The Poetry of Mark Daniel Milbocker 
Named

The birthings, the dyings, and the inbetween
the euphoric, the overwhelmed, and the silent dream
standing to reach a shelf, walking to grab a toy
running to scrape a knee, desk-sitting to write filigree

Read my passport back to me, stolen letters of the three
My tribe, my fading far father, my individuality
I thought I was because I did
but apparently I'm just a tussled-haired kid

Whether it be dragonsmote or george's day
fair maidens milked or a respectable gray
nobody is bothered by your vicissitudes
or mindful of your mellifluously lilting gratitudes

Until tired and seated beneath the apple tree
where private discoveries delight noone but me
the raven slithers to the lithe branch's edge
to caw caw my name from this precipitous ledge

And rising from my prolonged fantasy
where my inkblot perceptions thought me free
flapping in the sacred eddies of world-wall-graffiti
I found a woven progeny to ravenspeak my legacy.
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©2025 Mark Daniel Milbocker  All rights reserved.