At first I thought I’d have a hard time with this one. And I did, a little. Do I really believe that love conquers all? At least, do I believe that now?
However, this is an appropriate day for me to get this one. Today is the birthday of my first child. He’s 24 today. I love him even more than I did the day he was born, and it’s like that with all my kids. I can have no regrets because I do not regret them.
My love for them has conquered the bitterness of everything else.
Photo and poem copyright 2024 Michelle Garren-Flye
Love Conquers All By Michelle Garren-Flye
Let go the bitter; it does you no good in life, and love conquers all.
Your heart will wither if you cling to what will die, but love conquers all.
Turn to what’s better— see what will help you to fly? Love will conquer all.
I have no idea what form this poem is, but I have a feeling I’m not the first to create one like this. It feels a little like Emily Dickinson to me. I used the fortune for the title, but that may change if I ever publish it.
Photo and poem copyright 2024 Michelle Garren-Flye
Life to you is a dashing, bold adventure By Michelle Garren-Flye
You’re too old for adventure everyday, so why do you battle pirates in the bath and sharks in the kitchen sink? You’re just too old for this kind of play! Add it up…do the math then tell me what you think.
It might be too late for you, I guess. Real love can’t match what’s in your mind— so for me there is no chance… But what if I join you on your quest? Just maybe if I was one of your kind, in your eyes, my person would enhance.
Who cares if we choose to escape the strife? After all is said and done, it’s our life.
Happy National Poetry Month to you! Welcome to April. My favorite month of the year.
Every April, I try to post a poem I write every single day. This year, I’m actually incredibly busy with my bookstore, my new editing business, and trying to get my first two novels republished by me instead of the traditional publisher that had them until recently. (See previous post.)
So, instead of trying to master a particular type of poetry (I’ve done haiku, sonnet, and villanelle in previous years), I’m opting for what I hope is a simpler route. I’m writing what I call fortune cookie poetry.
It’s pretty simple. Each day I’ll break open a fortune cookie, read the fortune, and write a poem based on it.
A little background about me and fortune cookies. A few years ago my life took a turn I had never anticipated. At the time it devastated me, and I became obsessed with wishing I could know what was coming at me before it actually hit me. Astrology, online Tarot and Magic 8 Balls (I recently got a real one for my birthday), hitting shuffle on my iPhone music after asking it a question…and fortune cookies.
Have any of these things helped? Probably not. Life is life and sometimes it smacks you around. Unpredictability is just what the world is, and no amount of crystal balls are going to help you see what’s around the bend…or, sometimes, right in front of you.
With that said, I still eat fortune cookies. And right now I have the sweet taste of one in my mouth and I got an even sweeter fortune. And I wrote a poem about it. It’s a sort of sonnet with a kind of cool rhyme scheme. 🙂 Hope you enjoy.
Photo and poem copyright 2024 Michelle Garren-Flye
Love is in the Air By Michelle Garren-Flye
Love is in the air, you say? Well, that explains it all. I’m not looking up today so I guess I missed its call.
Don’t bother looking out for me. I don’t think I believe anyway. Love has no real allure, you see, and on my nerves, it will fray.
Seductive whispers just won’t work now that I’ve been set free. I don’t want to sound like a jerk but I don’t think love is my key.
So go ahead and float about! Someone else will hear you out.
Today I’m remembering my mother. She died one year ago. Throughout this year, I have had moments when I wanted to talk to her more than anything else in the world. And knew I couldn’t.
Maybe that’s where this poem came from.
At any rate, I’m sure it’s not just me. (Although some of you may not write ghazals about it. Or attempt to. I’m still struggling with this form!)
Hug someone you love today.
Oh. By Michelle Garren-Flye
I wait for the rhyme to come but, oh, pain? The rhythm runs through my thumbs, oh pain!
Sometimes it all feels right—no strain— and others it’s nothing but, oh, pain.
Some might seek comfort in cocaine but that will not shelter me from…oh. Pain.
Your beauty I have come to know, fain would I reject its attraction, oh Pain.
My last refrain is your domain; rest, you’ll fly in my love, oh pain.
Photo and text copyright 2024 Michelle Garren-Flye
First of all, I cannot begin to tell you how much I love Rattle. If you want to know why, check them out. I’m a subscriber, and they send me a poem every day, and the poetry is so good, it makes you feel good about just living in a world where people can think that way, you know? Yes, it is my ambition to have some poetry accepted by them, and I do submit to them from time to time, but I also just get so much inspiration from them.
For instance, every month they have an ekphrastic poetry challenge. If you don’t know what ekphrastic poetry is, it is a poem written because it was inspired by a piece of artwork. Here’s this month’s: Ekphrastic Challenge. I have entered this challenge several times, and I’ve always missed the mark and then read the responding poem and figured out why. But it doesn’t even matter. I’ve written so many poems and I’m learning every time I do it. Anyway, as soon as I saw this challenge, I knew I would enter it. I wrote three poems. This is the one I submitted.
Self Portrait
I am scraps of lost mail
pulled close around a center axis;
a book snapped shut by an unfeeling hand;
a paper doll cut from yesterday’s news
and left to crumple underfoot.
I refuse to yield to cripple and age,
obtuse in clinging to antediluvian belief,
a vow given long ago
and held in my chest,
concealed, mostly, by wisps
of lost dreams and things
that I won’t let go.
And you can’t make me.
I am obstinate in the face of the wind,
making myself ridiculous,
clothed in scrapbooks and memories
that threaten to blow away;
an object of pity perhaps
with no objective in mind.
So pull out my heart,
and crumpled bits of newsprint
I can’t share
will spill at your feet but
spell out only what was
because sometimes forever
and ever won’t go away.
I also just yesterday published Chapter Two of my new venture, “Nothing New Under the Sun”. You can read it here: “Nothing New“. Although the story is called “Nothing New Under the Sun”, it’s all new to me as I’m publishing it on Kindle Vella in episodes, and it’s a mystery. I have an idea for it that I think you’ll like. I like to think of it as literary upcycling. And that’s gotta be new.
Maybe there’ll be a tropical sunset in a future episode of “Nothing New”. What do you think? Photo by Michelle Garren-Flye Copyright 2024 Michelle Garren-Flye
People think I’m crazy when I say this is my favorite day of the year. But it is. It’s the day I feel the most hope for the future.
Today. The darkest day of the year.
Want to know why?
Because every day after this one gets brighter.
In honor of the darkest, most hopeful day, I’m doing a “live poetry writing”. If you haven’t joined me for one of those, it’s sometimes interesting since I’m working at my bookstore and am often interrupted.
(At 11:16 a.m. I’m already interrupted by customers. How dare they? Just kidding!)
Winter Solstice
By Michelle Garren-Flye
(11:20 a.m. debating about form versus free verse…really should’ve thought about this ahead of time!)
What makes the darkest day of the year so bright?
When the sun leaves early, why do I still hope?
I refuse the fear the end of day, the coming of night
With the long darkness, I know I can cope.
(11:23 a.m. I’m thinking sonnet, then. I do love sonnets.)
Daylight may not last as long while the night grows
and flowers cannot emerge in the absence of sun
but even now, I sense the spread of nighttime slows
and the approach of dawn will soon come.
(11:29 a.m. I know. Sun and come don’t really rhyme…)
In my bed, I wait to hear the first bird’s sweet whistle
(11:38 a.m. Sorry, I was off trying to find a book for someone. Back now.)
in the dark and the cold, with my head on my pillow.
and then it comes, like a message of dismissal
to the cold of yesterday, a welcome to tomorrow.
(11:45 a.m. I did stop in the middle of those last few lines to check out a customer. Not doing badly on time, considering…)
I jump from my bed, ready again for employ.
This day and the next I feel will bring joy.
(11:49 a.m. I wrote this couplet to end the sonnet thinking I wanted to write about joy, but as I wrote the last line, I thought maybe I should concentrate on faith instead. So, I’m working on an alternate.)
I jump from my bed, but wonder about my haste,
I pause to think but I know: it’s all about faith.
11:54 a.m. I’m done. This was fun and I will most likely polish this one up some. No idea what I might use it for, but it’ll go into a folder on my computer, anyway. Thanks for joining me! Enjoy the darkest day of the year, but don’t forget to have faith. Tomorrow will be brighter!
Poetry continues to be my main objective in spite of a couple of ideas I’ve had about novels. If I hear about a new form of poetry, I have to try it out. And then I have to stretch it. Remember Stretch Armstrong? How you would stretch and stretch him to see how far you could stretch him and he’d still go back to his original form…until he didn’t.
I sort of feel like I did that with haibun. Haibun is the combination of a haiku and a prose poem. Matsuo Basho wrote them. I discovered them relatively recently and decided to give them a try. And stretched the form a bit. What do you think? Is it still a haibun at its heart?
Silence
By Michelle Garren-Flye
it’s awkward, silence,
because it wants treasuring
and I reject it
laying too heavy on my ears in the dark, begging to be broken, shattered against the brick wall, revealing the death of sound ringing in my ears, spilling out like the yolk of an egg until the utter madness is stunned by a brief click in the wall behind the thermostat as the furnace breathes life into our emptiness…
don’t rejoice too soon
complete silence verges on
total perfection
you will seek it again, want to crawl into it, feel it envelop you in velvety warmth as if it can never break because it always always bends and that’s why you can never make friends with silence, why you can’t love it even if you want it, you will always seek release from it, but…
the birds will ghost you
the wind and waves will give up
leaving you…awkward
This weekend, I saw the Taylor Swift movie with my daughter. It was fun and a little awe-inspiring. One of the first scenes was this little tiny woman standing on top of a lighted podium in the middle of a huge stadium absolutely full of people shouting and crying and singing along.
Now, I love music. It’s been a big part of my life for a long time. I’ve been to several concerts, including legends like John Denver, Robert Plant, and Bon Jovi. More recently, I’ve seen several K-pop concerts with my daughter, including Stray Kids and Twice.
All of those experiences were wonderful, but seeing this woman (who really is still human, no matter how great her talent) standing on that podium made me so envious. Wouldn’t I love to be able to do that? To get that immediate feedback from a crowd hanging on your every word.
But that’s not my life. My life is to write and doubt and hope that someone out there reads and finds meaning. What Taylor Swift has in excess, I undoubtedly lack.
Maybe we all have to give up whatever that is in order to have performers like her? If so, it’s definitely worth it.
Loud (a poet’s wish)
By Michelle Garren-Flye
Sometimes I wish I could be a bit loud,
proclaim each verse and be proud!
But I’m doomed instead
to be great in my head.
In the face of the crowd, I’m just stoic;
my voice comes out less than a croak.
(Can you hear in the back?
Forgive my panic attack.)
My confidence is next to none.
(As in, out of ten, about a one.)
So I’ll just continue to write,
convince myself it’s not trite.
I may wish to throw my head back and rage—
But instead I’ll whisper my words to the page.
A bit of fall color. Photo and poem copyright 2023 Michelle Garren-Flye
There are so many things to wish for. What’s your wish?
One Minute
By Michelle Garren-Flye
It’s 11:11, what’s your wish?
Is it love…money—or a bit of peace?
Go ahead, speak it and be selfish!
You’ve spent your whole life trying to please.
Whisper it to the first sparkling star…
Watch it drift away on dandelion fluff.
Pray for relief from your past life’s scar…
Hope a simple wish will be enough.
But just one single wish may not suffice!
I tell you what I think we must do:
in order to fulfill your wish’s price,
I’ll pledge mine to benefit you.
Hurry before the minute hand turns!
Tell me the passion that in you burns.
Self Portrait in 30 Years
By Michelle Garren-Flye
She sits on her porch as people go past,
taking notice of what they bring into her past.
Little bits of their lives that pepper the now…
a tired mother…a crying child…now it’s all past.
Her son mows the lawn now every two weeks.
She likes it best when one week has passed,
when the grasses breathe rustles and chirps
echoing in her heart like songs from the past.
Those days when everything hurt so much—
if only she’d grasped that one day they’d be past.
Her daughter brings groceries, unpacks them inside:
“mom, come in, the summer’s heat is long past.
You’ll catch cold out there in the autumn breeze.
What keeps you outside when supper time is past?”
She smiles and takes her daughter’s dear hand,
hopes she’ll never know this longing for what’s past.
She could have dreamed up a magic spell back then
and stopped precious time before it had passed:
when she was a happy, tired mother of three…
now a lonely woman thinking only of the past.
She searches the stars for Orion’s sword belt,
Longs to fly to their light, leave this ache in the past.
Congratulations, it’s a ghazal (pronounced “guzzle” not “gu-ZAHL”, much to my disappointment).
Ghazals are hard to write due to their rhyme scheme, which involves repeating the same rhyme over and over. It can sound monotonous or forced. I’m just getting started playing with ghazals, so if it sounds monotonous or forced, I apologize.
The inspiration for this poem actually comes from a house. I used to walk by this house and see a little, old lady sitting on the front porch. I often wondered what her story was. I waved at her a few times, but before I got the nerve to stop and speak to her, I saw an ambulance there in the middle of the night. And then the little, old lady was gone.
I have no idea what happened to her, but her house is going through a major renovation. The porch is still there, though. I like to think she was lucky enough to spend her last days sitting on her front porch, maybe thinking of her loving children and eventually slipping away into her memories of past glories and loves.
Maybe that will be me someday. Because even if it’s painful to remember past sweet memories, it’s definitely better than not having them.
BREATHE: Michelle Garren-Flye 