"myles" poems
All colors, shapes and sizes. A cunning disguise. Quite stunning. The right fit. A refusal to go the extra mile. Poor Myles. No more fake smiles. A mask. Can coerce a crowd. It's quite loud when your face shows but no sound. His face. It's quite a disgrace. Tells of his battles and all. How many times he's fallen. He's quite clumsy.
He makes it his number one task, to buy a new mask. He's new in town, and wonders why everyone looks like a clown. I mean surely they can't all be happy. Masks. A store. "May I try this one on sir?" Perfect. Task complete. He fits in. But underneath, he's not the same. Possibly insane. He hides something deep, so deep it never speaks. It only sleeps. Family. Friends. They can never tell. What he hides. The mask. It tells lies.
Someone close. Someone you know. Watch closely. Their mask will slowly deteriorate. Dissipate. Time. It may take a while if you try to pry. Their mask. Their completed tasks. Even those close to Myles couldn't tell. Underneath, we're quite different. Don't you see. We all wear our own. How many do you own?
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 1:44 PM UTC
Silver haired and pearly whites
You always gave good advice
Loving grandfather full of care
A family of dozens for you to bear
A Wise counselor in the school
Respect all life was a rule
A loving husband for 60 years
You far surpassed all your peers
Your kids are grown
And their seeds are sewn.
Go in peace dearest Myles
For you have made many Smiles
Aug 11, 2014
Aug 11, 2014 at 3:48 PM UTC
I want to fall into you,
but you'd rather ****** into me.
And that may be reconcilable for a second
or two
or three.
You turn late nights into later mornings--somewhere exploring skin as if there's no one else,
daring me to bring earthquakes to our footing on common ground that makes me
want to crash into you.
Yet you only plunge into me for an hour
or two
or three.
And I still push closed doors open in my hopeful head
while you can't conceive the thought of us-- or even me--
without the sheets from my bed
Nov 10, 2018
Nov 10, 2018 at 1:56 AM UTC
To shake dust from my pretty
child
i must mystify minds while, molding
pre-paved tile patios:
give the sheep’s pen a four wall construct
A-RISE above the morphic
and bellow, to comfort the feet.
Im stabbing quarters into my activation plate’s extra exhaust
to ignite something.
Spit some carbon –
Manic moments, move a myles like me to the metaphysical mirror.
And it is not this one that reflects,
but to the duties my appendages embody i –
lack expects.
Do due – Respect.
to this Chthonian carriages; my dermis quite the copy cat.
to say the body is made in the images
of a cosmic titan is overly abstract.
The big bang was an aftermath of a flatline,
“so whatchur telling me is that even the void gets tired?” (it says)
my guilt was relieved of its cage and given
new duties.
Project itself on a man with open eyes
searching for answers.
Close that third mind and let them
truths seep from the almost always
clogged sinuses.
Snore even.
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 11:51 PM UTC
*“Black Velvet”
There use to be snow up there,
lots of it to be sure.
Then the sun came out somewhere
and now all is melted and demure
in nature and touch,
as everything is covered in bleak colors,
rainy feel and such
displaying too many grays and shadows.
I use to spend hours
watching the witchy Borealis
shifting and shimmering
on black velvet nights.
It was enough to set your heart a fire
running playfully
in those Canadian lights.
Now, some may look for
that “slow Southern style”
and a come on sway, oh my.
But I look northward
to the songs in the sky
with legs that make a skirt wild.
Give me
Borealis on painted
black velvet skies,
“if you please”.
Aztec Warrior / redzone 7.3.16
(Note: quote from the song “Black Velvet”
by Alannah Myles)*
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 2:39 PM UTC
Some flowers have no petals,
some bugs have no wings,
and some trees have no leaves.
Some fires make no smoke,
some bottles may be broken,
and some books have no words,
Some humans have no humanity.
A. I. Myles o7 June, 2019
Jun 9, 2019
Jun 9, 2019 at 11:59 AM UTC
In between the lines
You could tell
Shakespeare danced
Religiously
Way back when
First time He
Was happy was
Probably when he
Was dead
Like the
Pilgrims or
Like those
Ocean storms
Old grave sites
Inside me
Old grave stones
Are
A' Floating
And the creak of the
Street with its
Wheezes and its
Moans
Makes me breathe
Deep inside
Takes me faster
Than it grows
As of late
A bed seems
Useless
And
People continue to
Act useful yet desperately
Cracked
Tables are
Crumbling and
The hearts have
Gone weak
Shadows are
Spreading and
My hands have
Grown bleak
Friends are now
Foreign while
Religion still
Weeps
Gods got
Glasses and
He smiles while
Laughing
Feigning:
Paranoia
Heart Break
Misery
Melancholia
Desperation
Writer's Block
Nothingness within
Nothingness
Trusting
No one
Not even
Yourself
Alone in the
Dark and you
See
Everyone's
Been there
All along
Together yet
Miles and miles
Apart
Oct 31, 2011
Oct 31, 2011 at 5:49 PM UTC
"Are you cold" I asked
Myles, skinny, four, standing
by the water.
"Yes. But I don't care," he said,
shivering slightly, blue-lipped and
smiling.
Then he splashed back in.
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 1:01 AM UTC
I’ve experienced more
than my eyes could
ever show you.
Steal a glimpse
through the window
when the moonlight hits
just right,
and you might
find the faintest flicker-
vivid imagery.
I’ve experienced more
than my lips could
ever tell you.
Put your ear to the door.
Listen closely.
Deeply.
Don’t take a breathe.
You could miss my
faintest of whispering-
subtle mysteries.
A. I. Myles 14 June, 2o19 @athenaeumdreams
Jun 16, 2019
Jun 16, 2019 at 7:39 AM UTC
Some may say
that you are “strange”,
but why would that matter?
With over 7 billion strangers,
and each different in their own,
what, then, is peculiar?
Contrary to popular belief,
amidst meaningless meanderings,
I say:
“there is no such thing.”
A. I. Myles o3 June, 2019
Jun 3, 2019
Jun 3, 2019 at 9:20 PM UTC
I'm taking in the world bit by bit:
The smell of grass after a shower,
The clouds in the sky floating away with my thoughts, my hopes, my fears
The sound of laughter pouring into my ears as I feel Nature's light on me
I'm taking in the world bit by bit:
The trees I want to climb
And the hills I want to roll down
The crickets in the night giving me a background music I want to dance to
I piece my world together bit by bit
With the Sounds of Nature
And the Lyrical Lines of Myles
And I see you:
An amalgam of the things I know
A symphony modelled after my own tiny orchestra
A pot-pourri of the scents I keep hidden away
I invent this world you've given me the keys to:
The smell of your skin after a shower
The clouds in your eyes as you speak about your ‘tough childhood’
The sound of your laughter pouring into my ears
And tickling the fabric of my soul
I invent this world where we exist
This world where we are infinite
This world where there are no eyes on the walls
And no ears on the doors
No dismembered limbs
Pointing
And no disenchanted mouths
Judging
I invent this time-less space
This boundless place
We can watch the sun rise
And write a rule book
We can talk for hours, days, or maybe minutes –
We’ll never run out of
Words or time
We can walk,
Endlessly explore
The abysses of our world
Mar 6, 2013
Mar 6, 2013 at 5:20 PM UTC
I have pine
growing inside of me.
Strong and thick and
resilient,
but not unbendable–
and able to be shaped.
There have been fires
inside of me as well—
burning away the old
beliefs and scars,
and shaping me once again
into something new.
From the tiniest of sprouts—
from sapling, to mighty
young fir, and old wise
redwood; I will grow
peace and endurance
and strength and hope.
- A. I. Myles 26 May, 2019
Jun 2, 2019
Jun 2, 2019 at 12:39 PM UTC
I was a moth,
drawn to you
like a candle-
until you blew out
the flame.
- A. I. Myles o9 June, 2019
@athenaeumthoughts
Jun 10, 2019
Jun 10, 2019 at 8:03 AM UTC
Splish, splish, ploop.
A stone gently disturbs
the plane of the mirror,
before descending
into undisclosed depths.
Ripples erupt, breaking
the surface of the tarn.
As the current subsides—
splish, splish, ploop.
What if we could
live and die,
creating such soft—
such token undulations?
Splish, splish, ploop.
Let’s cause cosmic waves
of compassion and aegis
for the planet,
our companion-
leaving, as such, small
wrinkles and blemishes
upon the surface.
Splish, splish, ploop.
A. I. Myles 2o June, 2o19
@athenaeumthoughts
Jun 22, 2019
Jun 22, 2019 at 12:25 AM UTC
Some plants,
they bloom
in the summer.
Others—
in autumn or spring.
Oh!
But you my dear
have weathered
through so many
struggles.
You will blossom
through so many
others.
-A. I. Myles 1o June, 2019 @athenaeumthoughts
Jun 10, 2019
Jun 10, 2019 at 8:02 PM UTC
Is this what “it” looks like?
The jumbled and frantic mess of
a wit
without constraint-
without silence,
calm, or congeniality?
Is this what it “feels” like?
A tornado of turbulent misconceptions,
strewn about
like leaves on the wind-
peppered with the biting
chill
of crisp droplets,
soaking through to skin and bone.
Is this “just how it goes”?
When the grey and black blanket of night
and sadness and just existential emptiness
cloud the sky.
When the darkness that surrounds encroaches,
blurring the point where the horizon
meets terra firma.
Would the power lines
connecting the neurological
pathways break?
Would the ceiling of introspection
fly off of the supports that so long
held it in place?
What is left when the
onslaught of the brain
brouhaha slows and only the
photographs, the memories linger;
when the dust of duress settles?
What follows when
the final downpour
of shattered expectations
fall,
leaving the silent and still
dejection
that comes at the end?
Is that the end?
Could I wipe the rain from my eyes,
to see the brightening of the day?
Could I see the illumination of the sun
and the clearing of the sky?
What about the curve of crystalline
precipitation, lingering in empyrean;
brimming with a wash of beauty
known only to those who behold it?
Is that the end?
When and what and
where is the end?
- A. I. Myles 30 May, 2019
May 31, 2019
May 31, 2019 at 5:02 PM UTC
Please don’t tell me
“you’re too young
to be tired.”
I’ll be as tired
as I dang-we’ll please.
There are so many ways
to be “spent”
beyond what you see
physically—
weariness runs more
than skin-deep.
So don’t tell me how
you think I should feel,
because you could
never understand.
My brain, it thrums constantly
and drains me emotionally,
in ways that you
can’t fix with sleep.
A. I. Myles 18 June, 2o19 @athenaeumthoughts
Jun 18, 2019
Jun 18, 2019 at 9:23 PM UTC
sitting and thinking of what my life
could have been.
going through idea's thoughts
hopes and dreams.
what happened?
how did i get this way?
went through life doing the wrong instead of the right.
what's left?
can't get a start or rerun.
I guess I will sit here and remember all the deeds
I have done
Feb 28, 2010
Feb 28, 2010 at 4:54 PM UTC
Gold and brown and red,
I long for the colors of fall;
for the nip of the wind
at my nose,
and the crispness I feel
when I take a breath in.
I have a hankering
to stare out across
those golden fields,
as the grass
takes a long-awaited
vacation.
I long to gaze into
the night-time sky,
searching for the hunter
as he raises that silver bow,
scouting out his prey:
Ursa Major.
I desire crackling campfires,
sweet treats, and nights spent
keeping good company.
I want to be illuminated
in that effervescent light,
hot to the touch, but soft to my skin.
I long for Autumn to return again.
-A. I. Myles o2 June, 2019
Jun 3, 2019
Jun 3, 2019 at 8:08 AM UTC
The thoughts of a writer
can be a terrific
and terrible chasm,
simultaneously.
They spring from one precipice
to another,
dangerously, no-
longingly
peering over the edge,
ready to bound
head-first
towards the next
afflatus.
A. I. Myles 11 June, 2019
@athenaeumthoughts
Jun 11, 2019
Jun 11, 2019 at 9:17 PM UTC
I haven’t been able
to sleep so well lately.
Going to bed late,
I stir from dreams constantly.
During the day
I feel so awake,
and I’ve been writing consistently.
I have words in my brain,
like it’s tuned into
some frequency.
- A. I. Myles 12 June, 2019 @athenaeumthoughts
Jun 13, 2019
Jun 13, 2019 at 7:08 PM UTC
It is ok to say “no.”
There are moments
where a reply of
“not today” and
“maybe another time”
are more important
than pleasing everyone—
regardless.
The Sun will continue to shine,
rain will continue to fall,
and grass will continue to grow—
regardless.
Birds will sing their songs,
life will go on,
and taking time to breathe
could be just what is needed.
Those who understand
will accept your self-care,
and they will choose to love you—
regardless.
A. I. Myles o9 June, 2019
Jun 9, 2019
Jun 9, 2019 at 12:01 PM UTC
A name as glorious as yours brightens even the darkest seas of chaos;
And pierces walls built on bricks of sorrow.
Your name paves gently lit pathways for the timid sound of hope,
To bloom with Your light.
Your name did not stick to mine with scratch marks and chemicals;
It was hand-sewn with a thousand rhymes and a passion
For our two-fold destiny.
Our souls sang when our voices first danced
In the harmony that awarded our names a hyphen based on sins.
And I will prove irrational your fear.
Your legacy will be detailed in sonnets
And the porcelain melody of your name will echo
At the top of my lungs until everyone remembers your stage curtain halo.
Myles Harrison Card.
Your name was meant for a thousand more ears than Heaven has to offer.
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 3:34 AM UTC
Give me the thick, dark clouds
that blanket the sky in grey.
Give me the fat, cold globules
of H2O,
falling from the firmament.
I would gladly gaze up,
and allow them to land
upon my head and my neck
and my shoulders,
sending a flutter down my spine—
straight through
to my fingertips.
Give me the cracklings of
those super-charged particles,
displacing the air
clearing the horizon
as it illuminates
just like Independence Day.
Give me the hot, sticky,
sweat-filled calm,
and let the tides roll in
to wash it away
on the back of the
thunderstorm.
A. I. Myles o9 June, 2019
Jun 9, 2019
Jun 9, 2019 at 12:02 PM UTC
A “mailbox” is
a funny thing.
It used to be a means
of keeping in touch
with the ones that we loved—
a tool for connections
and correspondences.
What do we even have
mailboxes for now?
Stores send out coupons
for us to accumulate
goods now.
Credit card companies
send out reminders
to pay off our debts now.
Everyone’s circulating love,
but of status and wealth now.
We’ve become so consumed
with our phones, with fashion
and greed...
how?
A. I. Myles 19 June, 2o19
@athenaeumthoughts
Jun 19, 2019
Jun 19, 2019 at 5:04 PM UTC