Frank J Miles and Emily Dickinson

I shall write a poem
for Frank J. Miles.
I shall praise him,
exalt his name.
I shall take my pen,
and go within
to bring the phrases
of his glory
to share with you here.

I shall prepare
to write a poem
for Emily Dickinson,
as she sat staring
upon the Noreast drear
passing the lonely hours
with her pen in hand,
bringing words from within
to the pages of an
unknown diary or
an odd scrap of paper found.

Her thoughts came out
as tropes,
not as average sentences
line normal people’s do.

Frank J. Miles is living there now,
inside her life of
hermetic ecstasy,
transcendent self involvement.
Her ever growing self-awareness
turned her self-reflection into
the terror of being misunderstood,
unloved.

He’s here too, in his man body,
near NY, and always close enough
to feel her woolen skirt,
her cotton bodice, her stockings
and shoes moving from room to room,
as the sun makes it’s daily pass.
Finally then in fixed,
only in her own room,
where she finally passed.

The corporeal self left,
she ascended into
the pantheon of
cloistered poets.

Now, when Frank J. Miles
wakes with a stanza in his pen,
and a rush of ambient
phrases flowing
as the sun passes
from dark to light
he moves from room to room
and then stationary, fixed
then ascends with Emily Dickinson
to the pantheon of lately recognized
and less cloistered poets.

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