Michelle Garren Flye's Blog, page 38

Poem 8 (National Poetry Month): Spellbound

April 8, 2020

Spellbound

By Michelle Garren Flye

I stopped for the butterfly,

Spellbound by his splendor,

As if he were dressed in finery

At an event where I wore jeans.

Sunlight sparked jeweled wings,

Black and gold speckled shade.

Magnificence in the midst

Of common beauty.

He took no notice of me

Though I froze in place

To make way for his jaywalking.

He just fluttered by,

Leaving me foolish,

A heart-deep longing

He woke in me.

[image error]Out of focus, but maybe that’s best. Photo by Michelle Garren Flye

Poem 7 (National Poetry Month): Mother’s Storm

April 7, 2020

Mother’s Storm

By Michelle Garren Flye

The storm hit us finally, with a smack—

A big, backhanded, whack.

We didn’t know quite what to think.

Why would Mother do us this way?

Why cast us into the fray?

Why would she push us to the brink?

And yet rain poured, and the water rose.

We were in it up to our nose.

And the storm, we found, was the link.

We figured out Mother wasn’t just mad,

No, our Mother was downright bad.

She wanted to blind us, wanted us to sink.

That’s not in a mother’s nature, it is true,

But when she’s thrown askew,

Mother Nature will kill without a blink.

[image error]Photo by Michelle Garren Flye

Poem 6 (National Poetry Month): Mortality

April 6, 2020

Mortality

By Michelle Garren Flye

Immortal words are hard to match.

Immortal actions impossible to catch.

Mere humans cannot hope to fight

What Gods defeat with a show of might.

Yet we plod on, we persist in trying.

Some may even come close to flying.

But most of us remain on the ground,

Our wings clipped, our feet earth-bound.

Do the Gods of Olympus laugh at our effort?

Do they snicker as we grovel in the dirt?

Or maybe some of them can’t help but admire

That rain and wind cannot defeat human fire.

Mortal deeds may be undone over time.

Statues fall, paintings fade, words fail to rhyme.

But persistence in spite of defeat impresses,

And that alone accounts for our successes.

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Photo by Michelle Garren Flye

Poem 5 (National Poetry Month): Light

Light

By Michelle Garren Flye

I see you.

Falling, gliding, from the sky.

You slide across a spider web,

Amazing feat of parkour.

Skating across the water,

Dancing, dazzling.

You skip nimble from ripple to ripple.

Even when the curtains are shut, you sneak in.

Sometimes you hurt.

Maybe you don’t mean it, but you do.

I turn away, close my eyes against the tears,

But they come anyway.

You never fail me, though, even in the darkest night

And bleakest day, I can find you.

I see you,

And that’s your gift.

[image error]Light. Photo by Michelle Garren Flye

Poem 4 (National Poetry Month): Everything Grows (for the Bard)

An attempt at a sonnet, sort of a sonneninzio, inspired by Shakespeare’s Sonnet 15:

Everything Grows (for the Bard)

By Michelle Garren Flye

Everything grows, according to Shakespeare—

From the smallest microbe to the tallest tree.

Everything rushes to ends we all fear,

Hurrying along to the only way to be free.

What happens to us in the end, do you think?

What happens at last to the things that grow?

When life’s grasp loosens on eternity’s brink,

And we find ourselves caught in the universe’s flow.

What mysteries might we at last resolve?

Some say we fade, less important than we thought.

But maybe we find our way to finally evolve?

Into something better, something we’ve always sought.

Whatever happens, we can’t deny the bard was right.

Everything grows, everything rushes into the night.

[image error]Everything grows. Photo by Michelle Garren Flye

Poem 3 (National Poetry Month): Zoom…Zoom…Zoom

It’s my oldest boy’s birthday, so I’m taking a break from the depressing stuff and celebrating him. Happy birthday to my son.

Zoom...Zoom...Zoom
By Mom


Time flies when you’re having fun, or so they say,
But I can remember each individual day.
From the time you were born,
The last day diapers were worn,
From taking your first step,
To each and every time you wept.
The joy of you has kept us wondering what’s next
From the moment you drew first breath.
It’s not always easy, in fact life can be hard.
But you’re up to it, Josh, you’ll do your part.
Hang in there, have faith, and I know you’ll see
Just how much happiness a good life can be.





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Happy National Poetry Month (a day late)

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Yesterday was April 1, 2020, the first time I’ve ever wished someone would declare the whole year thus far as an April Fool’s joke.

It didn’t happen.

But while I was waiting for it to happen, I did get something done. A little something, anyway. I took a picture. You can see it to the left.

Yes, I published a book of poetry. A couple of those poems go back several years to the first year I wrote a poem a day for National Poetry Month. That’s when I first realized I liked writing poetry. And that I was pretty good at it.

I’ve come a little ways since then. I’m more confident about what I can do and why I do it. I’m pretty sure I’ll write poetry for the rest of my life. I guess that’s why I decided to go ahead and publish a small collection publicly. If you know there’s more coming, why not, right?

Speaking of which, there’s never been a better time for whiling away the time writing poetry than now. A bookstore, the most essential place of business in the best of times, isn’t, exactly, right now. So, in the interests of the public health, I’m staying home. And since it’s National Poetry Month, I’m writing a poem a day. Since I missed yesterday, you get two today. Let me know what you think!

April 1, 2020
 
April Fool’s, I cry, wishing it applied.
If only the past four years could dissipate
And life go on with no reason to hide.
But go back inside and shut the gate;
No use waiting for a change in the tide.
 
Store’s closed, theater’s shuttered, all gone.
No more help from those in charge
Than that you give yourself alone.
No superheroes will arrive and barge
In to help you, so change your tone.
 
Would life be better if other decisions were made?
Oh yes, but we can’t live for yesterday when
Worries about tomorrow still pervade.
Close your eyes and count one to ten.
Then go on with life, there are debts to be paid.




April 2, 2020
 
How long until we trust a hug again?
How long before we open up to life,
And throw our arms around each other?
I’d like to buy the world a coke—
But that’s tough from six feet away.
 
They say it will happen eventually.
Slowly, we’ll see this thing go away.
Can a hug happen carefully,
Or is it more of a spontaneous thing?
Can we learn to embrace that way?
 
I guess it will work out for us, though.
When this is over, we’ll be delicate.
It’s better to be careful when you’re hurt.
And oh, we will be tired and we will ache—
When we get there, don’t squeeze too hard.

Poem: Peace and Rubble (is this how we go?)

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Humans, as a whole, have a difficult time seeing clearly beyond their own noses. I’m guilty of it, too. Some have a gift of empathy where they not only see clearly what is happening to others beyond their own experience, they feel it, too. These poor creatures are definitely the exceptions.

Look at what’s going on now. Here in southeastern North Carolina, we’re dealing with the restrictions that COVID-19 has placed on our entire nation, we’re watching the news and seeing the numbers tick steadily up—but the people around us don’t appear to be sick. Maybe some of them are, but their cases must be extremely mild. We know that there are more cases out there and we could be next. We know it, but we don’t, for the most part, actually feel it.

And so we go on about our lives. We’ve taken up new hobbies, returned to old ones. The kids go to “online” school every day. Some of us are chafing a little at the restrictions. My kids can’t see their friends. My oldest is missing the second half of his sophomore year at college. But over it all, right now (and it may be short-lived), I have a feeling of profound peace. I’m not rushing anymore. I’m not feeling guilty for devoting so much time to the theater work I love instead of making dinner for my family. I have time to fold laundry and wash dishes. I’m enjoying this unanticipated vacation.

And I know it shows a lack of empathy that I can feel peaceful right now. Maybe this is the end of everything, maybe it’s the ruination of our country, maybe it’s the apocalypse. Anyway…

Peace and Rubble (is this how we go?)

By Michelle Garren Flye

If this is the way we go, I think it’s the way I choose:

Family all around, safe in our home, with love as real

As the things I care about—the only things I have to lose;

Maybe that’s wrong to say but it’s the way I feel.

It’s an odd war we’re fighting, of that there is no doubt.

The enemy is hidden, you can’t even see the rubble.

There’s nothing to show on the nightly news, no bout

Of bombing or flattened buildings—maybe that’s the trouble.

Instead of fighting, we’re asked to sit still and quiet

Don’t go out, stay home with your loved ones, they say.

There’s a special joy in that if you’ll only find it,

A life you’ve not given yourself time to live—until today.

Poem: Unstoppable (an ode to art)

When this whole coronavirus thing started, I mourned the theaters closing down, the canceled basketball seasons, the silenced concerts. In my mind, art is what makes us all who we are, whether we make it, appreciate it or resist it. That’s why repressive regimes cut art funding. That’s why freedom of expression is the first freedom lost and the last to be regained. Art pushes boundaries governments don’t want to be pushed, and when it’s given up voluntarily as it has been in the Covid-19 crisis, I sometimes worry it won’t return easily.

And yet.

Art is still happening. Theaters are finding ways to stream plays. Musicians are offering live stream concerts. Sports fanatics are getting their fix by watching classic games. And this got me started thinking. Art has always found a way. It always will.

Unstoppable (an ode to art)

By Michelle Garren Flye

It squeezes through the cracks.

Look there, at that wall, solid brick

Built to contain, to hold back, to keep out.

Sturdy and solid, at least eight inches thick…

But don’t lose concentration, don’t turn your backs!

I tell you, if you do, it will creep through the cracks.

It’ll ooze through the tiniest of the littlest of spaces.

And what harm can that do, I can just hear you ask.

What harm can a little bit do, even in the worst cases?

I’m glad you asked, because it’s likes poison in snacks.

It’s the sneakiest of things, when it slides through the cracks.

No one understands just how serious it is.

It will decay all our rules, promote thought and reflection.

That kind of thing will spell the end of all this.

Maybe it’s time we start to make tracks.

You can still stop it! Maybe pile sticks into stacks?

Or chew up some gum to stop the hole fast?

As a last measure, you can hold it back with your hands?

But you’ll feel it squeezing, creeping, oozing past…

There’s no way to keep art from getting through the cracks.

[image error]Photo by Michelle Garren Flye

Poem: An Empty Bookstore

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I know how lucky I am. I get to go into a bookstore every single day. In these coronavirus days, that’s something special. Admittedly, I know this time is a setback. I certainly never imagined I would end up closing down for weeks and possibly months this soon after becoming the owner of a bookstore. But life’s lemons make sweet lemonade if you know the recipe, and for me, that recipe includes a lot of books and time.

Today, I will go back to the bookstore. I will sit behind my desk and do paperwork and hope the phone will ring. I will spend some time dusting and rearranging shelves. And I will spend some time just sitting silently. But I won’t be alone.

An Empty Bookstore

By Michelle Garren Flye

An empty bookstore is still quite full.

Just sit silent and listen for a minute.

You’ll find the characters of another soul

Acting stories for your entertainment.

Look there! It’s Hazel from Watership Down!

He’d best watch out, McGregor’s not picky—

Peter Rabbit escaped and ran into town,

And farmers say all pesky rabbits are tricky.

In a quiet corner, the Little Women gather.

Meg, Jo, Amy, Beth dream dreams of future days.

I wonder what they’d think of today, whether

Marmee would approve of our wayward ways?

Curious George flies a kite with Paddington Bear,

Ignoring Jekyll’s Hyde lurking in the shadows.

Scarlett O’Hara ponders which dress to wear

While Atticus Finch seeks to deal legal blows.

Over yonder lies Dracula’s coffin in state

And don’t forget to check in on Miss Havisham.

Now that you’re ready to flee, just wait—

Anne Shirley is here with green egg’s Sam.

The longer you sit quiet in this empty place

The more peopled you’ll find it is in the end.

You know, you can do the same in your own space?

Books are all you need to make a friend.