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.

A Child's Love Is God's Glue

© 1994

Please don't take it personally, son,
when, not meaning to, I moan.
It's just you don't quite satisfy me
now that you are grown(compared to all those precious infant
hugs that I have known.)

I still can feel, through cotton gown,
the warmth of your soft skin.
You'd gaze into my eyes then snuggle
close under my chin,
then pat my cheek, and giggle and goo,
then do it all again.

You gave yourself so thoroughly,
I gave my life to you.
'Til your birth, I'd not known such love . . . .
it was completely new.
My heart at no time realized
you were just passing through.

So there you go, a man now.
Such a proud and handsome lad.
And everything goes well for you . . . . . . .
so how can I be sad?
Confused, I could not understand
why I should feel so bad . . . .

'Til yesterday, I saw your baby
snuggling up to you,
curling up into your chest
and you hugging him, too.
I knew then, knew with certainty —
a child's love is God's glue.

I'm proud of you.
You know it's true.
I positively glow.
As an equal, as a friend,
I admire and love you so.
But how can I pretend there's not some
emptiness in my soul?

There's something missing when we meet,
a lack of some alloy.
Those hugs that used to bind us tightly
serve now vaguely to annoy.

I realize what our problem is . . . . . . .
I miss my little boy.

A Tempered Sword

By Michele T. Fry, ã 1996

 

I thought myself ungainly as a child,

but my Mother, feeding fancies of her own

pasted labels on my unformed soul with oft-repeated phrases such as

     "Come to me, my precious ballerina."

 

So I grew up a cynic,

disbelieving any praise I got from her

as well as every disingenuous

remark that pierced my ear.

 

My strengths went undetected

but I managed, hanging on

to some nameless noun

I knew to be my SELF.

 

I read in classic literature

of heros who had risen like the Phoenix

from the ashes of their own annihilation.

I took heart, and I smiled

(with that Mona Lisa smile —

distant gaze, folded arms, cool resolve) . . . . . . .

and laid siege to the deafening defeat

which was roaring all around me day and night.

 

I was certain I was strong

and I knew I had power.

Something beautiful was stirring deep within me,

though it seemed no one else could see what I saw.

 

"You will metamorphosize in good time",

said my soul to my heart, and I believed it!

As an article of faith this became my religion

as I slogged through the slights and the nays

and the disapproving looks and the backstabbing ways

of my fellows towards their fellows.

Through the endless disappointments of my life,

I saw light through the darkness and myself in the light.

 

As a Samauri does,

I became what I am:

 

     Folded once. Folded thrice.

     Thrusted yet again into the fires of Life,

     then again, layer on layer,

     I was bent and beaten flat

     on the anvil of Strife

     'til the edge I could hold

     was undullable in conflict

     and the arc my blade could trace

     matched a ballerina's grace.

     and the handle fitted to me

     gleamed with polished usefulness.

 

Thus, I sprang from the Master's hand —

A Tempered Sword.

P.S. Mom, if you read this, it isn’t about you.  You never called me your precious ballerina.  It’s a poem about the damage done by all sorts of people  who place false (good or bad) labels on others, especially children, and about surviving such cruelty by being true to ourselves.

Without Potential

© 1964 (Age 17)

I am a man without Potential
I've got none of that essential
STUFF to show the world.
I've no pride in all the Doings
that all men seem bent on strewing
o're this raged and ragged, stripped and staggered globe.

I've no Motive, nor the Taste
for just living life in Haste
as it seems we're all required to.
And in treatment of my Brethren
no examples seem as Reverent
as I'm told they are . . . . . and should be!

Wish I could charge down a Path
spewing love and venting rath
letting those I trample lick their wounds alone.
Then perhaps I'd give THEM hope
I'd be climbing up the laddar
towards the Virtues OTHERS value.

But, alas, I'm doomed to Caring
and my heart is chained to bearing
all the woes and harsh indignities of Man.
And my tongue gets tied for Trying
and I freeze for fear of Lying.
What if I, too, do not know the Truth?

Those who love me, my how Queer!
For they know not how they seer
my heart to blackened embers.
For they whisper that I'm Empty
when it's only I'm attempting
for a better reasoned way. Where's the way?

If I'm lost and I seem vacant
Truth is this: I am waiting
for a sign that those who teach me
actually know the Proper Pathway.
Doesn't look like it from here
when all I see is fear, selfishness
and contradictions everywhere.

Though you mean no pain, nor scorn me
you don't realize how you've torn me.
I am lost among your Ambiguities!

Written in high school, shocked at the conduct of our church minister who ran off with another man's wife; adults around me who didn't remotely live up to the loving Christian values they preached; and a variety of teachers who played favorites and seemed to enjoy humiliating, with impunity, the students they didn't like.