The poster quote today is from a writer friend of mine whom I met in our state organization for writers many years ago. Ronda Miller was a person you noticed in a crowd, and later, you were drawn to her poetry. Ronda was a good person as well as a fine poet. Always there to help others. She passed away this past December after a courageous battle with a serious health condition. She lives on in the words of the many poems she wrote over a lifetime.
Ronda loved her family and friends, she loved the Kansas prairie where she grew up, and she shared that and much more through her poetry. Her books of poetry include:
Going Home: Poems from My Life
MoonStain
WaterSigns
Winds of Time
I Love the Child
Ronda wove stories of life, death, and love in her poetry. most of which was narrative. To read one of her poetry books brought her to you as though you were having coffee with one another in a cafe, preferably one filled with books. Or perhaps it brought the reader to her, as well.
I have several of Ronda's poetry books, but the poem I like best is the one that is the title of one of her first books--Moonstain. Ronda's mother committed suicide when her two daughters were quite small. A tragedy that affected Ronda's life in many ways. The poem, Moonstain, touched me deeply, and still does every time I read it. You can read it below.
MoonStain
Barn doors pushed shut
an indication something worth
investigating was within. It took
all my strength to open, slide
to close again. New birth
in pungent urgency led
me to the still born calf
quite warm. I nestled
in the hay beside it, placed
my arms around its neck.
I knew what death was, heard
whispers of my mother's
not long before. I could hear
the mother cow's loud bawling
from outside the back barn door.
I felt the spirit of the calf lift,
swirl around me, disappear. It
grew cold. I felt damp fear.
I sat in the caliginous stall
until my sister came, took
my hand, ran with me past
my grandmother's moonlit
garden of hollyhocks,
strawberries, rhubarb and iris,
past the spot where a rattlesnake
soaked up water from
a sprinkler one August day,
past the rotted elm
where fire ants swarmed
in balls before they
tumbled to the ground.
We opened the rusted
screen door and
tiptoed to bed,
where I lay crying,
because it felt so wondrous,
because it felt so good,
until the moonstain
no longer spread
across the floor.
(c) Ronda Miller
Ronda Miller has left our earth in body, but she lives on through the myriad numbers of poems she wrote. A family member, a friend, a mere acquaintance, and even one who never knew her can feel her living yet in the words she left.
Her books are still on sale at Amazon and Meadowlark Press.
