Feature Poet: Jude Miller
Good morning! Today’s feature is a returning contributor, Jude Miller! I have adored Jude and her poetry since I first met her, she’s been part of both the anthologies released through Walden’s Poetry and together we wrote and released a chapbook, Exploration last September. It’s always a pleasure to be able to show more of her work, check out two poems below!
Muddy Shoes
Sing the Blues in your muddy shoes, sippin’ on the booze, before you snooze.
Looked upon as a mess, your best guess is not the same as the rest…who rest.
You test the stressed and depressed, possessed in the mood of the mud, the smooth and the cool, not the fool, okay to be caked in earth.
The rest who rest, don’t smell the tears in the flood, or taste the blood in the crud, or address the pressed upon feeling of the mud, caking heavy on bare souls.
Sippin’ on, slippin’ in the booze, before they snooze, in their well appointed, shoes.
I’ll sing the Blues in my muddy, well worn, stressed, depressed, earth soaked shoes, without the booze, to help me snooze, my mud is my cake.
Why don’t I have a damn basement?
I grew up with one,
A basement…
Down
Very
Narrow
Steps
It’s where the washer and dryer lived,
For a while.
And the big freezer,
That held all types of meat,
For part of the year.
Made of rock and concrete,
Painted floors,
An exercise bike, rowing machine, weights,
The smell of plumbing lubricants,
And doo dads.
Doo dads, and thing-a-ma-jigs.
It held three sisters, when tornado sirens blared,
Or were on the ground.
We held our best stuffed animal, our pillows,
Radio on, shoes on, parents…in the yard.
In the yard, where the tornados could hit them.
But not us, in the basement, with the big freezer,
Rock and concrete, doo dads and thing-a-ma-jigs,
Our fear, and not our parents.
No tornado could reach us down there.
I vowed to never live where in a space,
Without a basement.
Here I am…without a basement. No rock and concrete,
Freezer full of meat, the smell of plumbing lubricants,
Work out apparatus, painted floors, doo dads, thing-a-ma-jigs,
Or the terror of knowing the parents are standing in the yard.
I have dogs, and a tiny bathroom.
It’s terrifying.
Like parents standing in the yard,
Watching, waiting, for a tornado.
I'm Jude, I dabble in words. Sometimes they stick to paper, or find their way into a book, or screen, anthology, chapbook, issue…or trash can. I occasionally find myself at Open Mic’s in and around the area, to listen to others, and work on my courage to speak my words. My dogs are ears to spoken poetry I tweak and speak in their presence, and they don’t complain. Maybe they give me the false sense of accomplishment, or the guts to walk out the door with thoughts in my head, paper and screen, to possibly share with others. Mostly I speak, so that others may decide to as well.
p.s. I write better than I draw.
