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.

 

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.

Beware Icarian Friends I and II

© 1991

I - Beware Icarian Friends

For a moment I thought I'd fly into the Sun.
My friends said "Do it! Why not? Have fun!
You're adult, and you're free. You've a right to explore
what you want. Who you are. There are no holds barred.
So do you thing then let us know how good it was.
You deserve it. Don't fret what the World thinks or does.

Some of you waxed my wings. Some held me high
as drunk with excitement I rose to the sky.
My desire was focused on radiant Sunlight,
seeing the rapture I held as my Right.

By coincidence, then, I saw a blind flash,
heard blood-curdling screams of another's Sun crash.
That writhing hot agony was horrid to see.
I thought "OH MY GOD, OH GOD! That could have been me.
I fell from my fantasy, shaken withall.
No friend had warned of Icarian falls!

I could have lost everything I care about!
What fiend was it urged me to follow that route?
I wondered if my friends had all wished me ill,
or if they're just careless, or run-of-the-mill.
Where was their concern when I lost my cool head?
My reason was fuddled. "Follow it", they'd said.
One said "I was joking, and all I was doing
was helping you relish a mood you were brewing!"

II - Icarian Friends Beward

Well, hear now! I pick friends for reasoning so fine
It stands up beside me when I have lost mine!
What kind of friend were you? What kind will you be?
And what kind of friendship can you get from me?
Be sure, if my loved one should head for the Sun
they'd hear words from me of the risk that they run.
I may let their wings singe with some minor burning,
but not risk a charring death, even for learning.

There are all sorts of danger this could apply to, but this one relates to a friend of mine experimenting with drugs and me wrestling with what role I should play in cautioning him, and how he should appreciate my friendship for caring enough to confront him.