I Won A Contest!

ginger hair watercolor

There was a poetry competition in honour of Emily Dickinson over at the Political Poet website for National History Month. They let the readers vote and somehow, my little poem won first place!!! I didn’t know until now. You are the first to know!

It was announced here:

The poem is on my blog here.


Poem To My Grandmother

Mixed media collage, me

Piecing together life
Into amazing squares
Of faith and strength
Catching laughter
Binding tears
Placing them just so
Feather stitching chaos into order
Into your hoop
Go dreams of the people
Memories of family
Nations quilted into glorious hugs and well wishes
Sent across miles
Or just around the corner
Wrapped tightly
Safely shielded from the elements
Harshness of the world
History woven into each block
Every blanket containing pieces of you
Your wisdom
Reminding us who we are
Where we came from
In one of your blankets I saw chickens in a coop
another contained startstuffs and Heaven
I’ve seen wedding rings
A trail across Kansas
Even the path of a drunkard
I saw the blanket of Chiefs and
One men wrap up in to see Holy things
There was even one made by your Grandmother so long ago
When she was still little
Love in each stitch
Prayer in every thread
So much magic in each creation of your beautiful hands
I found my Grandmother
Her Grandmothers
Blowing in the breeze
Soaking in the sun
As this blanket was just hanging there.

© Melissa Fry Beasley 2006


daddy poem
Not Sure Who Took Photo


You are the hot oceanside sands slipping all too easily
Through my fragile fingers.
You are the tide rolling carelessly in, breaking,
Roaring back out into vastness.
You are the moments fleeing far too quickly now.
The child lost, indigenous vagabond, rebel without a cause.
It seems I possess no hour glass in which to contain you,
No bucket to carry you home.
No light, that you might see your path.
Cursed to endlessly roam,
You are the satellite in outer space.
It seems i’ve sailed the universe
Since last I saw your face.
You may be a free bird in your own mind,
I see a dandelion.
Soon some round faced child shall clumsily pluck you,
Close their hopeful wide eyes
Only to wish and blow
Sending you soaring through the atmosphere
With only the galaxy to hold you then.

© Melissa Fry Beasley 2003