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

That Night

That night
Together
In quietude
We saw the moon
Rise slowly above the lake
Paving stones on path
Worn smooth
With secret walking
Waterlilies edging water

© 2013 Melissa Fry Beasley, All Rights Reserved

______________________________________________

Mourning Figure

A mourning figure walks alone
his heart wont let him rest,
it seems he held just yesterday
the one his heart loved best.

He walked the wide world searching
time drew on he was worn numb.
Tried everything to draw her back
his love, she would not come.

She was not here, nor was she there
But lingered somewhere in between;
Lost in a tangled web of memories
haunted by the things she’d been.

It’s the way love binds a broken soul,
our dreams so slow to bleed.
It’s the way his scars will never heal
and no one but her could fill the need.

© 2013 Melissa Fry Beasley, All Rights Reserved

_________________________________________________

Rain Falls

Whenever rain falls
On a wind swept desert
It is like the coolness
Of dreaming in
A blue green shade
Rivers of sacred mud
Bring the dead
To life once more
Like a sudden downpour
You startle me
From distractions
Of grazing sheep
Lingering like
Lovely ladies
In flowing shawls
On their lips are stars
With tongues like rainbows
In the rumble of thunder
I remember the way
You moved inside me
Your fingerprints here
Footprints there
Before the wetness
Washed it all away

© 2013 Melissa Fry Beasley, All Rights Reserved

Indian Country Today

ICTMN

Indian Country Today is running one of my poems in honor of National Poetry Month. They are showcasing many talented people you would really enjoy reading. I will have another poem or two as the month progresses. Special thanks to Josh Robertson for asking me to participate.
(this particular poem will also appear in the printed version for subscribers)

https://indiancountrytodaymedianetwork.com/2013/04/08/song-yancey-red-corn-poem-melissa-fry-beasley-national-poetry-month-148674

________________________________

Making Our Hearts Sing by Jean Lafrance

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/