THE CRITIC WRITES POEMS

Five Poems by Melissa Fry Beasley

There Were Nights

where no light was seen

but a shimmer

traveling across

land and sea,

to the place where

our hearts became

ephemeral.

Into moments

that painted our names

in breath and mornings

pressed like lilies

against a night's page

black as oleander.

I saw you stealing stars,

scratching our names

into the skin of the moon.

I saw you sniffing in winds

for more fragrance,

biting into my soft flesh

as if pomegranate,

rolling into me but

evaporating impatiently

before my eyes.

Red Clay

I remember the red clay of which I was born

With no earth to lose.

Thought slaying everything

That memory awakens.

Waiting for the peace

Of loving life,

Place becomes time

In a land of no Fathers.

Where widows and orphans seek

Mothers who work too hard,

Give too much,

Leaving little left over

Except clothes,

Hands covered in blood.

Space between being and nothing,

Between death or yesterday morning.

When we walked out

Of our bodies and sat together

So far from our destinies,

Legs dangling freely over the edge

Of this world into the next

Very present in our absence.

World of the Dead

Walking through gardens of remembrance

Clinging to walls with grief

People turned in upon themselves

Single thread in a tapestry

Fraying at the edges

No flag large enough

To cover the shame

Of killing innocent people

Shaped by waves of

Migration and invasion

Landscape scarred by

The changing of centuries

There is something in the way

Men build monuments to their fallen

This is the world of the dead

with its influences on the lives of the living

Touch

is a sad bird on its empty nest

in a desert of half mad prophets

broken aftermath of bitter hope

here all is indifference

even the moon forgets

to look lovely

and comes out

unwashed and ugly

It all began with winter,

these summers of doubt

I spit out skies

& call down imprecations

upon the heavens

perdition leads to denial

Touch is like a past

that may

or may not have been

an echo falling

through gaps between

dreams and memories

time trails on torn wings

heading toward a home or hell

to which you can never return

it is hands like a thousand

comets descending

When All That Remains

Across dark fields

Spruce sag with weight

Of Red Tailed Hawks

Evening has crept in

Like a dull ache

In the back or heart

When all that remains

Is ash and hard work

Echoes like breaking glass

Or a night train's moan

Call to lonely souls

That travel in the wind

Wide mouthed and bawling

Always begging

In a land that never has enough

Whole years pass this way

Noon seamless into night

Skies coil and darken

But lightning

Doesn't strike me

Here

*****

Melissa Fry Beasley is a Cherokee Poet, Artist, and Activist from Oklahoma. She is proud to have red dirt running through her veins. Her body currently resides in the northeastern part of the state with an odd menagerie of animals and others. Her heart is located somewhere between Seminole and Norman. You can find her work in print and online. She has a blog here: http://melissafrybeasley.wordpress.com/  She is also the literary editor for Churn: an Art, Music, & Fashion Magazine.