Sometimes I draw pictures to get inspiration for a poem. Others, the poem comes first. This was one of those.
Poem: Surrender
Tag Archives: loss
Poem: The End of the Dream, or Burning Hell
If you’re one of those who thinks God will save us from any mess we get ourselves into, so we can do whatever the hell we want to do, I hope you’re right. Maybe that’s not enough, but I do hope you’re right. On the other hand, I can’t help but think, well, if I was God, I would’ve thrown up my hands and walked away from us idiots a long time ago. And where does that leave us now with our planet on fire, inadequate leadership, a virus killing thousands per day and no way out? I know where it leaves us. It leaves us at the end of all that has nurtured us for so long.
The End of the Dream, or Burning Hell
By Michelle Garren Flye
Here we stand at the end of the dream.
Where do we go now?
I see no shining trails leading us away
From the end of all we know.
From bloody skies and boiling streets,
There is no rescue to come.
This horror we’ve concocted here
Is what’s left of our home.
Yes, the dream is gone, and rage takes over;
I feel it under my skin.
It crawls in through my open mouth
And makes its home within.
Fire and famine, fear and sorrow,
Burning hell takes over.
The nightmare has only just begun—
No one’s coming to wake you.
Poem: The Death of a Thousand Cuts
The Death of a Thousand Cuts
By Michelle Garren Flye
She’s whole, pure, beautiful
When she steps out into the world,
And the first cut is kind of pitiful—
She barely notes the blood pearl.
The second comes out of nowhere—
Perhaps from the company she keeps?
She bandages it up with great care,
But no one hears when she weeps.
Third, fourth and fifth go deeper—
Needing more than a few stitches.
She covers them with a sweater
And cries until her breath hitches.
By the twentieth, she’s beyond care.
The blood splotches the floor in drips.
She armors herself to prepare
For the constant onslaught of whips.
She’ll go on and on and on
Into a world full of attacks.
She feels like an automaton,
Just surviving all the whacks.
A hundred, two hundred, more
And the armor barely dulls
The sting of each strike before
Silence falls in the rarest of lulls.
She wonders what each blow takes.
Is it blood or faith that she bleeds?
God, religion, nation—each forsakes
And their call she no longer heeds.
It’s cruel what life does to you—
How it parades and poses and struts.
In the end it’ll take you, it’s true,
By the death of a thousand cuts.
Poem: (In Remembrance) Cast Out
(In Remembrance): Cast Out
By Michelle Garren Flye
It’s all over but the crying now.
We never knew that would happen. We didn’t see the loss of hope, the loss of growth, the loss of who we are. How could we?
Even as we witnessed its birth.
We clustered around televisions and fell to our knees and cried and prayed and cursed. We angrily threw a flag over the destruction.
We swore we’d make them pay.
Blinded by rage, we fight a war no one can win. We send our soldiers to deserts of ash and blood. We lose what’s left of freedom in revenge.
And what of those born after?
Born into a world of anger and suspicion, how can our children ever be innocent? We guard and shield, but they know and despair.
Do you remember what it was like—before?
Before the hate, the fear, the constant defending against evil. Doesn’t it look like a golden age now? Doesn’t it look like a garden?
It’s all over but the crying now.
Cast out, left to drown in hot tears like jet fuel streaming from the eyes of a nation. Did it melt our core? Do we only wait to fall?
Regret tastes like ash, blood, desert sand. And tears.
Poem: Shards of Lost Justice
Photo by Gerritt Tisdale on Pexels.com
Shards of Lost Justice
By Michelle Garren Flye
She trembles before the white man, a tiny dark hand clutched in hers.
“This is my child,” she says, defiant before him. “I’m keeping her.”
But the white man tears the child away and glares at the black woman.
“Send her back,” he says, and white hands pull mother away from child.
The brown woman struggles in the clutch of the ICE men.
Her daughter weeps as she watches them take her away.
“Let her stay,” pleads her husband. “It was only a traffic ticket.”
But the man with the badge shakes his head. “Send her back,” he says.
The little girl stands alone before the judge, no idea where her parents are.
“They brought me here,” she whispers. “I don’t know where my home is.”
“She was separated from her parents,” her lawyer says. “This is not the American way.”
The judge shakes his head. “The law is clear. Send her back.”
The brown woman is different. She is slight but strong, not easily vanquished.
An American citizen, a Congresswoman, a representative, she speaks out.
He doesn’t like what she says, her differences frighten him, so he bullies and brags.
“She doesn’t love America like me,” he tells the mob. “Send her back,” they chant.
Poem: The Ice Cream Truck
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com
The Ice Cream Truck
By Michelle Garren Flye
Don’t say goodbye yet.
Just wait. It’s not time to go.
The ice cream truck will be here soon enough.
See—you can hear the music.
I know your mouth is dry and you’re hungry—
I know the music is still far away,
But I can give you water while we wait.
We can watch the cars together.
Maybe there’s a fancy one.
They streak by in multicolored glory.
You almost forget the ice cream truck if you watch.
You almost forget you’re waiting.
But wait. Don’t leave.
I hear the music now.
BREATHE: Michelle Garren-Flye 