Red Corn Songs

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Isabel has once again graciously included me in Yareah Magazine!! Please feel free to check out my poems here. They are from ‘Red Corn Songs’.

I also found out my ‘Song For Yancey Red Corn’ made it all the way over here, to the Native American Encyclopedia! It is really making it’s rounds. It was in Indian Country Today, Native News Today, FirstPeople. lol I don’t know if it is spring and everyone likes a good love poem, or if it is something about an Osage man? Interesting nonetheless. My Grandmother used to tell us when we were little and coming up, to never let your love open with the Spring flowers. I assume because it might droop and fall just as quickly. What do you think?

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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

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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

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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

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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

Indian Country Today

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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

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Making Our Hearts Sing by Jean Lafrance