Heart's Way

by Michele Fry, © 1966

(Teen girl's angst on the loss of a first serious crush, gracious me, seems it was almost as bad as an actual breakup!!)

Oh my heart, please hear me!

Won’t you listen to my plea?

         Miami shores are gone now

         and the pounding of the sea

                           is far behind you.

                  That stretch of sand.

                           His warm, soft hands

                                             Please understand.

 

You’ll burst if you relive

each little word that passed between us

         from the first “How do you do.”

         until the last resounding echo

                           of a sigh.

                  No, please don’t cry again.

                                    Don’t cry.

                           Just say goodbye.

 

The beauty of his smile, his glance,

the way he held his glass.

         The moments shared between us

         that seem to last and last –

                           they’re in the past.

                  Don’t feel outcast.

                                    They never last.

                                             Let go your grasp.

 

You’ll be our life’s destruction

if you dwell upon the past.

         My heartbeat!  Can’t I reach you?

         You are throbbing even faster

                           than before.

                  I underscore –

                                    give up those distant shores!

 

There’ll be another chance,

Another love will come our way.

         Til then we have to live,

         to make a bridge,

                      to find a way.

                           We must portray

                                    some solidarity.

 

A half a smile to mask our pain

is better than a frown.

         We owe it to our friends

         to be heroic, not a clown.

                           But I can’t muster half of that

                  without support from you.

                                    We are a team.

                                             We share one theme.

                                                      Our self-esteem’s at stake!

 

My way is the only way . . . . . Ah,

won’t you hear me through?

         I fight with all that’s in me

         but as usual you defeat me

                           by a mile.

                  I’m in exile.

                                    Please reconcile.

                           Okay, we’ll rest her in the dark again awhile

 

Condemned by fate, I’m bound with you

to drown in lost love’s pain

         for reasoning alone is not enough.

         It can’t sustain

                            the will to live,

                   the will to give.

                                 The heart’s the source

                                               of all our incentive.

Prostrate With Grief

by Michele Fry Ó1992
upon the death of my Grandpa Planchon, imagining what my distraught mother must be feeling at the loss of her beloved father by imagining how I might feel at loosing her.

I thought I had known grief before

but never has it been so hard
to move a limb or speak or to
acknowledge caring friends…..
No matter what they say or do
          or how they illustrate their love.

I thought that I had felt

Abandonment – until you died.
I realize now, though others may have left me,
          they had never really gone away so far.

I thought that I had cried before, but

never have my eyes brimmed o’re with tears
throughout a day, a week, a month,
beyond a year without a conscious thought of you
ever even going through my mind.
          The void cries on its own.

Food has never been so unappealing.
For what is eating, after all,
but reaching out to stay connected with this world.
Whereas I only seem to want . . . I only want . . .
Why, short of just this moment here alone . . .
          I really don’t want anything at all.

Never have I been so lost for words.

For what words could be said to bring you back?
Nor actions done?

Not finding these, my lips are

drawn and mute and sealed

across a helplessness so vast that only

those who’ve lost a loved one understand . . .

The futility of words to bridge this gap . . .

          Time, and nothing more, can heal this wound.

I’ve seen my empty face worn by

others through the years. And never
understood the reasons why
they couldn’t simply rise above their pain . . .
and talk, and smile, and join the fun.
And lend a hand to others in their need . . .
         The way we’ve done so many times before.

I hadn’t realized that grief

could be a way to stay in touch.

To be so quiet and so still,

so scarcely breathing air that I can
Almost feel your cheek brush mine . . .
     Almost feel our hands entwine . . .
          Almost feel your heartbeat’s timing . . .

So, prostrate with grief I lie.

Not to wilt away or die,
And not for sympathy, but just to
concentrate my will and hold you . . .
Just for one more precious moment . . .
          Almost by my side.