A companion piece (or sequel?) to “Dead Dragon”
The Tiger
By Michelle Garren Flye
There’s a tiger in my heart
Pacing and guarding,
Keeping me safe.
He banished the dragon—
The one you abandoned
And left to its fate.
I love my tiger.
His growl seems to say,
You got this, little one,
I’m here to the end.
You got this, you’re strong
And you know it now.
And I do know it, because—
(You want to know why?)
Not everyone can hold
A tiger in her heart.
Like many, I’ve been watching the developments of the riot at the Capitol Building last week. Probably more than I should…although, maybe not.
You see, at first, I thought it was a bunch of yahoos that overwhelmed an unprepared bunch of basically mall cops. Were the cops even armed with anything but batons and shields? I wasn’t clear. It seemed, at first, like a bunch of rednecks got out of control at a tailgate party.
Over the course of the past week, it’s become very clear, that’s not what happened at all. The rioting crowd was out for blood. And blood was spilled. Some theirs, but a lot of it from the courageous police who were all that stood between the mob and the fragile gears of our democracy.
I think it’s important that we all not only realize this but accept it. Maybe there were good people in that mob swept up by the evil and the hell. Maybe we all need to be on guard because if the events of January 6, 2021 are any indication, hellfire is just a step away.
Hell at Your Doorstep
By Michelle Garren Flye
Hell’s not far away
Pull back the shade
You know it’s there
It doesn’t try to hide
Watch people tumble
Unresisting to the flames
Follow, follow, the light cries
Come and meet your doom
The eagle’s flight wavers
Courageous profiles darken
When hell flames alight
At your very doorstep
Massive gates won’t stop
The press of fiery rage
Stone burns the same
As wooden crosses then
Thorns bleed tears of wine
Drip down marble visage
Don’t look out the window, love
Hell will greet you there
Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s death last night affected me more than I thought it would. She was one of those rare people that you know you’re just lucky to share this planet with. I think for a lot of women, she was a monolith of courage and wisdom that should never be knocked down. But death finally managed it. Of course I wrote a poem for her.
For RBG, For Courage
By Michelle Garren Flye
Do not think she went gently
Her fight fought
Perhaps she knew we are ready
To live as we ought
And when the night crept up
She looked at it straight
Her body frail as a china cup
And knowing she was late
The strong spirit that kept her here
Knew what was in store
Her heart beat ceased to thrum
Beneath the collar she wore
But legacy cannot be lost like crumb
We know the energy spent
We will carry on in her wake
For RBG, for courage, we women
Will follow the path she staked.
It occurred to me that RBG spent her entire life living courageously. She was a lion among women. I live in an area of the country where some women still follow their man’s lead, completely and subjectively. What the man wants, the woman provides and she’s lucky to do so. It’s these women I often write for, not women like RBG. It took me a long time to get to the point I’m at now. It’s always possible to find your voice, no matter how old you are. Find it now and…
Sing!
By Michelle Garren Flye
If I’d just kept quiet or spoken
Only butterflies and moths and pretty things
We would still be whole, unbroken
But I spat out the dragonflies with glass wings
And you couldn’t face I had awoken
So now we face each other across the springs
Without affection or even a token
Of what used to be before I chose to sing.
No Protection
By Michelle Garren Flye
You’re right, you know.
Masks won’t protect us.
Science can’t stop the blow
Nor quiet all the fuss.
You can’t hide from despair
And politics won’t save the lost.
Maybe just focus on repair
And not tallying up the cost?
What can help us heal from this?
The neighbor is “other” to the free,
And all that matters is our own bliss.
Is it really too much to hear their plea?
Reach out a hand, fight to converge—
Look behind the mask to the soul.
Only when we find that courage
Can we hope to be made whole.
Photo by Jimmy Chan on Pexels.com
Today I watched a historic speech given by a great man. Former Special Counsel on the Russia investigation Robert Mueller finally gave us his two cents worth in a speech. And he basically said what he had already written was worth much more.
He’s right. He said: “I’ll make a few remarks about the results of our work, but beyond these few remarks, it is important the office’s written work speak for itself.” In other words, I’m outlining a few points here, but this is basically a book report. Read the book if you want to know what happens.
Later on, he added: “We chose those words carefully and the work speaks for itself.”
Have you ever noticed that when you’re speaking, you might say anything, but when you write it down, you think about it? If you haven’t, you probably don’t write much. Maybe you’re one of those who can write themselves into a corner on a birthday card. But if you write reports of any sort, if you write news stories or blog posts or books, you think about the impact of each word on your reader. And you think about the impact you want to make on your reader.
The written word has a power that the spoken word does not, and it also has a permanence the spoken word usually lacks. I believe Robert Mueller’s words will live on, both in spoken and written form. I also believe it’s time to pay attention to what he has already told us. And have the courage to act accordingly.
I’m editing this to add one more thought. Mr. Mueller’s written words are there for history. If Congress does not act on these words, history will judge them accordingly.
In January I made the usual New Year’s resolutions: eat healthier, exercise more, etc. But I also made a resolution I had never made before. Fight fear.
Fear has held me back my entire life. I’m a timid person by nature, though I’ve overcome much of that through the love of my family. Yet still, I have more than my share of phobias. Spiders, stage fright, dentists (that’s a big one).
I haven’t overcome these phobias, but I have forced myself to face them. Just last week I smashed a spider that had my daughter cornered. In a gesture at fighting off my general timidity, I recently took the opportunity to travel with my son to Germany. And I tried out for and got a bit part in our local theater’s production of “A Christmas Carol”. So, yeah, I’m working on it.
And this morning, I went to the dentist for the first time in…a while. My teeth are still sore. Like everything, I began to draw a parallel between sore teeth and publishing a book.
When you write a novel, you bare a part of your soul, and the more covering you can pull away (just like the dental hygienist did to my teeth this morning), the better your writing will be. And just like my teeth, which are now sore and more exposed to temperature changes, so the writer’s soul becomes exposed to critics.
The temptation is to keep part of the soul covered. A thin veil. Remove yourself from the story and tell yourself it’s the characters’ story you’re telling. And while this is true to a point, the truth is, the writer is in every story she tells. And once that story is published, the writer is exposed. Perhaps this is why Emily Dickinson published less than a dozen poems in her lifetime. So much of her soul exposed through her poems might have been too much for her to bear.
So publishing is a leap of faith in our own work and our own souls. It might be ignored or disliked or even loved, but it’s bound to be painful in one way or another. With that thought in mind, I present a taste of my soul in the form of an excerpt from Movie Magic:
“What’ll it be, Cowboy?” Her eyes flickered over him in a just slightly less than shameless fashion.
“What would you recommend, Gypsy?”
The woman looked pleased that he remembered her name. “Depends. Are you just here to drink tonight, Walt, or are you eating?”
“You know I’m not going to pass up the burgers.” He leaned on the bar. “We want beer. Maybe one of those pepper beers you guys are so proud of.”
The woman raised her eyebrows and looked at Sabrina. She nodded, her appraisal obviously satisfactory. “Two ghost brews coming up.” She reached beneath the counter and with a flick of her wrist produced two bottles with a label bearing a picture of an ethereal white spirit sporting a pirate hat. She stopped short of handing it to them. “They’re on the house if you do that trick again.”
“Which trick?” Walt raised his eyebrows, trying to look innocent.
“You know which trick.” She uncapped the beer and set it in front of him.
He glanced at the beer, then back to her. “You got a glass?”
“Better than that. I’ve got a bottle of cheap beer back here. You don’t even have to waste yours.”
“What if it doesn’t work?” He looked anxious.
Sabrina laughed and Gypsy grinned at her. “I like this one. She’s got faith.”
“I kind of like her too.” Walt’s sideways grin warmed Sabrina and she couldn’t help smiling back. Walt tapped the bar. “Bring it on, Gypsy. I’m up to any challenge tonight.”
Gypsy let out a whoop that attracted the attention of everyone in the bar area. By the time she’d set the bottle of beer and a glass in front of Walt, the other patrons were crowding around. Sabrina enjoyed her front row seat as she watched Walt pick up the bottle, unscrew the top and take a swig. Then he upended the bottle on the bar with a flourish, somehow not spilling a drop. The crowd oohed appreciatively, then waited as Walt placed a coaster on the bottom of the upended bottle, flipped it back over the right way, then upended it again over the glass. When nothing happened, he pretended to be confused, peered inside for a second while Sabrina and probably the rest of the crowd held their breath, then held it over the glass again, removed the coaster and tapped the bottom of the bottle, producing a gush of beer into the mug. Walt handed the mug to Gypsy with a bow while everyone applauded.
BREATHE: Michelle Garren-Flye 