Tag Archives: poetry

National Poetry Month: Poem 7

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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.

 

National Poetry Month: Poem 6

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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?

National Poetry Month: Poem 5

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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.

National Poetry Month: Poem 4

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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.

National Poetry Month: Poem 3

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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.

National Poetry Month: Poem 2

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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)

Happy National Poetry Month!

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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.

 

Colorblinded for Two Voices

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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

colorblinded-for-two-voices-page-0

 

Colorblinded in troubled times

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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?

Whose eyes do YOU see the world through?

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I’ve been thinking a lot about filters for the past few weeks. When I was a teenager, I thought I wanted to be a photographer. Somehow I got a pretty good 35mm camera. (Remember those? The ones you loaded the film in and when it hit the end of the 36 exposures, the film would rewind with a whirring noise?) I experimented a lot with this camera, putting different filters over the lens to get different effects in the final prints. One would make everything look kind of rosy, another would create sparkles wherever there was light, and there were others, but I can’t remember them because those two were my favorites.

I think we all see the world through filters of our own choosing. These filters are created by outside sources. The news comes to mind. Depending on which news you watch on television or which newspaper you read or where you go on the internet, you may see the world in a different light. Is the Confederate flag an emblem of racism or Southern pride? Is gay marriage the best thing to happen to our world since the end of World War II? Or the beginning of the apocalypse? Are pro-lifers evil or is it the mother who gets the abortion?

I can’t help but come back to the filters I used to put on my old Nikon. I chose to see the world as sparkly and rose-colored, and I probably still do in many ways. I don’t watch news programs very often or read the Wall Street Journal. I know what ISIS is, but when I hear the word, I still think of the Egyptian Goddess Isis (who was a superhero with her own show in the 70s) and not the terrorist group, which, if I think too much about their evil, will cause me to cower in a corner for the better part of the day.

Poets and writers and news media color everyone’s impression of the world and have for centuries. The best example I can think of for poetry filters are Christopher Marlowe’s “The Passionate Shepherd to His Love”, a rose-tinted painting of love in the countryside, and Sir Walter Raleigh’s “The Nymph’s Reply to the Shepherd”, a stark response based in reality that rips the romance right off Marlowe’s filter.

No matter who you are and what happens to you in your life, you see the world through your own chosen filter. But you can choose to try on a different one every now and then. Turn on FOX News from time to time. Switch to CNN for half an hour. Turn the television off and pick up a book of poetry. See the world from the other side, or at least try to.