A gorgeous sunrise
makes me glad for this lifetime,
strikes me stone grateful.

cool afternoon breeze
quenches red-hot sun-baked morn;
a well-tempered night.

As much as I am nature's man,
in spite of all my hopes,
I'm just a walk-on in her plan;
the one who interlopes.

To: Career politicians and insiders
From: The great unwashed rabble beneath your feet

Over the next few years, and into the foreseeable future,
Your past and present performance
Will be scrupulously reviewed
With an eye toward
Eliminating hangers-on and dead weight.
No cow is sacred
When so many are starving.
The heiress apparent to the retiring CEO
has been shown the door;
the head of sales now the head of state.
There will be regular meetings
With the new HR director.
Those of you who've been with us
For a while will know him well.
His name is Howard Beale.

fossilized, my brain
bridging eternity itself
searched for two
working     synapses
(if i had another brain cell,
it'd be lonely)
failing that, it had
to find a spark
to jump the gap(no
problem there, son...
just find the third rail
and grab on)

We who live on the fringes
of the working-class
know her all too well.
A tulip of a child,
precociously blossoming
at eleven or twelve,
cute and acutely aware.
Never knowing her father,
her mother changing
boyfriends like fashion,
new each season.
Little girl's mind flush
with women's hormones,
she wraps herself around
the first small male kindness;
a good warm hug what she needs,
but has learned but one way
to express love.

Sandpapered throat and
bleary eyes greet me today;
a code id da hed.

Look into the mirror again; I'm still here,
alive on the silvered side, watching you
(me), free to walk the world.  Problem is,
I'm the real me (you), and you need me
to watch the people around you.
Please, close your eyes a minute,
reach through, and put me on your shoulders;
free me, so I can observe with you
see how they live their lives
so (you) I can fill in the blanks
of what I (we) never were taught,
learn the motion and the emotion.
That way we don't have to be a walking mirror,
trying to do everything upside-down and backwards
just to keep the people from knowing
how crazy we (I) really are (am.)

Forms are frames for words
cross-stitched into poems; lovely,
graceful, archaic.

Who writes of passing lives and passing days
writes not of visions or of blinding light,
but of despair in muted shades of grays;
perspective of an ever-dark'ning sight.

when
the poison
is ported through my heart
and eventually arrives
on the slow boat
to its terminal
when
it does its designed job
while picking up side work
in other organs
when
the projector is shut down
and the reality
is walking beside me
within me
I will let you know how I am.

He sat down,
and was kibbitzing
with the sudoku player
hooked up next to him
as they tapped his vein.
Vital, lean face
with a lopsided smile
and a still-firm handshake
though he might have been
pushing eighty.
His voice as strong
as his grip
as the nurse came by
with her survey
on a clipboard
asking
how comfortable was he?
is there anything we can do for you
to improve the quality
of the life you have left?
anyone we can contact?
fine.
no.
no.
She bustled off
to her growing stack
of paperwork;
he turned
to the sudoku player.
*the nines go here...and here.

how rare it is
in all our lost
wanderings
to walk a forked path
and know
beyond certainty
the way chosen
will change
the rest
of the journey

The sheer power of your words
the cascading beauty of shimmering
images crashing upon my very being
erodes a deep pool of peace
where I float finding respite
from the triage of living

lay down upon a spread of softest down
on shore nearby perfumed
with blooms of memories shared
fascinating, lovely, thorns and all

an exhilarating walk along jagged cliffs
built from volcanic eruptions;
emotions buried for years
beneath the surface
given fiery breath and freedom
their peaks frosted with
gentle cooling snows of perspective

rolling meadows of gently whispering
reads roiled by imaginative breezes
subtle sweet-grass intimations
soothe an overheated mind
and balm the inflamed heart

this is the world we have created;
rejoice, and be glad in it.

Whispering waves call
invitingly, not caring
if I sink or swim.

You sneered at me because you thought I'd lied
and stared at me through drunken eyes of pain,
then waved me off as I tried to explain.
You turned away, just shook your head and sighed,
still unconvinced that I had not a clue
where she had gone since I had left her here.
You drove away, your taillights disappeared
into the driving snow, the wind that blew.
The same snow broke your fall as you collapsed,
but couldn't keep your temple from the bruise
that showed up three days later as you lay
in state but not in peace. I think I snapped;
I spoke to you, 'twas Dylan's words I used:
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears I pray.

the next great poet
walks among us

without a halo
or unearthly glow

she might post daily
or he might write in bursts

they might be ringing
up your groceries,
or making your
non-fat double decaf
latte with splenda
(smiling to themselves
and saying "why bother"
under their breath)

mostly they stand
bodies distracted
by making a living

and watch

so their poet's eye
can record life
in a way that
makes some sense
to their souls

I carry the ghost of "what was"
along with the spectre "to be",
still chained to the rock of "I am";
the birds of time swoop down on me.

Some years ago, I begged for firmament,
a lasting place of honor in your skies.
As days of disappointment came and went,
I learned forever's promises are lies.
Still fighting finite life, impermanence,
this chunk of astral rock would never learn
time's atmosphere is entered only once,
and we glow, white and screaming as we burn.

The cold of space interred within my bones
means any source of warmth is welcomed now,
including immolation.  
                                         Had I known
the entropy our years on earth allow,
a reckless plunge would sanction fiery end:
The shooting star is blessed and not condemned.

When you have wrung
the last droplet of agony
from the blood-soaked rags
that cover and expose
your wounds,
remember this, my friend...

pain is
a standard feature
of life;
suffering
is an option.

Let's see...Mom died in
oh-three; nuclear family
reached critical mass.

Ghosts
©1984 Joel M. Frye


There are ghosts upon the platform
Standing cold and still and pale,
There are ghosts upon the platform
Waiting by that long-gone rail.

A woman on a suitcase,
The porter in mid-stride;
Two kids, an old man watching
For that train they'll never ride.

“Hey, Grampa, where's old 99?”
“She won't come through again.
The interstate's a-rolling
Where we used to catch the train.”

There are ghosts upon the platform
Standing cold and still and pale,
There are ghosts upon the platform
Waiting by that long-gone rail.

The steel canal, it nailed the lid
On Mr. Clinton's dream.
The iron horse died of drowning
Underneath an asphalt stream.

There are ghosts upon the platform
Standing cold and still and pale,
There are ghosts upon the platform
Waiting by that long-gone rail.

“Hey, Grampa, where's old 99?”
“She won't come through again.
Six-ninety goes a-rolling
Where we used to catch the train.”

There are ghosts upon the platform
Standing cold and still and pale,
There are ghosts upon the platform
Waiting by that long-gone rail.

open swinging door
oscillates gently in spring's
warm and moist respirations

hyacinth's odor
wafting in through the screen door
on reminiscence of you

orange spread of sun
compressed to laser whiteness
by focused blue sky.

I have no wisdom
of my own; borrowed insight,
hindsight of many.

Most of my tries to
be funny end up being
self-defecating.

I drank to forget,
drank deep, long and hard for years,
forgetting nothing.

woken by hunger;
a void, vacuum leaking tears
seeking fulfillment.
not enough words in the world
or beyond that would suffice

the aftermath of
overload, a mother-lode
of familiar
mines ever so precisely
placed, set, hair-triggered, waiting

almost beautiful
when wrong-footed unwary
questions detonate
lovely plumes of cratered soul
with shrapnel of shattered love

and I'm f l  y   i    n     g   .    .    .     .

having exchanged 
three days of life
suspended together
between realities
my life is richer
and poorer
three days impossible
without the forty
years apart
forty forging years
that hammered us
mellow and malleable
to fit comfortably
in conversation
and silence alike.

I knocked; she came up to the door and smiled.
"The bed's still on the porch; we moved the rest.
We thought it might take you a little while
to get here; didn't want you feeling pressed
for time. Garage is open, I'll be in
the kitchen getting ready for the wake."

Taking down his bed, I thought of when
we spoke the final time, his strong handshake,
the glowing of his eyes at what he'd seen.

Said,"Call me if you need to"; hugged her, said
so long.
                  A few weeks later, as I cleaned
my truck, her face just popped into my head.
I knocked; she came up to the door and smiled.
"I called, you answered.  This is just too wild."

You were never much
for the soft word
or sentimental touch.

God alone knows
how you survived
those early years,

the unwanted hands
of the man who
should have fought off
the boys who would
maul you that way
many years later.

The elders blamed
you, a three year old
child, a seductress;
sent you and your
older sister off
to pervert another
tribe in Oklahoma,

and exiled your mother
for having the sheer
audacity
to raise a stink
about your treatment.

Small wonder you married
a white man;
smaller still the wonder
that he was white trash
and proud of it.

You told me once
that for all the bluster,
he was gentle with you,
and how you needed that.
Ambivalent
about love and ***,
you taught what you knew.

When you found the knife
your daughter kept
under her mattress
to fend off her
older brother's hands,
you taught what you didn't know.

You would be horrified
that the horrifics above
would be published;
after all, every family
has blood on their sheets
that should never be
laundered in public.

The droplets of blood
on your childhood sheets,
sequestered
for half a century
poisoned you,

and ate away
the delicate fabric of love
with which you bound
old wounds.

Your faith, your Truth
allowed no special days
save the day Christ died;
so today is just another day,
excellent and fair.

You forgave us our anger
without fully understanding
why we were angry;
it's taken years
and bitter lessons
to discover
what a difficult
gift that was to deliver.

The last memory of you:
You turned to me
as I pushed your wheelchair
along the sidewalk, and said,


I never thought it would be you, here.

"and who might you be?"
he asked in a voice
hahdah than a newenglandbed

"just a fellow poet who was read
your poems in fifth grade
and fell in love with words"

"a )poet(?  why of all most the amazing
things on earth would you
want to do that?"

"it never was a want"

Walking through wasteland
bereft; tears have parched my sense
of self and humor.
Spirit knows where I have been;
Spirit knows when I'll return.

In bed unspringing
hot syncopated rhythms;
now you're wailin', man!

a tender shoot once felt the sun
beneath its snowy comforter
and dared to peek a tendril out

the promise of an afternoon
and sun's love on its eager face
bespoke a need for nourishment

despite mistrust of fickle wind
with wolf of winter prowling still
the stripling brazenly rose up

and winter gratefully stopped by
to drape a coat of ice upon
the startled stalk who sought the sun

who hadn't time for warm caress
in early February dusk

"Sing your heart out...:)"

Lalalalalaaaaaa...

                                      thud

thumpthump  thumpthump...

oops.

Take a hit;
hurt a bit
and get over it.

The nurses at the front desk
throw folders
and wisecracks
across the spaces between them,
and offer one
as a moving target
for a game of darts
with pretend syringes.
Watching the relaxed bustle,
I'm reminded of a line
from Stranger In A Strange Land,
where "waiting is",
but at times you have to wait so fast
that you move at blurred speed.
All seasoned with
a light-handed graveyard humor,
promising to make sure
and dull the needles for me
special-like next time.
Just to make it official,
I throw my folder
at the main perp at the front desk
when leaving.
The dartboard du jour
cheers with thumbs up.
I'm one of the gang.

A voice may open doors to corridors,
dusty and untraveled creaking floors
which lead to vast and unlit recessed rooms,
shut down tight, their vacancy assumed.
Should you have the curiosity
to follow, know you this: the voice will be
your unrelenting guide, compelling you
through portals from until now you withdrew.
The voice will still the recoil of your mind
and weave within your thoughts and intertwine
into a past and present tapestry
of dreams and fears spun with realities.
Colored with your rapture, tears you spill;
the cloth is yours, do with it what you will.

not everyone needs
a lever and a place to stand
to move their world; some
need only a listener
to reflect their words to them.

The note you left was short not sweet,
you barely said goodbye;
then moved across the country
with that rich, good-looking guy.
You come back knocking at my door,
you're tattered and you're torn;
you made your bed of roses...
now go sleep upon the thorns.

Independence Day -
Americans unaware
of what they're given.

Poems unread for
over twenty years have life;
news at eleven.

Hug: four arms carry
the glorious weight of two
souls' love and caring.

Come to the table
once groaning with delicious,
rare delicacies,
and feast on poorly-prepared
portions of our own gored skulls.

Time's a passage that will narrow
as it's traveled; clashing rocks of
past and future crush the marrow
from the present.  Nagging clocks will
count each second of the numbered
days that still remain, and sound the
buzzer rousing those who slumber.
Those unwary fools who founder
on the unseen reefs of time have
never noticed how the hours will
quicken, forced through finite lives to
frothing waves, then crest and still.