W.I.S.H. has two of my poems up!! Thank you Jeremiah Walton.

[tumblr_mdj8w2JGKy1qbbx6fo1_500

Walking Is Still Honest has two of my poems up here.

Advertisements

Almost – D.G.J.

cracked-mud-texture

Almost
DGJ

“ Our little envelope of time we share during the hustle and bustle of these green country days in Oklahoma like constellations of yore or some intergalactic planetary Z world. Sometimes two meet in harmony, come together and orbit around each other. At first a tender orbit that starts in a moment & leads to clasping, gripping, kissing, licking, holding into a thrust & release. Release back from each other and their orbit ….back to their worlds …back to their separateness….for a moment until the arc begins again. “ (he said)

What you didn’t do was sing to me one more time before said release.
There was no rain to save me from the drought cracking away at my spirit.
What you didn’t do was even ask before you ran. (again)
You assumed he would mean more than you,
or hold some sacred place he had never touched or known.
You didn’t see my world crumbling and falling around me.
You never really stepped inside.
I have spent the last 1097 nights alone.
With some days more bleak than this longing since your absence.
I recite you every moment like a prayer or poem.
How can I forget the sudden ferocity of our commingling
Here where more than flesh remembers,
in faint drawn out sounds.
I am but a ghost walking empty streets
draped in great stars of white hoarfrost,
in time that thickens and closes around me.
This is written with brushes
made from the bones of what could have been.
You folded my heart like it was paper and crushed it beneath your shoe.
(she said)

© 2013 Melissa Fry Beasley, All Rights Reserved

___________________________________________________

Endings Begin Thus Quietly

The fortune cookie at dinner read,
“ You will make many changes before settling down happily”.
In that moment, I knew there was more to love than you.
Strange the way something so simple can speak in signs, significations.
The way omens are visions and we will suddenly see what is sitting before us.
I knew the road behind had not led me to you, so much as to this place.
Where I would awaken within and see that there was another thing
I was meant to be doing this entire time.
Years wasted and gone in what was never anything more
than pictures we painted for those watching.

© 2013 Melissa Fry Beasley, All Rights Reserved

396280836af578bad31516dfcd2a8e94-d5leaxb

Sycophant

We are all broken bits
left over from some end,
doorways leading
to empty rooms.
We run while we wait
for something to move,
everyday a barter of
quench and thirst.
Sycophant you are,
i’m always giving in
to occasions
with too much
in my mouth
to speak.
No space for tongue
or meaning,
no room
for reason & rebuilding.
We are all broken bits
left over from flawed beginnings.
They said we never stood a chance.

© 2013 Melissa Fry Beasley, All Rights Reserved

_____________________________________________

Rich Men Know Suffering

Fingers have their own prayers
like expectant mouths and widened eyes;
dreams inside my clinched fist
to prevent their escape.

The starry blizzard will
soon freeze heaven harder
than in the year
that has passed.
In winter some must die,
but nature is just.

I have waited for
something to escape
from beneath the burden
of the lies we tell ourselves.
The hammered talk of consequence
and the ways we learn
to live with stone.

The first slaughter is for victory.
The second for grief twisted like roots.
Because our pain is ancient,
I have not trusted those
who never came back
from the dead.

Stay and mourn the collapsing
of the burning house
from which I flee daily.
Poets change loved ones
more than words,
blanks we fill in
between ourselves and strangers.

This hardening is a way to grieve.
We have known lesser wins and greater losses,
like picking among the charred bones.
Rich men know about suffering,
constructing catastrophe gone blue with cold,
fragile as the surface tension of water.

© 2013 Melissa Fry Beasley, All Rights Reserved

________________________________________________

One Set Of Borders

How easily the mind
can switch from one
set of borders
to another.
Raindrops on metal roofs.
Bones that can no longer
hold the skin.
Seasons and distance.
I let you make love to me hard
against the edges
of mountains and towers,
scent of canyons after rain.
There are many ways
of knowing oneself
and together we learned
every way to come undone.
Beyond the body
or bees making honey.
Before we were even thought.
A long string of small extinctions.

© 2013 Melissa Fry Beasley, All Rights Reserved

_______________________________

My friend Amit was published today in Miracle Ezine!! Please read what he had to say about it, and me! lol

http://all-amit-thinks.blogspot.com/2013/04/my-first-publication-in-miracle-e-zine.html

In My Verse- New Poem

grungy-block-wall

Bed Yourself In My Verse

I love the way
you bed yourself
in my verse
making each song
one about you.
Earth’s sweet perfume
fragrant on night air,
your memory
the breeze that caresses.
A muse, my delight
from whence such craving
springs forth,
like swollen fruit raised
up in offering.
Under your skin
the moon is shining alive,
like the light that
radiates out from you.
I love the way
you bed yourself
in my verse
like awaking to the suns
of our ancestors.
Something so primal
and natural calls
and if there were
but a moment,
i’d hide in you
To be carried close
buried deep in your soul
like the warmth
of a sunbeam or melody.

© 2013 Melissa Fry Beasley, All Rights Reserved

______________________________________________________

Remembering

Remembering
the past
only makes me
miss it more.
All the old places are gone.
People and attitudes have changed.
Sometimes the memories
are more painful than
the joy I remembered.
I still find the need to embrace
out of fear that we would forget.
(those we loved and cherished)
We can let them know
that they are still loved,
our heart remembers their lives &
aches for their passing.
They come back
to console me when I mourn.

© 2013 Melissa Fry Beasley and Carlos Guevara, All Rights Reserved

__________________________________________________

Also they were kind enough to inclue my poem 1st Rain in “That’s How Romantic Monday Goes” here:
http://edwardhotspur.wordpress.com/2013/04/08/thats-how-romantic-monday-goes/