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Ronda Miller

 

 

Ronda Miller

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Ronda MillerRonda Miller’s favorite saying: “Poetry is our most natural connection between one another,” applies to her personal life as well as her professional one.

 

A Life Coach born in Ft. Collins, Colorado, she was raised on a farm by her maternal grandparents in the high plateau region of NW Kansas, where love for the beauty and healing aspects of nature and poetry began.  She holds degrees in Human Development and Creative Writing from the University of Kansas, is a Fellow of The Citizen Journalism Academy, World Company, and a Certified Life Coach with IPEC (Institute of Professional Empowerment Coaching).

 

She created poetic forms Loku and Ukol.  She began volunteering her services as a Life Coach via Grief Works, for those who have lost someone to homicide, in 2008.  She is Poetry Contest Manager for Kansas Authors Club (2011 – present).  She became President of Kansas Authors Club, District 2, in November of 2013. 

 

Ronda's poems have appeared in numerous journals. Her memoir, Gun Memories of a Stone Eyed Cold Girl is expected to be released fall of 2014.

 


 
CreekPlay

 

If you look closely,

small, freckled limbs

not yet diagnosed with MS

make their way boldly

up a dusty hill once

mountainous in size.

A creek, both deep and dry,

drew us in season after season

as our bodies changed and

dreams grew larger than the sky.

Hiding, playing cowboys and Indians,

each passing car a threat from near and far.

Years later, shared dates and

hope for future plans left less time or attention

to the barren, rugged beauty of the land.

To climb those hills, fill my nose with the dusty smell

of Kansas, sneeze out the ability to be young again.

We searched for fossils, dinosaur teeth,

found rattlesnakes and cow skulls.

I became a mother and a writer,

you manufactured crack – just think about that.

If we would back and did it again

would the sunset still inspire,

Would our desire to escape have changed?

Would my body, spasming in pain, be made whole?

Would you still feel the brutal Kansas winter

from within a castle prison on the prairie?

 

 
Spanish Moss

 

hanging low,

swinging, swaying to and fro,

dark and damp

against the moon’s no show.

It’s there you know,

just unseen.     Black

 

I’ll gather the moss,

place it under your head,

carry you out to your ocean bed.

Wave goodbye as you float away

on ocean waves.     Blue

 

If I could ease your sleep

into the deep, I’d do it.

I’d kiss your lips one last time,

you’re so old and you’re too young.

Your journey’s just begun.    Red

 

But first I have to let you go,

kiss the lips that have grown so cold,

push you out to sea,

away, so far away from me.

The moon hangs low.

It’s there you know.     Gold

 

   

Tell God Hi

 

for me I joke as he lists a kiss to my

lips and walks out the door on his

way to Sunday school.

 

I stay in bed propped against a

pillow and heating pad.  I fell

on the snow slippery driveway yesterday.

 

My commune will be the spirituality

I find in poems I edit for a favorite poet

from Wichita.  Both my lover and the poet

were raised Catholic.  I wonder how different

my spirituality might be had it been the same

for me.

 

Movement outside the window draws

my eyes upwards to view a squirrel on

the neighbor’s roof doing a downhill slalom

ski move around the chimney.

 

I think of poetry, where it takes me;

how it soothes and heals, invigorates,

connects me to humankind, here and now,

for eternity.

 

I think of turning onto my side the night

before; the feel of his warm belly spooned

against my back, legs curved, feet entwined.

That afterglow as natural, as fulfilling,

as poetry.

Meeting Noah

 

I met Noah today.  He rests along a road

I’d never been down before.

Two dinosaurs adorn the front of his headstone.

 

He was four days old when he died; these days

he would be nine years old.  We plant a pink

peony, his dad and I.  He digs a large spade of grass. 

I hold the plant in place as he places one shovelful

of moist, damp earth after another over its bare roots.

 

I listen to the circumstances of Noah’s

death where a definition means more than a word.

Omphaloceles – born with internal organs on the outside of the body. 

The telling and retelling help mend an exposed heart. 

“He was like a comet flashing across the sky; here, and then just gone.”

 

I feel as though I’ve watched Noah grow up, even though he never went home. 

The cross stitch his father did of him squatting in the sand

on a beach shows him at age three. His blond hair is tousled, blue eyes large,

wide eyed, in wonder of the beauty of the universe surrounding.

 

A Chevy truck breaks our silence as it goes slowly past the

cemetery turn off.  Noah’s younger brother and sister are

inside with their maternal grandparents.

 

We wonder aloud what the kids are saying;

if they ask to come to their dad, what their grandmother replies.

I wonder, silently, if this family of Noah’s, now separated by death and divorce,

will continue to come to this site several times yearly for generations.

I hope down the linage, they will stand together.

 

We head west, Noah’s father and me, where brown earth has rolled onto her back. 

Her soft, warm belly, recently itched and raked by farm machinery,

unashamedly exposed.

 

All poetry on this page
Copyright
© b
y Ronda Miller, 2014

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