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                   A Page of Poems 
                                                © by Emil T. Miller  (Tony Miller)   -   or as noted

                            ~  "A conclusion is the place where you got tired of thinking."  ~

 "The Legend of El Gato"                                                      

 The Legend of El Gato
  by Emil T. Miller (Tony Miller) - from his book "EL GATO"

In the dead of winter, midst a mantle of snow,
came the story of a fearful thing, a thing called... El Gato!

Snug in their wickiups, with embers bright red,
old Indians tell it as they spread their beds.

The waifs to the rear are paralyzed with fears,
as the winds from without moans in their ears.
 
Eyes wide with fright, huddled mute in their places,
ghostly firelight flickers on their faces.

No man is certain, whether paleface or red,
if it be cat, man, or spirit.  ...Or if it is dead!

Quick as a cat, cunning as a man,
the elusive creature screamed as it ran.

Nine lives it had, and some thought stilled,
yet devouring its’ enemies, countless it killed.

On a horse called the lightning, with an arm of fire,
it rode through the mountains higher and higher...

'till it disappeared on the wind.

...Only to return again.

Then as it despaired, consumed in reckless abandon,
into his life came a pure, virtuous Indian maiden.

With goodness and beauty she forced his surrender,
then calmed by the Princess, his wild heart became tender.

And finally at last, truth comes to the fore:
Protecting the weak was always his chore.
 
Now, the mists of time disperse and clear.
Still defending the righteous, ...El Gato is still here!

A poem of tribute to my Red Brethren © By Emil T.Miller
 

Creation:  -  by Emil T. Miller                                                                    

     C R E A T I O N
   by Emil T. Miller (Tony Miller)


The Sun,
  The Moon . . .

The Earth,
The Sky . . .

The Stars,
The Trees . . .

The Birds,
The Breeze . . .

The Fish,
The Seas . . .

The Beasts,
The Bees . . .

. . . and Man on his Knees

© by Emil T. Miller  (Tony Miller)
  (Click here for the AUTHOR'S BIO)

Annie of Tharaw:  (for married couples young and old)

                           Annie of Tharaw
        ...Written long ago, a translation form the original German of Simon Dach by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

                                    To MICHAEL and SUNDI (Miller) HOWELL- June 9, 2001                         From DAD for your Marriage, on your Wedding Day: 
 
                      ~ Two lives; One heart ~    (My title)

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~

Annie of Tharaw, my true love of old,
She is my life, my goods, and my gold.

Annie of Tharaw, her heart once again
To me has surrendered in joy and in pain.

Annie of Tharaw, my riches, my good,
Thou, O my soul, my flesh and my blood!

Then come the wild weather, come sleet or come snow,
We will stand by each other, however it blow.

Oppression, and sickness, and sorrow, and pain
Shall be to our true love as links to the chain.

As the palm-tree standeth so straight and so tall,
The more the hail beats, and the more the rains fall,

So love in our hearts shall grow mighty and strong,
Through crosses, through sorrows, through manifold wrong.

Shouldst thou be torn from me to wander alone
In a desolate land where the sun is scarce known,

Through forests I'll follow, and where the sea flows,
Through ice, and through iron, through armies of foes.

Annie of Tharaw, my light and my sun,
The threads of our two lives are woven in one.

Whate'er I have bidden thee, thou has obeyed,
Whatever forbidden thou hast not gainsaid.

How in the turmoil of life can love stand,
Where there is not one heart, one mouth, and one hand?

Some seek for dissension, and trouble, and strife;
Like a dog and a cat live such a man and his wife.

Annie of Tharaw, such is not our love;
Thou art my lambkin, my chick, and my dove.

Whate'er is my desire, in thine may be seen;
I am king of the household, and thou art its queen.

It is this, O my Annie, my heart's sweetest rest,
That makes of twain but one soul in one breast.

Wrangling soon changes a home to a hell;
But ours is a heaven, the hut where we dwell.

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

~~~~~~~~~

~ My Added Verse ~

For his beloved daughter's life;
a father’s prayerful tome:

Is for his precious angel to have a kind, gentle, loving husband
Who can sign onto this poem.

Emil T. Miller - June 9, 2001
 

What Words Can't Say:  (A Poem for parents)

To Mother and Daddy:

    What Words Can't Say  
- by Emil Maxwell Miller   ("Max")
 

So many times along life’s way,
I’ve wished I could tell you what words can’t say.

Some cards, a present, a hug or two,
Could never show my love for you.

Since the time I came onto this earth,
Since the very day of my birth,

You’ve been there with love and gave me your all,
And cushioned my blows every time I would fall.

I’ve thought a lot and tried to find a way,
But I can never tell you what words can’t say.

I love you both.


© Emil Maxwell Miller
April 8, 2001
 

The Rain Song:  (A nice Poem for CHILDREN of all ages)

                                   The Rain Song 
                                                                                    by Robert Loveland
                                This poem as recited here, is from her childhood memory by Shirley (Pavliska) Miller

It is not raining rain for me,
Its raining daffodils;
In every dimpled drop I see
Wild flowers on the hills.

The clouds of grey engulf the day
And overwhelm the town;
Its not raining rain to me,
Its raining roses down.

It is not raining rain to me,
But fields of clover bloom,
Where any buccaneering bee
May find a bed and room.

A health unto the happy,
A fig for him who frets!
It is not raining rain to me,
It’s raining violets.

From YOUR memory, is it correct?  Is there more of it?
 

                                      


In Sweet Remembrance:

In Sweet Remembrance

 You are not dead
You are just away
You'll come back to me someday

It's in the fall of seventy one
And I have lost the only one

But it seems I can hear you calling
With each leaf I see falling

But come spring
And the birds begin to sing

I feel you are near
And I'm coming soon dear

Sweet memories linger on
Of the years gone by
The short 35 years we had together
You and I

Written October 3, 1971 - © By Sara Nell Bonner
...mother of my schoolmate and friend of many years, Robert F. Bonner of Carrollton, Georgia.
She had lost her husband "Rip", Robert's father, just a few months earlier.
...ETM

~ A TREE ~

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair.
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

...this poem was written by Joyce Kilmer in 1913.  He was killed in France in WW I
 

                                             

 

                                  THE LORD'S PRAYER
                                                                                         Matthew 6:9-13

     "After this manner therefore pray ye:
 
Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. 
Thy kingdom come. 
Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven. 
Give us this day our daily bread. 
And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors. 
And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil;
For thine is the kingdom, and (*)the power, and the glory, for ever.
 
Amen."
 

* Some might question why The Lord's Prayer should be on a page of poems like this.  I don't .  It is here because our Lord and Savior prayed it and gave it to us to pray, ...and because it is the most beautiful thing on this page.  Other writings reflect wisdom and reflection but limited views of the human experiences of our lives on this earth, while this God-given prayer reflects the source of life and the believer's dependence on God for the ultimate goal of a glorified eternal life of beauty, serenity and happiness forever in the presence of God our Father Creator.                                           ...ETM
 

IN  FLANDERS  FIELDS
by Major John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place;  and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below

We are the dead.  Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow.
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel  with the foe
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
 

About the poem's inspiration:
The scenes of battle moved John McCrae, a Canadian doctor, to write "In Flanders Fields."  He wrote the poem as he sat in the area where wounds were dressed, looking out at a field of graves.  The poem was later published in England's Punch Magazine in December 1915.  Within months, this poem came to symbolize the sacrifices of all who were fighting in the First World War.  Today, the poem continues to be a part of Remembrance Day / Veterans' Day ceremonies throughout the world.  McCrae died of pneumonia in 1918, a common killer of Great War soldiers.

The tradition of poppies:
Inspired by McCrae's poem, American Moina Michael wore poppies to honor the war dead.  She also began to sell poppies to raise money for disabled veterans.  After meeting Moina Michael in 1920, Frenchwoman Madame E. Guérin started selling handmade poppies to raise money for poor children who were living in the aftermath of the Great War.  Soon thereafter Field-Marshall Earl Haig, the former British Commander-in-Chief, encouraged the selling of paper poppies to raise funds for veterans. This tradition spread throughout the countries which compiled the British Commonwealth, and then to the United States.
                                                                 ...http://www.rowlandandassociates.com/Flanders.htm
 

Shirley, my sweet wife of 40+ years, can recite more poems than anyone I know.  At the age of 11 she was engrossed in her school's Storytelling and Poem Reciting Competitions and participated in all of them.  Whatever happened to this wonderful character-building feature of the schools of the 1950's and earlier??  Here is one of her (and my) favorites:
 

                            Little Boy Blue
                                                          by Eugene Field, 1911

                                              The little toy dog is covered with dust,
                                                  But sturdy and staunch he stands;
                                             And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
                                                 And his musket moulds in his hands.
                                           Time was when the little toy dog was new;
                                                And the toy soldier was passing fair,
                                        And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
                                                   Kissed them and put them there.

                                             "Now, don't you go till I come," he said;
                                                   "And don't you make any noise!"
                                                  So toddling off to his trundle-bed
                                                      He dreamt of the pretty toys.
                                             And as he was dreaming, an angle song
                                                    Awakened our Little Boy Blue.

                                           Oh, the years are many, the years are long,
                                                   But the little toy friends are true!
                                             Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
                                                       Each in the same old place,
                                                  Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
                                                         The smile of a little face.
                                   And they wonder, as waiting these long years through,
                                                       In the dust of that little chair,
                                              What has become of our Little Boy Blue
                                              Since he kissed them and put them there.

Confederate soldier William F. Thompson was killed during the Civil War at Yorktown, Virginia.  Here is a poem he wrote to his wife Martha E. (Bennett) Thompson, as he left to join the Confederate Army on July 11, 1861:

O Martha, Sweet Martha,
O Martha, my wife, fair you well, Dear.
I'm going to leave you for several long years,
I'm going to leave you, always it may be,
A valued true soldier to live and die free.
Our country invaded and this you well know,

To God my Protector, my soul He commands,
O will you, Dear Martha, upon Him depend.
He will never forsake you, though often you cry,
May mercy surround you, Dear Martha, Good-Bye.

                                                                              ...provided by Betty Hartsfield, Carrollton, Ga.

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