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!

Exuberance

by Michele T. Fry, © 1997

 

Exuberance is quite an uncommon phenomenon.
Wherever it pops up, discomfort ensues.
For each Tigger who bounds through the forest with gladness
there are hundreds of Eeyores and Poohs.

 

People feel crowded when you bubble over,
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.

 

For it's not that I love what I am, as such,
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!

 

I've chanced to be born on this green and blue globe
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!

 

I've eyes that can see, and ears that can hear,
and a mind that can process the data.
They entertain me with spectacular vistas
that cost not a penny. Pro Rata!

 

So if you see me prancing, or preening, or glowing,
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!

 

It exhilarates me to be served up a plate
from life's overwhelming bazaar--
there's flowers, and friendships, soft mattresses, corn chips,
and zooming around in my Z-car!

 

With a flick of the wrist I can dial up a mood--
talk radio, jazz, or concertos.
With a much shorter work week, I'm free to have hobbies,
read novels, write poetry, travel.

 

There's T.V. and Google and National Parks,
hot tap water, vaccines, dishwashers,
There's interstate highways and no-iron fabrics.
and flush-away sewerage.  There's Wal-Mart!

 

We all live like KINGS in this 20th century.
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!

 

So lest you confuse my delight for conceit or
self-confidence, you read me wrongly.
I just know the odds against living as we do,
and savor each day with exuberant song.

 

How can anyone not sing along?

Enthroned

By Michele T. Fry, © October 1992

 

I’ve made it to the other side,

from childhood fears to an adult stride.

There’s a calm that comes of knowing more

and I would never go back . . . . .

 

For children cry and stomp their feet . . .

and teens demand more freedom . . .

young hearts break at parting time . . .

and housewives hate their cleaning.

 

Politicians push and pull . . .

parents tear their hair out . . .

businessmen submit proposals . . .

angry workers riot.

 

And part of me is in the fray,

satisfying hungers.

But there’s another part of me

above it all — observing.

 

The yin. The yang.  The too and fro.

The “everything’s always changing”.

The cycles going round are but

cosmetic rearranging.

 

Now wisdom’s oft’ portrayed a lofty

throne with sage reposing.

It’s really up there, off a ways.

I sit there now I’m older.

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.

A Teacher's Manifesto

By Michele T. Fry, ã February 1991

An autobiographical poem: I owned, operated and taught in my own Montessori school for 27 years. 
This is the understanding I came to have of what I was teaching. 

 

This school is My Church,

and I am the Pastor of this holy place.

 

This is My Spot on Earth in which to be effective,

the only place on Earth over which I have Dominion.

 

Conceived in Love.

 

Whose Divine Purpose it is

to glorify the Human Spirit

and discipline the mind and body to it’s Will.

 

To be a Friend.

 

To Teach each of my Pupils

the Natural Laws that govern Every Thing;

to tune them in to the Diversity of Truth

and the Vastness of the Universe;

to free them from the Darkness of Superstition;

from Mistrust and Fear of fellow humans;

And to trust Themselves;

to teach the holy art of Gratitude

and celebrate with them the Blessings Of Our Age;

to cultivate that holy mix of

Humility, Personal Power, Empathy and Joy

which resurrects the soul

and frees the heart to feel Compassionate toward Self and Others.

 

To guide them to such discoveries

that they may reach whatever Heights they may aspire to;

take responsibility for the Depths that they explore;

add to the Beauty of this world;

reduce Suffering;

increase Pleasure;

triumph over Adversity and help others do the same;

see the Connectedness of all things;

accept Aloneness and the Great Unknown;

Forgive;

and wherever they are in the vast millieu of Life,

to dance in gratitude with a song on their lips

whose lyrics are simply, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

 

And in the end,

to have each of my pupils come to know

and to Enjoy

the God within Themselves,

and Everything,

and Everyone.

No Longer Alone

© 1994

Tonight I discovered the Mother in me
and I'll never be lonely again.
I felt Her Madonna-like presence surrounding me,
hugging me, being my friend.

When Moms are around, it's nothing to fall.
You pick up, dust off, and go on.
There's always that circle of comfortable arms
to love you and welcome you home.

Moms frame your pictures, and treasure your scribbles,
and brag to their friends about you . . . . . . . .
but when you leave home there are lonely betrayals . . . . . .
and stunning hurts to suffer through.

Oh Mom! How I've needed your love all these years
when I've felt alone and far-flung,
running the gauntlet through blind and unfair,
lashed by carelessly poisonous tongues.

I've hid behind smiles, and "I see's", and "Oh well's",
a child still needing support.
I've hid in my comfortable home and my jobs
and not ventured much further forth.

I've watched others draw from some river of strength
that's not been a resource for me.
The gains that I've made have been modest indeed
compared to what's locked up in me.

I've hoped that some knight in white armor might save me.
Expected right reasoning to fix things.
I've been on my knees praying hard for assistance.
Invested in family and friendships.

But tonight I discovered the Mother within me,
Inside me, my best friend by far.
With my own love's protection, no longer abandoned,
I finally can reach for the stars.