Poem 8
Little Girl in a Flowered Dress
By Michelle Garren Flye
There’s a little girl
Wearing a flowered dress
In my kitchen.
So pretty.
There’s a little girl
Wearing a flowered dress
In Russia somewhere.
She’s lovely.
There’s a little girl
Wearing a flowered dress
In Syria.
Her father says it’s time to go.
Time to run.
They’re coming.
She grabs her favorite doll.
Takes her little brother by the hand.
And they run into the street.
A little late with this one, and I tried a little rhyming. No real scheme to it, but maybe that would come in a later draft.
Poem 7
Bang, Explained
By Michelle Garren Flye
I just heard a bang downstairs.
The house is dark and cold.
No one’s home but me, I know,
Cause Mom went to the store.
Do I investigate?
Oh, I can’t be that bold.
Tiptoe to the banister and peer below?
Surely it’s better to wait.
That was a creak,
But I’ve heard that one before.
What could that bang have been?
I’ll just go back to my game.
There’s nothing here to hurt me now.
There, I heard it again!
What’s down there creeping around?
I’d better go check—no, wait!
That’s nothing at all but the cat at my door.
Maybe’s he’s lonely…like me.
Poem 6:
Little Kitty
By Michelle Garren Flye
Little kitty, you gaze so long
From the floor at my lap.
Would you like to join me?
I invite you with a pat.
You consider my offer
With eyes half closed.
You leap—so graceful,
Your purr is divine.
Step once, step twice…
Then back quickly away.
Was my lap your desire?
Or was it always my chair?
Poem 5:
I Dreamed About…
By Michelle Garren Flye
I dreamed three dreams.
I dreamed about grandchildren
Although I’m too young.
There were three,
But I only remember one.
Beautiful, blonde and laughing at me.
I dreamed about clouds in the sky
But when I woke, the sun was shining.
You said it was my imagination.
But later when I looked up
I saw a cloud and it reminded me.
I dreamed about tornadoes
On the eve of the inauguration.
One, two, three, four…
All went around me.
But there was a fifth on the horizon.
Of the dreams, I only like the first one.
I cling to it when it wants to fade.
A beacon of hope
When the others strive to overwhelm,
Or when I fear they may be true.
I actually wrote this last night, but it was after midnight, making it the day after my oldest son’s birthday.
Poem 4:
The Day After Motherhood
By Michelle Garren Flye
I still remember the moment they woke me.
They said my baby needed me.
I remember thinking, Really?
He’s mine?
You were.
For years after that, you really were.
Mine to tote to the store.
Mine to entertain.
Mine to sing to, to read to,
To coax into sleep.
Mine.
But now, it’s the next day,
You’re almost ready now.
To make decisions, to venture out…
To live your life.
Still mine…but more.
Poem 3:
17
By Michelle Garren Flye
Today’s the day.
Seventeen.
Amazing how the years
Aren’t long enough.
Filled with Moments.
Moments to live over and over again
And Moments to wish you had back.
Nobody said it’d be easy.
Did they?
Nobody said there’d be no regrets
Or that everything would be perfect.
They said
You’ll be a family.
We are.
We have been
From that first Moment
Of love.
Poem 2:
The Unknown
By Michelle Garren Flye
Golden leaf volumes
On dusty library shelves
Knowledge unembraced.
And from my youngest:
The Early Bloomer
By Jessica
Snowfall ends.
But the trees still don’t have leaves.
No flowers yet bloomed.
Until one tulip pops up.
Tulips aren’t supposed to be up yet.
Oh well it is very beautiful.
The next day, it’s not there.
Oh no.
It was gone.
Forever and ever.
It inspired other tulips to grow, though.
Now there were millions.
Everyone loved that early flower.
Everyone loved that early bloomer.
(Inspired by tulip season)
It’s my favorite month. National Poetry Month. I try to read a poem or two a day during National Poetry Month. It’s not very hard, so this year, I’m challenging myself to something a little tougher.
Write a poem a day.
Post it here.
Yeah, I know, not smart to post raw stuff, but I’m determined and not many people read this anyway. So today I dug deep, and here you go:
End of Daffodil Season
By Michelle Garren Flye
Thick, yellow air.
Breathless.
Sun warming,
Breeze chills.
Tall stems sway
Shrivel.
Die.
No more buds
To love.
Yellow blossoms
Are gone.
Winds promise
More fun.
Soon.
A few months ago, inspired by current events, I wrote the poem “Colorblinded” and published it here because I’m not enough of a poet to think I should bug publishers with my stuff. However, I love poetry—writing, reading and teaching it—and I’m currently researching poems for multiple voices. And I wanted something to demonstrate two points of view, so I decided to rewrite “Colorblinded” so it reflected the other POV as well as mine. I’m not sure how good it is, but with National Poetry Day coming up in October, I thought I might share this one here. Since I am hopeless about formatting blogs, it’s in jpg format, but if you’d like to blow it up a bit for easier reading, click on this link: colorblinded-for-two-voices
My last post was a political one. This post is not. At least it is not intended to be, though race relations have been politicized to the point where it is difficult to separate the two. Over the past few days I have seen so many tragedies in the news, however, useless killing on the streets of my country. These killings deeply wounded the black community and the blue community. My heart goes out to both, along with my fear and worry for the future of our world and our country if we can’t find a way to mend attitudes and live together. When I tried to put my feelings into words, this is what came out. I don’t write poetry very often but this feels like poetry to me.
Colorblinded
By Michelle Garren Flye
I am not colorblind.
I see you. I see your differences. When I pass you on the street, I see you aren’t the same as me. Your skin, your attitude, your music, your life. You are different. I see you, and I don’t know you.
You are a mystery.
I am colorblinded.
Do you see me? Do you see the mother, the artist, the poet, the person who is me? Can you see past my skin, or does it blind you? Do you see only a white, privileged, raised-in-the-South woman who doesn’t understand?
I don’t think you see me.
I think you are colorblinded, too.
Tell me what would happen if I reached out to you. Tell me what would happen if white skin touched black…and black touched back. If hand held hand in a long, long line of red and yellow, black and white…
Could we be colorblind together?
BREATHE: Michelle Garren-Flye 