2:15 p.m. Happy Easter! It’s raining a bit here, and I just got back in town after visiting my son, so I thought I’d write a poem about driving.
Haiku seems to lend itself to that, so here goes:
driving down the road windshield covered with pollen wipers don't work well
raindrops spread yellow in spatters across the glass i look into past
mistakes that haunt me a life survived recklessly weaving through the lanes
hard to spot flowers growing on the road's shoulder through yellow splotches
so i pull over i breathe and seek clarity and wipe the slate clean
2:28 p.m. I had to stop and think a little along the way, but I believe this captured that feeling I had as I drove today, my mind dwelling too long on past mistakes and missteps. It’s easy to get mired down in guilt.
Quick re-write and title:
driving down the road windshield covered with pollen wipers don't work well
raindrops spread yellow in spatters across the glass i look into past
mistakes that haunt me a life survived recklessly weaving through the lanes
hard-to-spot flowers flourish on the road's shoulder through yellow splotches
so i pull over i breathe and seek clarity— wipe the window clean
2:35 p.m. What do you think? I didn’t want to go into too much detail, but I did get sort of mired down and it felt like pollen on the windshield.
Photo and poem copyright 2026 Michelle Garren-Flye
11 a.m. Trying to get started a little early today. Saturdays are usually busy at the store, and I have absolutely no idea what to write. I did take some pretty pictures this morning.
I think I’ll write about the pink rose. It’s the first perfect rose I’ve seen this spring. Others have been half bloomed or stunted by the cold snaps we’ve had. This one had perfect timing. Let’s try a villanelle.
Spring arrives with green glows flowers, trees, insects abound and you, finally, a perfect rose.
Pay no mind when wind blows frost is gone till winter rolls round spring has arrived with green glows.
and you, finally, a perfect rose
spring arrives with green glows
and you, finally, a perfect rose
spring arrives with green glows
and you, finally, a perfect rose
11:12 a.m. Pausing a moment here because I had to stop anyway to wait on someone at the store. It’s empty again, but I thought I’d explain how I write villanelle. It has a rhyming pattern where you use the same first and third lines. I usually end up altering those lines a bit. (You can tell I did at the end of the second verse above.) But to keep myself on track, I lay the sort of cornerstones before I write. Those are the last lines of each verse.
11:17 a.m. Back to it!
Spring arrives with green glows flowers, trees, insects abound and you, finally, a perfect rose.
Pay no mind when wind blows frost is gone till winter rolls round spring has arrived with green glows.
Sun is needed, everyone knows to make violets and clover abound— and you, finally, a perfect rose
There's no way to express in prose how it feels when winter loses ground and spring arrives with green glows
when everything thaws that cold froze and pinks, reds, yellows arrive to astound with you, finally, a perfect rose
When spring arrives with green glows take a moment to rest and look around Nature puts on her finest clothes and dons, finally, a perfect rose
11:30 a.m. Finished, but looking back over it, I see a repeated rhyme (one that shouldn’t be repeated!). Lots of people in the store, but I’m going to get started on the rewrite now./
A Perfect Rose by Michelle Garren-Flye
Spring arrives with green glows flowers, trees, insects abound— and you, finally, a perfect rose.
Pay no mind when the wind blows! Frost is gone till winter rolls round. Spring has arrived with green glows.
Sun is needed, everyone knows, to warm the bluebird's song into sound and summon you, my perfect rose.
There's no way to express in prose how it feels when winter loses ground and spring arrives with green glows,
when everything thaws that cold froze, and pinks, reds, yellows arrive to astound and give us at last a perfect rose.
When spring arrives with green glows take a moment to rest and look around as Nature puts on her finest clothes and dons, finally, a perfect rose.
11:40 a.m. Amazing what a few minutes of quiet time can do for you. I think it’s good now. What do you think?
12:26 p.m. When I can’t think of anything to write about (like today), I write haiku. So today, I’ve decided, literally just now, to write a linked haiku. What about? Well, I just wrote a short article about a ghost cat. How about that? I shall write:
Ghost Cat by the Sea Haiku
12:28
sea breeze passes by without ruffling his fur ghost cat waits, lonely
sandy shores are home to him he plays with side walking crabs
at night the light spears through the sky above the shoals ghost cat waits, on guard
did once his feat trod the deck as he hunted mice below?
morning visitors spot him in the deep shadows ghost cat purrs for them
but nights are long on the shore as ghost cat waits for the morn
12:36 p.m. Okay. Not awful. Now a quick rewrite.
ghost cat by the sea by michelle garren-flye
sea breeze passes by without ruffling his fur ghost cat waits, lonely
did once his feat trod the deck of a ship long lost to wreck?
morning visitors spot him in the deep shadows ghost cat purrs for them
the nights are long on the shore as ghost cat waits for the morn
he sees the light spear starry sky above the shoals ghost cat waits, on guard
one hundred years on this shore he may play here a hundred more
12:52 p.m. There’s one extra syllable in one of the lines, but it doesn’t mess things up, so I’m leaving it. I like the flow of the poem better now. It makes more sense to start in the light and move to the darkness. I also re-wrote a couple of lines.
For anyone interested, this is inspired by the ghost cat of Hatteras lighthouse. You can google it. Also google the cats left on the ghost ship Carol A. Deering. These three cats, the only survivors of the famous ghost ship, are only tangentially linked to the ghost cat of Hatteras as it is commonly believed to have belonged to a past lighthouse keeper. However, it has been speculated he might be one of the Deering’s cats.
Maybe he’s waiting there for the captain.
Photo and poem copyright 2026 Michelle Garren-Flye
10:47 a.m. Good morning! Happy Day 2 of National Poetry Month. And so we begin our second live poem.
As I was getting the store opened and thinking about what to write about today, this line came to me.
April is a mystical month.
There aren’t many rhymes for “month”, and I do like to rhyme, regardless of what type of poetry I’m writing, so I changed it.
April is a mystical time.
Lots of rhymes for time. Rhyme, for one. So here goes, wish me luck. It might be a sonnet?
April is a mystical time pause and listen to its heartbeat the days are warm and almost kind but nighttime is still a cheat
10:55 a.m. This is harder than I remember lol.
And I had to help some customers.
Full moon wends through trees to light a meadow noisy with full-throated song and new life joins the old in the night dancing round a bonfire can't be wrong
11:11 a.m. make a wish!
11:12 a.m. back to work.
Make a wish on the waning moon that the tides will change for the better April is here but it ends oh so soon the magic will change with the weather
11:15 a.m. I’ve found my direction now, so that one was easier. One sec. Derby’s meowing and I need to check on him.
11:18 a.m. Okay, going back to read over what I’ve written so I know what to do for the final couplet. (Derby was fine. Just wanted pets.)
The wish you make may float away to the past, but then, magic was never meant to last.
11:20 a.m. That’s it! Not the best sonnet ever, but it’s passable. Gonna give it a quick sponge bath, and post the rewritten version here:
April 2 by Michelle Garren-Flye
April is a mystical time... pause and listen to its heartbeat. The days are warm and almost kind but the night is still winter's cheat.
Full moon wends through trees to light a meadow noisy with full-throated song, and new life joins old in the night— dancing round a bonfire can't be wrong!
Make a wish on the waning moon that the tides will change for the better. April is here but it ends—oh so soon! The magic will change with the weather.
The wish you make may float away to the past, but then, magic was never meant to last.
11:24 a.m. And so it is done.
Photo and poem copyright 2026 Michelle Garren-Flye
Now that my novel is done and off to the printer, I’m taking a short break from writing seriously. Although, maybe this is a serious poem? Who knows, really.
A Sonnet for My Last Hinge Match By Michelle Garren-Flye
Let’s not fall in love, just listen a while: I can’t sell myself short, it’s no longer my style. I’m not even sure anymore what I want, and I’m not saying that just to taunt.
I guess my desire is for a hero of old a god shining above in a chariot of gold or winging across the sky on Pegasus. That’s why there can never be an us.
I expect starlit dance floors, fountains of wine, and you to be faithful, handsome, and kind. Settle for something less than? I won’t. I think I’m destined to wind down my life alone.
I know your bargain doesn’t include all that, so I’ll happily spend the night alone with my cat.
we will start a revolution under the willow in the park where you lay with your head in my lap while I read sonnets and odes and haiku and you and I store up ammunition that we fire off in whispered words to passersby (I’m Nobody, who are you?)
maybe they want to be nobodies too? and walk with us across the bridge —pausing to listen for Basho’s bullfrog’s splash— to the woods Frost knows and Whitman’s untrodden paths (and our souls rejoice in comrades)
the cars back up on the highway as we march hand-in-hand-in-hand singing rhythm and verse firing off our poetry bullets until someone comes with a real gun and the blood runs scarlet like Sandburg said (dreams go on)
and we wander lonely —where are the daffodils, William?— (and then my heart with pleasure fills) as we lay dying maybe we’ll hear at last the whistle of the balloon-man echoing far and wee ee
Photo and poem copyright 2026 Michelle Garren-Flye
This post is for a fellow poet, Renee Nicole Good, who was killed by ICE this week. Her death was senseless, brutal, and unjustifiable.
It was murder, and it was sanctioned by our government.
I’ll be honest, when I first heard about it, I thought it was just another one of the insane things that happen in our crazy-ass world. Our government is blowing up fishing boats and kidnapping presidents of other countries, after all. They’re locking up immigrant children in juvenile detention facilities known for child abuse. Americans are being encouraged to eat red meat, drink alcohol, skip immunizations…and don’t worry about not being able to afford health insurance. Our president is barely conscious, and those are his good moments. And there’s the Epstein files, which are undeniably damning to the bastard.
So, what’s one more dead 37-year-old mother of three in Minneapolis?
Except…shit. She was shot by ICE, she was a U.S. Citizen…and she was a poet and writer.
“Don’t kill the poets,” says the old Irish proverb. So writers have enjoyed this “immunity” for centuries, running around battlefields with press passes stuck in fedoras and “REPORTER” emblazoned on bulletproof vests. And yet, this is no proof against a bullet.
Reporters, scholars, historians, writers, poets are the first to be sought out by a would-be suppressive government. But in the end, there is another proverb that has proven truer than the first.
“The pen is mightier than the sword.”
The Poet Wins By Michelle Garren-Flye
This is how it begins: killing poets in the street. Let’s see who wins.
Grow some thicker skins, don’t be indiscreet: that’s how it begins.
They’re watching your sins: Big Brother brings the heat… But wait! Who wins?
No way out of these ins, just learn to keep the beat cause this is how it begins.
Shall we all become shut-ins? Bend the knee, become obsolete and let Him think He wins?
No, we’ll stand up against the spins. Face death, oh, it’s bittersweet! So this is how it begins… But in the end, the Poet wins.
Photo and poem copyright 2026 Michelle Garren-Flye
I recently saw a challenge from a magazine I’d love to get published in (Rattle.com) to invent a new form of poetry and I thought I’d done it. I even decided to call it circular run-on poetry. The rules are that it captures one moment in time in a single sentence and it circles back to where it started.
Well, maybe there’s nothing new under the sun, but turns out this is just a combination of two forms of poetry that have already been invented, run on and circular.
Anyway, it was fun to try, and I have enough rejections as it is. (Also, just a note that the first line of this poem was written by a friend in a simple Facebook post. She’s such a poet, even her Facebook posts come out poetically! Check out her work here: Sheila Turnage.)
Engagement
In the tall grass on the way to the chestnut tree halfway across the field beside the highway that wends its way through hills to beach I’m waiting, eyes on the clouds, waiting to see
you, walking through the grass to the chestnut tree
but you pause on your way to our fun, while roots dig deep under the ground beneath and break up the dirt for the seed to germinate up through the earth to the warmth of the sun
and a floating bee lights on the bloom with delight
and I’m still waiting, eyes on the clouds, dreaming of driving the highway that wends to the sea with you and your flower (but not the bee) away from the tall grass and the chestnut tree.
Photo and poem copyright 2025 Michelle Garren-Flye
Earlier this week I thought it was done. Our troubles were over because the Rapture was coming! The end of free speech as we know it was no longer an issue. Neither was the fact that the country I love is ruled by a petty, infantile tyrant with no guardrails and a failing brain who will stop at nothing to get his way, including threatening Freedom of Speech.
Like many, I have turned to friends to address my issues with this presidency. I found one who agreed with me, but he pointed out that he predicted all this, well, long ago. It was all written down in his unreleased Prophecies. He gave me permission to share these with you. Provided I also include his self portrait. I hope you find his words as enlightening as I did once I got around the irritating “I told you so” aspect of them.
The Nosedradadamous Prophecies
One national order will arise held up by hands so small— the great land teeters, no more a prize… The world watches the long fall.
The files of justice were flushed— we take the word of ones who lie. The great mouse has hushed, but the loud one doesn’t comply!
A man of law is now the hunted; political rival trumps up charges. The sword of justice is blunted in courtrooms flooded by largesse.
Across the ocean, they are not shy, shaking heads at what they’ve seen, while in the divided land we cry: “Release the files of Epstein!”
My friend says he may release more of his prophecies later on, but he put them through a rigorous editing process, which often makes them come out after the event they prophesy…but he refuses to release unedited work! (I have to kind of respect that.)
BREATHE: Michelle Garren-Flye 