I’ve never used the haiku to springboard a different type of poem than a sonnet…until now. This is more freeform, or at least, it took on a form of its own. (Unless this type of poetry already has a name?) Anyway, I couldn’t pin this one into a sonnet format. It’s a bit more sprawling.
alabaster white pottery shards strewn about just flower petals
Unglued By Michelle Garren-Flye
Seeing white shards among the green grass I pause to remember shattered china on the strange orange floor of the kitchen, no sooner broken than regretted, gathered up and pieced back together with glue.
But these are just magnolia petals dropped carelessly from an angelic bloom to the peace of the smooth emerald below, and the tree has no regrets, emits no sighs, but stands tall, rich in nonchalance.
Maybe it’s time to throw out the glue and mow the broken scraps under so I can grow something new.
Photo and poem copyright 2025 Michelle Garren-Flye
Mother’s Day is a day of mixed feelings for me. I have kids who can’t always be with me all day on Mother’s Day anymore because, guess what?, if you raise your kids right, they go off and get jobs and significant others (who inconveniently also have mothers) (that’s a joke), and sometimes even homes of their own. I am fortunate to have three wonderful children who all love me and who all take the time to wish me a happy Mother’s Day, whether they are with me or not. I am proud of them and their accomplishments, even when I wish I could spend more time with them.
My own mother passed away in February two years ago. And I’m divorced, so, although I still care very much for my ex’s mother, I haven’t seen her, and communication is difficult. I went from having two mothers I celebrated to having memories of them, mostly.
On Mother’s Day, honor your mother. But also remember the motherless children and the childless mothers. In honor of all mothers and all children, I made an attempt at a Petrarchan sonnet. I’ve always found them difficult, and I’m far from certain I got it right.
Mother’s Day Petrarchan By Michelle Garren-Flye
All the world seems full of scent and flower; there is no thought of tears or sorrow here. Have you ever seen the blue sky so clear? Absolutely no chance of a shower. Ease is an arboreous bower! Spring is not the time for sadness, my dear; please recognize this is the month for cheer, and worship this time, adore each hour. But...is this day not one of amity? Remembrance can cast a dusky shadow… although I think it’s mostly vanity. I say this now with all due gravity: A mother’s love is much more than most know; Death cannot reduce its capacity.
This year, I decided to buy my mother roses. I have her picture in my bookstore, and I put the roses next to it. She was never able to visit my store but I know she would have loved it. So I keep her picture on a shelf and remember her every day. I know I am fortunate to have had a mother like her. One I want to remember.
And so it’s done. And it was really fun. A challenge indeed. Perhaps some rest I need.
Sonnet 15
Fashion Flash
Purple is the color this spring; from coast to coast, it is the rage. Don lavender attire when dressing— perform a twirl as you take the stage.
Forget the pinks and greens of yesteryear; cast off rose-colored raiment and robe. Today’s tint is arrived, it’s here! Making a mark all around the globe.
Try on every dress but discard each? You can’t expect to become a violet The iris, too, is beyond your reach. Such finery, no, you can’t acquire it.
But…maybe it’s better not to pretend? We can only be ourselves in the end.
Photo and poem copyright 2025 Michelle Garren-Flye
Wait if you will for the wind to blow you from your stem into the world, I refuse to believe I’m just for show, though it’s easier to wait, arms unfurled
for the next breath to set me aflight. Instead of struggling over the hilltops to the crest of the mountain—always a fight— just let the breeze carry me through raindrops.
But no, it’s my life, I must make my own way, carry my own weight where I wish to go. If I tamely wait here, I may fall prey to lethargic languor and become too slow.
I will struggle on always though it is hard and I may arrive at last, battered and scarred.
Photo and poem copyright 2025 Michelle Garren-Flye
BREATHE: Michelle Garren-Flye 