the fog ain’t liftin’ here – it
sorta rolls around an’
tries to climb the valley walls
but never does – it
stands and fights the sun
but always loses – yet
it never seems quite beaten
never really gone
life and times of r w miller
poems, musings, random thoughts and observations
For all that Irish beer that you drink, you should know that it is ‘never really gone.’ On my mom’s fridge is the tribe’s mantra: On being Irish … I have an over abiding sense of tragedy that sustains me through temporary periods of joy.
Poetry is not born of joy. It comes from ‘roll around’ and the fight. And I know that you’re not really all- Irish, but you write poetry like an Irishman … don’t even try to shoo that muse away. Not all of it, anyway.