Welcome to Tim's poetry page. This page is devoted to the poetry of Tim Miles. Come back frequently as more poems will be added as the page continues to develop. I can be contacted at timmyrm@hotmail.com, if you have comments or suggestions.

Swim (Stealing Home)


Swim with me, Katie, to the ocean.
Swim with me, Katie, to the sea.
Help me touch the bottom, 
and then we’ll flee.


Flee, behind the trees 
on an old dirt road.
Flee, to crowded halls
with bells and laughter,


laughter of youth
which cleanses pure souls.
Laughter, that is lost, 
lost to those who no longer swim.


Swim with me, Katie, to the ocean.
Swim with me, Katie, to the sea.
Help me touch the bottom, 
and then we’ll flee.






The Fair


Did Dawn go to the fair?
Those rides sling helpless bodies around.
Does she understand?
Those games can’t be won by anyone.

See her going into a show?
The tent flap opens;
the cloth flutters in the wind.

Reality is in there, 
where bearded ladies refuse to shave
and the glow of magic lamps light the room.

Truth is in there,
staring at the impossible,
six inch ladies
in a smoky globe
wearing long tie-dye shirts. 






Carolina Fields

Wavy gray hair,
froth of a spent wave,
lies flat on a tired face.

Grace of a summer breeze,
drifting through creeks and streams,
is the memory of distant days.

Delightful struggle with hook and line,
laughter lost in the fight,
follows a cast on which hope flies.

But hope lands,
skin withered liked cured leaves, 
lost among Carolina tobacco fields. 








Don’t	They?

It’s twenty hours to Boston;
small towns zip by a dusty window;
steel wheels click on metal rails.

But it’s twenty years home;
roses laughing in the sunshine
--trash can basketball and waded love letters.

Don’t they seem to race together?
--strange main street strollers
and gay girls in pleated skirts.

“Next stop Boston. South Station, next stop.”

Don’t they seem to end together?
--wild wonderings of unvisited diners
and romantic memories of an imagined time.

Don’t they seem to exist?
--one stop before or after Boston.








Searching Stares

Sitting on silver vinyl seats
in a black Chevy Camaro,
she stares blankly into the night. 
A full moon looks down from above, 
sending its pale, luminous beams
to navigate a maze of trees
--shadowy light for searching souls.
Here, it’s quiet and dark enough
to meet desires without fear.
Understanding eyes make the message clear.

September is the cruelest month;
vultures circle innocent lives.
Fires blaze and twisted voices cry.
Wails from every corner fill streets,
streets (early morning) dark as night.
Acrid fumes cover the city.

Yes, I did have to work last night,
but I’m just not able to sleep.
I don’t know where Billie is now.
She was still there when we last spoke.

I would have kissed you in the mudroom,
even though we weren’t alone.
I would have held your hand as we walked home;
God I regret that.
I would have asked you to that dance
on a hot Friday in July.
I would have told you how I felt,
sitting on those swings but not swinging.
I would have called,
not letting time pass us by.

Pulled pleats rest at a ready waist,
skirting past youth’s bronzed, limber limbs.
Now another searchingly stares
--floating red hearts and smooth satin.
Trembling hands question their move.
Stay by her side or cover hearts, 
pledging fealty in his swoon?
How quickly wild wondering ends
as confidence seizes passion
-- a gentle touch, joy’s manifestation. 


Don’t birds fly south for the winter?
Wait for blue skies and pleasant dreams
though the world seems to be ending.
They shouldn’t be flying here now!


Frantic arms remove barriers
while an excited mind wonders. 
Why yes tonight but not before? 
Prior advances rejected
till future hopes were abandoned.
Then love’s guardian took control.
Freed from pressure, flame leads her soul
to greater ends than sought before.
Power, thus, needs to play its part,
relinquishing lust, a masterful art. 









Unclouded Day


Come out of the rain.
It’s hard for me to say sorry.
Come out of the rain.
Dirt doesn’t come off that easily.

Fetch a towel.
You need to dry.
Don’t look up.
There’s a sunless sky.
Won’t you come in?
The lights are on.
I will follow.
You won’t be alone.
It shouldn’t be this dark
on our noon day.
I thought you were near.
You’ve taken another way.
There! There! I see!
Please don’t be scared
as you run by the rooted tree.

Come out of the rain.
Slippery, slick it is.
Come out of the rain.
It wets your face.

Come out of the rain.
Fresh salt is in my mouth.
We can run happily together
if we come out of the rain.



     



Haze


White chains twirl           	
and swirl as the wind 
whips up a pink dress 
with white flowers.


Tanned legs kick back 
and lift up while
laughter fills the air
then drifts away.


But later,
the fog rolls in,
over a long stretch of blacktop
in the middle of nowhere.


Dead shadows dance in the haze.
Their grim hands reach out
through rays of fog-absorbed light
to tickle the mind.


"No! No!
It can't be!
The images. . . .
They're twisted."


Grayed figures defuse,
along with the fog,
as a mass emerges 
into the haze-relieved darkness.


Comforting is the dark void
that embraces the soul
--cold arms wrapping around the mind's child,
taking away the fog.


But the void yields,
and the darkness shatters
when the path illuminates,
pushing the peace-seeking soul back into the fog.


"Dawn. . . here's the red swing.
Twist the chains again.
They must be white?
Why won?t this fog clear?


"Dawn, Dawn!
Why must the figures haunt?
Can't they rest?
Please let them rest.?

 
But, now, the Haze remains, 
and the fog encompasses all
as dull images gather
and answer questions.


Just of a winding road,
brightened by the light of moon,
two dull figures walk together holding hands
--toward a playground behind an old church.


White chains twirl           	
and swirl as the wind 
whips up a dull , pink dress 
with white flowers.


Tanned legs kick back 
and lift up while
laughter fills the air
then drifts away.








Just Another Dreamer


Descending the mountain,
looking down on the city,
the night's lights sparkle like diamonds
without diminishing the darkness.

Beauty hides beauty.

In the day, children play below.
Inside the chain-linked fence
--on thick, well-trimmed grass
--dreams are born.

Dreams that are hidden from the skyride
coming down from a snowcapped Grouse mountain
but burning brightly in the mind of a child,
and in hearts still young enough to wonder.





          
THE OLD AND THE NEW




Off a winding road,
deep in a swampy wood,
old wood pylons stand,
like ghosts from another age.


Relics of a road no longer taken,
they stand far away
from the asphalt and concrete of today
--looming and warning.