by Michele Fry, © 1994
I do not need a clear night sky
to see the constellations.
Need not be near a babbling brook
to hear its conversation.
I neither have to smell a rose
to savor its bouquet
Nor must I travel far from home
to pleasure in the day.
I need not walk a stretch of sand
to know the sun's warm rays,
Nor do I need you by my side
to feel your loving ways.
I used to wrap you in my arms
but then as our love grew
I only needed you nearby
to feel quite sure of you.
Little did I know you made me
trust enough to love.
Time slipped by. You wore me smooth.
My deepest pains dissolved.
Through years of confirmation, now
content, more calm than ever,
I only need you in my heart
to feel your love forever.
Friday, March 25, 2016
World Sublime
by Michele Fry © 1978
(On returning home from a quiet week in a primitive cabin at Sequoia National Park, to the shocking hustle, bustle and self-centeredness of city people . . . . . )
"Here I am", yelled the boy
as through the woods went he.
Scent of pine, World sublime.
Standing quietly.
"Hey, it's me. Can't you see?"
he stomped along the path.
A trickling brook. A rippling breeze.
A shady canopy.
Spat the water. Pluck the flower.
Snap the bower. "Whee!"
Squirrels scamping. Birds chirping.
Doe behind a tree.
Eerie feeling. "No one's here!
No one's here but me."
Cooling shower. Timid flower.
Nestling chickadee.
"It's hot. I'm bored!"
A'home away went he.
Scent of pine. World sublime.
Sighing sweet relief.
(On returning home from a quiet week in a primitive cabin at Sequoia National Park, to the shocking hustle, bustle and self-centeredness of city people . . . . . )
"Here I am", yelled the boy
as through the woods went he.
Scent of pine, World sublime.
Standing quietly.
"Hey, it's me. Can't you see?"
he stomped along the path.
A trickling brook. A rippling breeze.
A shady canopy.
Spat the water. Pluck the flower.
Snap the bower. "Whee!"
Squirrels scamping. Birds chirping.
Doe behind a tree.
Eerie feeling. "No one's here!
No one's here but me."
Cooling shower. Timid flower.
Nestling chickadee.
"It's hot. I'm bored!"
A'home away went he.
Scent of pine. World sublime.
Sighing sweet relief.
Mirrors, Mirrors Everywhere
By Michele Fry, October 1991
Another mirror. Look at that!
Look at how I am.
I see myself when you do that!
It's deja vous again, again.
To watch someone procrastinate
or push their point of view
or rush to rash conclusions
or fail to follow through.
Or close a door on friendship
or speak as from above
or miss a chance to listen or learn
or lend a hand, or love.
It hurts to see how thoughtless I have been.
Sometimes I've been as smart as you,
as witty, sure, or funny.
Sometimes I, too, do lofty things
the way you do. It's stunning!
Oh, yes, I've been as you are now
but only now can see
why things turned out the way they did.
Outcomes were caused by me.
To see you mirroring my traits
just happens now and then.
It's always a surprise. A Gift -
A portrait from God's pen.
For instantly it teaches what I
want the most to know:
How to be a better me --
and let the rest go.
Others hire counselors
and pay a huge fee.
I look in my mirrors hard
and get my counseling free!
Weeds
© by Michele T. Fry, © 2000
A weed can be a beautiful thing.
It flourishes where nothing else survives.
You mow it down. It comes right back.
It's miniature flowers often have
more color, symmetry, and charm
than our most popular garden varieties --
(which, after all, were all hybridized from weeds)!
Pick a pretty specimen from field, ditch, or yard,
and display it up close in any scruffy little vase
chosen especially to compliment
the sprightly daintiness of weeds.
Watch a child's eyes light up when you
place a pot of weeds on a low window sill
or bedside table.
Marvel at the perfection of nature!
(Dried weeds look as good as fresh ones.)
These often overlooked gifts from God
are FREE for the taking,
more color, symmetry, and charm
than our most popular garden varieties --
(which, after all, were all hybridized from weeds)!
Pick a pretty specimen from field, ditch, or yard,
and display it up close in any scruffy little vase
chosen especially to compliment
the sprightly daintiness of weeds.
Watch a child's eyes light up when you
place a pot of weeds on a low window sill
or bedside table.
Marvel at the perfection of nature!
(Dried weeds look as good as fresh ones.)
These often overlooked gifts from God
are FREE for the taking,
year-round, throughout the land.
So celebrate the abundance of life!
Enjoy the roadside weed!
So celebrate the abundance of life!
Enjoy the roadside weed!
Exuberance
by Michele T. Fry, © 1997
Wherever it pops up, discomfort ensues.
For each Tigger who bounds through the forest with gladness
there are hundreds of Eeyores and Poohs.
they label you caustic, self-centered or rude.
So I've delved deep within to explore how my sin
of exuberance ought to be viewed.
that I fill up each day with good cheer.
It's just that I love being alive so much,
I'm ecstatically glad to be here!
in an otherwise blackened abyss.
It beats almost all of the odds, don't you know,
that I'm living! I'm sentient! It's bliss!
and a mind that can process the data.
They entertain me with spectacular vistas
that cost not a penny. Pro Rata!
or loving to hear my own voice, it's that!
Plus, the joy which I feel being born in an Age
with some semblance of Freedom of Choice!
from life's overwhelming bazaar--
there's flowers, and friendships, soft mattresses, corn chips,
and zooming around in my Z-car!
talk radio, jazz, or concertos.
With a much shorter work week, I'm free to have hobbies,
read novels, write poetry, travel.
hot tap water, vaccines, dishwashers,
There's interstate highways and no-iron fabrics.
and flush-away sewerage. There's Wal-Mart!
Our poorest are richer than monarchs of old.
We've phone lines, and free schools, and aisles of cheap produce
and credit! The list just seems endless!
self-confidence, you read me wrongly.
I just know the odds against living as we do,
and savor each day with exuberant song.
Bad and I
by Michele Fry ©1966
When BAD and I together be
BAD and I run strong.
For when I run along with Thee
the BAD is not so wrong.
But when the GOOD is here with me,
when hand in hand we live,
Then GOOD is all I care to be
and GOOD is what I'll give.
They're both alive within me,
these characters of two.
So plain, so awkward can I see
they're alternately true.
For when I run with Thee again,
and feel Thy goodness through,
I'll yield my very soul to BAD
and GOOD will ebb from view.
(Note: Written barely out of high school, my definitions of BAD and GOOD have certainly changed over the decades, but the endless struggle to be sensible and prudent vs, to do what feels good right now, remains about the same.)
When BAD and I together be
BAD and I run strong.
For when I run along with Thee
the BAD is not so wrong.
But when the GOOD is here with me,
when hand in hand we live,
Then GOOD is all I care to be
and GOOD is what I'll give.
They're both alive within me,
these characters of two.
So plain, so awkward can I see
they're alternately true.
For when I run with Thee again,
and feel Thy goodness through,
I'll yield my very soul to BAD
and GOOD will ebb from view.
(Note: Written barely out of high school, my definitions of BAD and GOOD have certainly changed over the decades, but the endless struggle to be sensible and prudent vs, to do what feels good right now, remains about the same.)
Reflections On Motherhood
By Michele Fry, ©
1987
These are the happiest times,
These are the happiest times,
The days for which I’ve longed since my own youth.
These are the vibrant hours, which
Each one relished as a perfect petaled rose,
Draws my mind away from future cares . . . .
(worldly concerns I once revered so high),
and rivet all my Being
on the pivot point of Here and Now.
My fair, sweet precious child,
Before you, I was a philosopher,
A rebel, a system-maker,
A seeker of all things fine – for all mankind.
And thus I marched us through your infancy,
Through walking, talking, counting 1,2,3.
It took awhile for you to change my purpose.
But gradually I re-made myself, re-made my world, for you.
Your pre-teen years
Gave me a tan-skinned, quick, athletic boy to watch,
still cuddly-sweet, as babies are.
Your love for me, so priceless, made my life complete.
How fascinating can one little being be
In antics, jokes, and supple little limbs?
Ah, the choicest of companions.
Ah, and I in a position to enjoy!
I had not planned these days,
Did not know they ever could exist,
Nor can I plan their end.
They are, quite simply, sprung from an infinite truth:
A mother is her offspring’s love and light.
A child is a mother’s own rebirth.
For now, there’s nothing I can do
That counts for more than watching over you.
So…. Now you’re 10
As of yet, my world is world enough for you
And I seem all you need . . . . .
I know, though, in ten years or so
you’ll sail away from me,
And I’ll be left behind. Standing proudly . . . . .
Waving to you gaily from the shore . . . . .
Holding back the tears, as mothers do . . . . .
And staying quivering lips
Which quiver some for you, and some for me
For what becomes of Mothers
When kids don’t need their mommies anymore?
What next will I be?
I'll find a new profession, paint the sea,
Be a potter, write a book of poetry.
What passion will be my next reality?
These days will end.
For sure I know they will,
I know they will,
And all my friends and all the literature I’ve read
assure me that they will,
So . . . . . how shall I prepare?
They say it’s very dangerous to care.
There’s heartbreak there.
So how shall I prepare?
That question, percolating often through my mind,
Is answered by my Heart
In crystal-clear, unarguable tones.
I shall not prepare!
I cannot, Should not! Won’t!
For prudence has no jurisdiction here!
Wise counsel says “You know it’s coming. Please prepare.
And by all means begin now to prepare.”
But this is mean, absurd, unwise . . . .
Would steal from me life’s greatest prize,
And is impossible besides. I am too vibrantly alive
With love for you!
So hear me one and all:
“For these too precious few maternal years . . . . .
Unbounded love! Connection! These are mine!
The future may go on and plan itself
With all my blessings, and a prayer
That I won’t be forlorn in future years.
But please, I can’t prepare.”
Only fools becloud a gift of joy
With fear of future woe.
I simply cannot plan another course
for these sweet precious years, but loving you.
I simply can’t imagine who would fail
To raise their glass in toast
After pondering my defense, which lies below:
No one enjoys such perfect days as these
But saints, and gods, and me.
You, son, are my immortality.
These are the vibrant hours, which
Each one relished as a perfect petaled rose,
Draws my mind away from future cares . . . .
(worldly concerns I once revered so high),
and rivet all my Being
on the pivot point of Here and Now.
My fair, sweet precious child,
Before you, I was a philosopher,
A rebel, a system-maker,
A seeker of all things fine – for all mankind.
And thus I marched us through your infancy,
Through walking, talking, counting 1,2,3.
It took awhile for you to change my purpose.
But gradually I re-made myself, re-made my world, for you.
Your pre-teen years
Gave me a tan-skinned, quick, athletic boy to watch,
still cuddly-sweet, as babies are.
Your love for me, so priceless, made my life complete.
How fascinating can one little being be
In antics, jokes, and supple little limbs?
Ah, the choicest of companions.
Ah, and I in a position to enjoy!
I had not planned these days,
Did not know they ever could exist,
Nor can I plan their end.
They are, quite simply, sprung from an infinite truth:
A mother is her offspring’s love and light.
A child is a mother’s own rebirth.
For now, there’s nothing I can do
That counts for more than watching over you.
So…. Now you’re 10
As of yet, my world is world enough for you
And I seem all you need . . . . .
I know, though, in ten years or so
you’ll sail away from me,
And I’ll be left behind. Standing proudly . . . . .
Waving to you gaily from the shore . . . . .
Holding back the tears, as mothers do . . . . .
And staying quivering lips
Which quiver some for you, and some for me
For what becomes of Mothers
When kids don’t need their mommies anymore?
What next will I be?
I'll find a new profession, paint the sea,
Be a potter, write a book of poetry.
What passion will be my next reality?
These days will end.
For sure I know they will,
I know they will,
And all my friends and all the literature I’ve read
assure me that they will,
So . . . . . how shall I prepare?
They say it’s very dangerous to care.
There’s heartbreak there.
So how shall I prepare?
That question, percolating often through my mind,
Is answered by my Heart
In crystal-clear, unarguable tones.
I shall not prepare!
I cannot, Should not! Won’t!
For prudence has no jurisdiction here!
Wise counsel says “You know it’s coming. Please prepare.
And by all means begin now to prepare.”
But this is mean, absurd, unwise . . . .
Would steal from me life’s greatest prize,
And is impossible besides. I am too vibrantly alive
With love for you!
So hear me one and all:
“For these too precious few maternal years . . . . .
Unbounded love! Connection! These are mine!
The future may go on and plan itself
With all my blessings, and a prayer
That I won’t be forlorn in future years.
But please, I can’t prepare.”
Only fools becloud a gift of joy
With fear of future woe.
I simply cannot plan another course
for these sweet precious years, but loving you.
I simply can’t imagine who would fail
To raise their glass in toast
After pondering my defense, which lies below:
No one enjoys such perfect days as these
But saints, and gods, and me.
You, son, are my immortality.
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