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M. e. Miller

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M.e. Miller,  also known as  Michael Ellis, was professionally   published before he graduated from high school. His dialect poems, “Black  shoes” and “What Ya Stealin for?” were enough to  impress the University of  Puget Sound, where he majored in English and minored  in Journalism. Six  years later Ellis went from the page to the stage, performing  in more than  a hundred readings. He became an orator,  and a dramatist, teaching himself  to perform in more than twenty  different voices. He used his ability more  often to help people who were victims of abuse and injustice. On stage  he  tells stories by combining prose and poetry, naming his style "Prosetry”. 
     
Compared often  to renaissance poet Langston Hughes, Ellis worked for years to expand his  skill set. He wanted to be more than a dialect poet. The  pressure of  historical comparison began to take a devastating toll. In 1996 Pulitzer prize winning poet, Gwendolyn Brooks, wrote him the first of four times.  She told him to calm down and that it would all make sense in time.

 In 2006, he was invited on scholarship to Howard University for the first chapter  of a novel, Dear Oprah. He  performed at the Hurston- Wright annual convention. Months later he was also honored with a prize at Sacramento State University for  that same novel. He was also awarded a second prize for his children’s short story, “The Legend of Sleepy.” In 2012 M.e.  Miller  returned to the poetry scene after many years away. His book, Goodbye  Langston, a tribute to Langston Hughes, will be released later this  year.


                                                                The Ghost of Slim
 
And I walked down that cold eerie avenue
Past Goldberg’s  Pawn Shop
    Past the Rising Sun Mortuary                    
                   Past Sunny’s Rib House

 And the moon above shined like White silver
The moon above shined whiter than silver
And those Harlem winds blew easy

And I saw a boarded up Blues Club
That looked more like a shack
I wanted to turn the other way
But it was too late to turn back
 
That dimly lit saloon

 Was filled with Black ghost

      Ol’ Lamont the bartender

  Curtis the cook

        And Wilson the  host

 
Ol’ Fats beat his piano like a boxer

While beautiful black browed ladies

Danced as graceful as a ballet

Sliding-Gliding-Dancing the night away

And those Harlem lights  

Just like those Harlem nights

Burned low and dim

       And everyone was there except Slim

 
  They said Slim was walking down the Backstreets

 Right where those ol’ trains used to  meet.

When I saw him I was so scared, 

I said, “Time to hit it, feet.”

 
Slim said, “Boy are you afraid of a ghost?”

 “No,” I said, reluctant to go close.

 
He said, “Seventy years ago the men set fire

To the Cotton Shack.

They say things in Harlem

 Was getting a little too Black...

 
There was nothing left but charred spirits

 Still wanting to dance and sing

Still wanting to play and swing

 And do their thing

And nobody could see them but me.

 Ol’ Nelson told the people he saw  them

 And they put him in the infirmary.

 They locked ol’ Nelson in the
  infirmary.




                                                                           The Death of Slim

 
Right before the Fire

They took Slim out

To some distant place

Saying, “Boy, do you believe

In the Great White Race?”

And Slim gave the mens a solemn reply

Saying, “Before you hang me high

 
Just let me blow this saxophone one last time.”

 
And he blew that Sax up toward heaven

Loud and sweet enough for Jesus to hear it

 An' ol' Slim was filled with the Spirit 
 
 
And those sweet notes

Sailed past Goldberg's Pawn Shop

          Past Sunny’s Rib House
               
         Over that Rising Sun Mortuary

 Right into that ol’ Blues shack

And they didn’t turn back.     


And Slim showed no fear

And he shed no tears

      He just played those

About-to-be-lynched

By-the-Great-White-race

Nobody-can-help-me

Nobody-can-hear-me

But-God-Blues.

 
  
 
 Billie’s Blues          
(For  Janis Joplin, Whitney Houston and Amy
Winehouse)
 
The  Government was supposed
To lock up Billie’s Blues
For a thousand years. 
No woman after her
was ever supposed to cry that many tears.
A  spokesman for the Smithsonian
said her sorrows were securely locked
inside  but disappeared exactly a year after she died.
When the guards got there
They couldn't find those Blues nowhere...

And The Department of Blues Control
No longer know the  whereabouts of her soul.

 How do you tell 200 million people
There's a Blues  outbreak?
Symptoms: morning heartaches. 

How do you alert the Press?
Billie’s Blues are walking the streets and can't rest.
Both the FBI and CIA
Conducted a search from Harlem To Tennessee.
 
            
             Lover Man, Oh Where Can You Be? 


Six Years later they found Dorothy
sprawled out dead on the floor
And those Blues claimed one more.

The Coroner found no signs of foul play.
They said those pills took Ms. Dandridge away.
But somewhere in some government file
Are the truer answers and clues…
A top secret outbreak of Billie's  Blues.
 
 
 
Birth O’ The Blues  


My Grandparents gave birth to  sorrow
During the Middle Passage.
Defying sea captains who cursed harsh reminders
While tossing their bodies to a sea more kinder.
Praying and singing as they jumped
Hearts beaten mournfully pumped.
But onward marched the accursed seed
Holding to hopes of being freed.
Singing from within the chastening hymn
We bid you our God. Do save us from them.
Crying and sighing with bleeding hearts torn
Reaping and Weeping
The Blues are  born.
 
My Grandmother taught America to lament.
She sat by the Mississippi and created the Spiritual.
Scrubbing and scraping for the Master's wives
Yes Ma’amin and no Sirin all their lives.
Smiling all the while with hidden resentment
Sharing with only God her discontentment.
Subjecting herself to the beast’s seed
While upwardly praying her lineage freed.
Parting her thighs for the tyrant’s charms

Praying he’d die there in her arms.

Coping and hoping and paying our dues
Waiting and anticipating
The Birth of the Blues.
 
My Grandfather taught the new world to reap.
From his heartfelt sorrow he made jazz.
Bending and bowing to avoid the Pirate’s rod
Spirit calling, “Where are you God?”
The Master overjoyed at his servant’s keeping
But slowly awakened a race in sleeping.
For out of the trodden soil a Nat Turner grows
Then comes a Marcus from the dust below.
Inwardly turned and outwardly torn
All this dyin’ and crucifyin’
The Blues are born. 
 
My Mother gave Harlem a song.
She opened her mouth and gave birth to the Blues.
The Oppressor prized his singing commodity
 Never quite understanding the profound Black oddity.
Staring with awe while the caged bird would sing
Mistaking for joy sorrow’s piercing sting.
Her children eyeing the oppressor
With malice unshown.
In the dark, the seeds of their anger become full grown.
No one aware of that which was to be-
A strange twist in our history.
A Martin cries a Malcolm is born
A song of hope for spirits torn.
All watch as the Blues are born.
 
My Father showed white folk to labor.
He created gospel from his upwardly cry.
Told of a God and a home across the sea
But all so dark and distant
In his Black  memory.
Growing intolerant of the oppressors hand
Demanding the respect due to a man.
Hanging like fruit on Southern trees high
Lynching crews laughed as they watched him die.
Not knowing the blood dripping to earth below
Would make a thousand seeds to rise and grow.
Awaiting my mother who somehow made it through
Two people about to give
Birth to the  Blues.
 
I must teach America a new hymn
Before the vines of wrath choke the fruit.
Vague my sojourn but not forgotten-
After the apple is eaten the core grows rotten.
The blood of my people like the river flows
Feeding the anger in the least of those.
For passive winds grow fervent
And shake an’ toss the mighty sea.
Oh would that you be observant 
And make my people free.
For surely the God ordains
We break this wretched rule.
Glad to meet you, Oppressor
I am the Blues.
 
 
What Sends Them Harvard Poets  
               
(For Langston Hughes)



What  sends them Harvard poets

 
I  just couldn't do it, Sir.

 What  sends them Harvard poets

 
I  just couldn't do it, Sir.

 They'll  never give me a Pulitzer.

 
What tickles them Yale poets

Just  leaves me sad an' a grievin'.

 
What tickles them Yale poets

Leaves me sad an' a grievin'.

Never seen Birch trees on a snowy evenin’. 
 

Them  Oxford poets got they poems

An'  I gots mine...

So  I'll be movin’ on, Langston

Movin’ down the line...