Reflections On Motherhood

By Michele Fry, © 1987


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.

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.

Casual Acquaintenance

By Michele Fry © 1992

A casual affair, we’re warned,

never lasts for long,

but sometimes I’m drawn into things,

right or wrong, for . . . . .

 

I cannot help my finger reaching

out to touch your lip,

to trace across your cheek,

to stroke your hair.

 

My eyes, drawn into yours,

fall heavy with desire,

and yours, drawn into mine,

are candles’ fire.

 

At first I follow protocol.

You’re free to go or stay.

Averted eyes and small talk

give room to break away.

 

But soon I feel you bowing to

the aura of my touch.

Our hands entwine.  Your lips brush mine.

Such tenderness!  Too much!

 

Surroundings fade

to a distant wavy sea.

There’s nothing can deny our

strange familiarity.

 

The nearness of your shoulder

makes a tightness in my chest.

Your breathing, too, grows shallow

as you slightly trace my breast.

 

As calm, as sure as ever

anything can ever be,

I know that I want you

and you want me.

 

Your face, your form

accept all that I do.

The world is re-defined –

There’s me . . . . . and you.

 

Time stands still.  There’s just

our rhythm and our flow.

Our whole life is this moment –

there is no tomorrow.

 

My name?  What’s yours?  That’s nice to know.

I really like your name.

The truth is, though, that just now

any name would seem the same.

 

For a rushing heat is in my ear.

The lights are dim.  I can barely see.

My throat is tight.  So hush.  Just stay,

and fill yourself with me.

 

Each move I make, you mirror.

We’re of a single mind.

You’re never far ahead of me

or never far behind.

 

How can this be?  We’ve no experience

of each other’s love . . . . .

We are but grist for a higher cause –

our guidance from Above.

 

We are aware of just one thing:

a swirling, blinding trust.

At last, we are the Universe!

The Universe is us!

 

Such bonding is the reach of

ancient hands ‘cross vaulted skies,

A moment caught in memory

before dark clouds arise.

 

I play such love scenes now and then.

I’ve lived them once or twice.

Imagination amplifies

experiences so nice.

 

Whoever says a casual affair

never lasts, is wrong.

For let me tell you, from this chair,

such memories linger long.

Awakening

by Michele Fry ©1966


Lay down your wooly head, my child
Lay down your head an’ dream . . . . .
     O’birds an’ bees an’ butterflies, an’ traipsing ‘cross the seas.



Dream o’ dream enough for two,

Enough for you an’ me . . . . .
     For I am growing up an’ face a stark reality.

Except that might tomorrow please me
More than did today . . . . .
     I’d stay wrapped up in my cocoon and dream my life away.

I’d picture me as livin’ in a
Cottage by the sea . . . . .
     My true love close beside me and children on my knee.

I’d play my flute and paint and write,
And gather friends about me.
     My tables laid with fruit and wine, and flowers in the window.

And we’d not want for anything,
We’d be so full contented . . . . .
     The world would lose its harshness and all that I’ve resented.

I’ve wiled away my youth in such
Utopian fantasy . . . . .
     Not knowing for a moment that these schemes could never be.

But now I am awakening,
These dreams, they have no stem . . . . .
     Are simply mounted to the sky with naught for holding them.

For children do get hungry,
And someone pays the rent,
     And friends have other things to do when all the wine is spent.

And moon glow stirs my pulses
In a manner heretofore unknown . . . . .
     With arms up-spread, I join the realm of Goddess, mother, crone.

It takes no energy to dream
Just free imagination . . . . .
     T’was easy to mistake as real a child’s hallucination.

To overlook tha’ surge of power
Which serious challenges can bring . . . . .
     Blessed are the realities that force the beating wing.



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.