The Lotus Club

by Michele Fry © 2000

The lotus is a special flower
that bears much contemplation.
Orientals see it as
the symbol for Creation


.How ‘bout we choose the lotus as
the symbol of true friendship,
Inviting to “The Lotus Club”
all those who share this kinship:

Who, floating on the pond of life,
with petals slow unfolding,
We gather up as much of light
each day as we can hold, and


With anchored center rising wisely
always towards its goal,
When petals finally open wide,
‘twill display inner gold.


And waft the sweetest fragrance out
to all who paddle through,

Inspiring the rest of us
to make Art of all we do.

Our Motto:  BE ART!

A Pang of Conscience

written in 1985, remembering an experience from college days in the 1960's.

 

Today I stayed home with a miserable flu,

bundled from neck to knee.
I figured:  “While I have the time
I’ll read some poetry.”

I set the Kleenex by my side,

I brewed me up some tea.
I took a drowsy pill to dull
the aches and sniffling,
and surrounded myself with “forgotten lore” –
Tennyson, Poe, Shelley.

With books of lore stacked round my couch,

and one propped on my knee,
I “wandered lonely as a cloud”,
and yearned with Ulysse’
This excuse to abandon my daily chores
seemed especially sweet to me
as for the poor Prisoner of Chillon
I wept in sympathy.

Perusing through The Best Loved Poems,

I dozed through half a day,
innocently drifting, unaware
of what lay in store for me.

When into my languidly idling mind

bolted forth a suppressed memory . . .
like molten hot ash, it burst like a flash –
and burned a hole in me.
I was so surprised, my eyes opened wide
as I flooded with agony.

My cheeks blushed read as I recalled

each scene, greatly detailed –
the way I looked, the risk I took,
the motive it entailed.
My stomach turned.  I swooned and swayed
as though I’d been impaled.
My fever rose.  My speech was slurred
as attempts at denial failed.

My book fell from my weakened knee

as I pronounced myself “guilty”—
Nowhere on earth that I could flee
to evade the truth, now clear to me.
I sunk into shame, denial and blame.
“That can’t have been done by me,
No! No!
That was not done by me!”

Had I ever been so great a fool?

So out of harmony?
I could not bear to realize
some wrongs can never be released.
(Glad those people now are gone
and hopefully don’t remember me.)

Had I ever been so full of pride

that anyone could ever drive me
to a state of insanity where
I could act so rashly?

T’was Lady Luck who intervened . . .

and she alone had saved me.
There were no bullets in the gun
but I had pulled the trigger.

I could have faced the gallows then,

or spent my life in prison,
instead of as parent, teacher, spouse,
living in proud dignity.

This pang of conscience struck so hard

it broke my fever free.
I upped and dressed, and fled the house.
“Twas gladly back to work with me.

I spend my waking hours now

in reverent humility.
Appreciating every step I take
in free activity.

 

Snapshots

© 1996, upon going through a drawer full of old pictures and not being able to throw any of them, even blurry old Poloroids, away.

A drawer full of snapshots
a folder of poems
none worth framing
most poorly composed
or overexposed
red-eyeing the subject
or blurring the scene
or crowding too much
into one tiny screen
choosing soft focus
where sharp was deserved,
or failing to soften
the edges where words
prick like burrs
or the thoughts tumble slothfully forth,
or the hand wasn't steady —
where the Muses
were clearly not ready
to help conjure art.

Just a scrap heap of memories
a jumble of thoughts
unfit for display
they are nonetheless part
of my record of life —
thus entirely too precious to toss.

Ode To Divorce

or (Please God, Help Me Keep This In Mind)
© 1993

Being with you
was like living at the bottom
of a deep, deep hole . . . . .
that I didn't even know I was in.
Now that I'm free and I see where I was,
I marvel that I had wanted so badly to stay there with you —
such misery is sin!

Now, when I come in and holler "I'm home!",
I no longer brace for your ho-humm indifference to chill me.
My pets dance around me. My projects surround me.
They thrill me! They need me! They feed me!
I'm feeling so free!

No longer am I in confusion nor pain
when you douse out my laughter,
or frown on discussions or jokes that I tell.
No longer down-trodden that you, my own partner,
devalued my love, and my work, and my life.
GO TO HELL!

No longer entrapped by your limited concepts,
I live my life just as I please —
for me, a gazelle in the wind.
I drive down the highway for miles, then realize
I'm no longer trying to please you, to fix you, to patch things.
There's nothing to mend!

I spend all my time now enjoying existence
and reveling in mine. I'm alive!
Can't figure out what I had clung to.
I sleep now less fitfully. I greet life more cheerfully . . . . .
for now I don't care if you kiss me, or miss me, or not.
HA!

Amazing! I've new friends who like what you hated about me.
Our psyches weren't matched! I'm feeling more loved . . . . .
So thinking it through, though I sobbed when you left,
it's worked out quite nicely for me —
my support reaches down from Above.

It frightens me, though,
how the Song of the Sirens confuses.
Romance sucks us in. One kiss and we're blinded.
But . . . . . the loneliness I had endured as your spouse
was by far, worse than being alone is.
(Please, God, help me keep this in mind!)

Written 3 months after my divorce. Every word of this one is drawn from personal experience.

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.

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.

Mamma's Last Request

c May 1990
To my son Nathan upon his High School graduation

As I looked down in Mamma's casket, grief began to take me,
I felt her grasp on my lapels, and she began to shake me.
She said she had forgot to say the most important thing,
And now I'd better listen hard to her last whispering.

She plead: “You've got to live a really good life, son."

I heard her . . .  though her mute lips never stirred.
"You dry these funeral tears up in just a little while,
And henceforth do not ever be deterred.”

She flashed across my mind's eye all the millions who have died
so people coming after could be free.

“The living need to verify that theirs were worthy dreams –

That Happiness can come of Liberty.”

Dead soldiers rose en masse and joined her plea.
I bowed my head and fell on bended knee.

“The fact you’re born on this green Earth beats all the odds, son,

Life’s all you have, your greatest gift from me.
Now don’t you waste a minute of it griping and complaining.
The primal sin’s to live ungratefully.”

Awareness dawned how Mamma always minimized our pain,
No matter what came up for us to do.
Her mission clear: someone must prove
“the good life” is good for me and you.

To lay down all unnecessary struggles.
To walk away from any needless grief.
My Mamma’s life was lived conscientiously this way . . . . .
And now she’s gone and put that job on me.

She knows I’ll miss her, and I’ll cry for Mamma now and then.
My tears will let her know that I still care.
But she passed a torch to me today.
Said “Run with this religiously . . . . .
To make each day a Really Good Day.