Biography of Jim Milks
I was born and still reside in Massachusetts; In fact, I live less then a mile from where I grew up. I am an engineer by trade. First, let me say that I am not a poet. Much as Julia Child said 'I am not a chef, I am just a person that likes to cook.' I am not a poet, I am just someone that likes to write poetry (as it were) . Some of the poems are really good (at least I think so) and some are not as good. Some are short while others are long.
It is my believe that poetry should come from the soul, not from the head I tried to write what I was feeling at the time. Sometimes I felt silly and other times morose and that is reflected in the poems.
I hope that you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them.
I have thought long and hard about writing an explanation of each poem and sometimes I did though not often. The reason is that to me a poem should stand on its own merit. If I explain to you what I was thinking and what I was feeling then the point of reading the poem and discovering that for yourself is lost. Just because I am the person that wrote the poem does not mean that mine is the only opinion, or the only valid opinion. If at anytime you read something and the meaning is lost (sometimes I am to sneaky and clever and nobody gets what I meant) . Please feel free to contact me and I will do my best to fill you in.
- Happy Birthday Dad
- Seasons: haiku
- Road really not taken
- Childhood is calling
- Wedding: a Haiku
- What is a Grandfather?
- A Million years to Sunday
- A Kiss upon your Cheek
- Respect: A Haiku
- A shot of Whiskey
- This is what summer means to me
- …Goodnight Boston, I love you..
- A soldier died
The Weary Solider
Upon the ancient battlefield the weary soldier stands
bowed of head and beaten of frame.
He stands a vigil to guard what remains
His weary eyes, his timeworn face, his spirit is broken
his uniform a disgrace. Yet still he stands and never falters
this is his fate he dare not alter.
He guards the dead, protects the fallen,
his comrades are gone they are not forgotten
alone he stands and this he dreads