I will be spending the summer in Bharan, Nepal --- teaching.
I will be teaching at a Pastor's College in the mornings
and then at a newly formed elementary school in the afternoons.
And on Sundays, I will be teaching in local churches.

The fam will be holding down the fort here
while I head out on this journey.

(You can pray for them -- and me.
It's a crazy kinda fun twist the stomach
in knots, put a smile on your face
kinda thing.)


The elementary school services Pre-K - 2nd grade.

If you want to go to 3rd grade and beyond, it's a bit of a hike.
I am taking computers to start a computer lab at the school,
which hopefully enables them to teach older students
in the near future.

I worked out this deal with the local university
to buy some of their old refurbished computers - relatively cheap.

Hey, it's a start.


Yes, I am going alone
and I won't know anyone when I get there.

Sounds exciting, huh?


So, Here I am.
Scrambling to graduate, to get students to graduate and/or finish the school year,
and to catch a plane that will take me halfway around the world.

(If it all goes well, Cole wants to come with me next year.
Mama says I gotta come back alive the first year
before he can go though.)

It's good to see you.

Will I post again?

I think I just might,
so I can share a bit of this journey.

And who knows,
maybe I will find a poem (or a story)
along the way.

Tuesday, March 17, 2015

expecting, nothing --

a man steps off the curb
@ the corner of an intersection
                  his face a mess of angles
                   & shadows in the green
                 of the streetlight,
& finding the center line//
traffic oncoming @ 50 - 60 mph
                      & throws up
            his arms

like Moses parting the waters,
a player scoring the game winning shot
a symphony conductor about to strike
the first note

tires squawl/scream, metal buckles
booM, BOOm, bOOM goes the bass drum,
cars dive & spin, smashing into one another
in a mad ballet
                      to avoid

woodwinds, woodwinds, woodwinds
a hub cab crosses the road in a straight line bisection,
alone & unafraid

airbags burst
out their hidden compartments, horns
blare, (there are no fireball emplosions//special effects
cause this is no movie) glass
                          on the
oil, gas& wiper fluid mix
a cocktail in the cracks,

heads bow
& he stands there               unscathed

lowers his arms,
adjusts the bag on his shoulder, as if the weight
might be cutting off             circulation
& continues the rest of the way

"What the hell was that?"
a guy yells out his downed window/ pissed off
& oblivious cars still coming

the man looks 
over his shoulder, lips & teeth---

"What did you expect?"
he shoots back & keeps walking,
deeper into the parking lot,

sirens wailing,
             in the distance,
                  as our turn comes
               @ the cross
     street, getting
the green

& the wind blows our tune---

for dVerse

Tuesday, March 10, 2015

while i could read your hand, your eyes tell me more ---

photo from wikimediacommons

I should go see Sister Rose, the gypsy
fortune teller  & her sisters -- she had eyes
like a thunderstorm on the prairie,
hands like a wheat field ---

my cousin bought us each a session
for $20, and according to her---

i'd be a rock star

but now, i coach girls soccer,
surprising, what with all my experience,
two years in middle school as an asthmatic
full back ---

there were games i could barely walk,
from lack of oxygen, the world retreating
to pin pricks

i have this girl, a bit overweight, lacking
coordination, the first day
she said ---

"this is the most social engagement
i've ever had"

we've already been through tears,
the ball caught her mid calf & you'd have thought
her leg fell off


she lashed out, & she's always last,
loping back to the line, kicked beehives eyes,
surprised at herself, but making it ---

she's an easy favorite, because it's not effortless,
as with the long-legged gazelles
tearing down the field

we used to get bottle neck turtles out back
at our house in florida, they'd rise from the lake,
coated in slime, moving slow
across the grass --- my son toddled
on barely stable legs, reaching
for the monster

nearly as large as him,
eyes wide enough to fall in,
& sometimes,
                    --- we did.

for PJ

Monday, March 9, 2015

confession is good for the weak, so i do ---

photo by frankieleon

somewhere, in the back of my mind
a still small voice always reminds
      this ----
               is not going to work out
      & that ----
                  is what keeps me

for dVerse

Saturday, March 7, 2015

i've grown soft ---

my hands ache // are black
as miners', one knuckle busted
on a shard & the blood

dries, red to mud,
like a river that's lost
its flow---

is not always apparent
to the naked
eye & if you
push your cupped fingers
a few inches into the loam,

like one of the big yellow earthmovers
excavating a pad, so the foundation can be
poured for the new neighbor's house,

you find the river
never left, only turned inward & still
veins, as it returns to the ocean (as all things)---

as this ice,
flash frozen in the night, into jagged teeth
after the county trucks pushed clear
the road, will eventually---

i lean into the shovel handle
& try not to

rub the remnants
of salt/soil//gravel///exhaust
in my eyes
                the trickle of melt
makes the rocks glitter & air
              beneath the ice
         in bubbles defies
    gravity, the pull
downhill -- works
      its way back up,
             to  the surface
                        in silent

for PU

Friday, March 6, 2015

at times i say planierraupe just for fun, and other times i mean it ---

photo by derek lee

life is a beach

which is to say,
it is never the same, sand
turned by tides // taken // replaced
somewhere down the line
that separates

the ocean
from us, or across it
to other continents // older

& soon enough,
even though the texture
still pushes through the paint,
it becomes a woman
and a cat

just the hint of a tree
in the blue //
                    but it's not

"it doesn't look right."

"who's to say?"

i am sure the beach
doesn't ---

taking footprints
with its wet tongue
& sending them
                     & on

Thursday, March 5, 2015

i protest --- (social media)

platitudes, common place kiss-assitudes,
words, neither half full or empty //
                                       the cups cracked
& spilt in your lap, be luke-warm
                     I'LL SPIT YOU OUT ---

                             you need a map
to negotiate
your way around the issues today //
i wonder if people believe half what they say,
or just appreciate wagging their lips
expecting a captive audience
as if ---
     our treasure is buried in this present heaven,
of car bombs & terrorists,
            their mouth has a loaded clip,
is half cocked --- having half baked
any truth they once thought

we sell opinion as facts
to our kids, in plastic bags
                    & second place trophies,
where everyone's a winner,

denying reality
as long as it promotes self-esteem,
a dream ---
           & a fall farther than Icarus
                  when the wings melt off,
                         but ain't no one willing
to take a bullet
                    for nothing,
                              much less a scratch,
our palms pierced to be cross
a busted knuckle
                 or what passes for work,
cause even sitting on it
                someone will kiss my ---

i protest ---

platitudes, common place kiss-assitudes,
of words, neither half full or empty //
                                       the cups cracked
& spilt in your lap, be luke-warm
                     i'll spit you out ---

our quest for peace
wars our thoughts processes each breath,
past the heart, up the throat, down the tongue
across our teeth//take the teeth
take the teeth,
                     i'll bite
the apple
& speak

photo by el payo

for dVerse - both abhra & anna's prompts