"frye" poems
~~~
a poem derived from these words of
Joel M Frye
"Poetry is a self-policing agency, enforcing nothing
~~~
The Truth Burden
is the accursed need obligatory,
the sacred sanctity requisitioned,
when the whenever,
chooses to drops in and
upflag the mailbox,
an uninvited invitation,
announcing with precise bluntness,
that precisely now,
is the tool crafted moment
and you fool,
are the selected tool
you must render unto Ceaser,
by your own hand,
render your own rendering,
do your own undoing,
go forth and in haste,
will thyself into the cauldron of the
Great Mystery of Creation
you cannot lie in poetry
-one can only validate-
you will tell the whole truth,
and nothing but,
all in good order,
to secure me to thee,
to muddle
our molecular cocktail mix,
you must,
must give only
truth in poetry,
or give
nothing
police yourself
in every aleph bet,
don't substance abuse us with deceit,
give only your unburdening,
force us to lip kiss
when
we face each other,
when
pronouncing the blessed script of
ourselves,
that we have been granted by sharing
each other's unvarnished lettres
the burden is
to un burden
cut out what needs
to be bridged from
the secret walled-in safe,
and give form, life and breath,
expose it to the atmosphere,
reform your bleak introspection
and white horseradish bitter realism,
turn blue blood veined internal
into an amberina red,
all by being
unsaved, unsavory, unsafe
you are the enforcer,
you are the police,
you are the validation
and the validator,
enforcing this sole law,
police your self,
give us
with no agent in between,
give us
nothing but,
a voice
one will recognize instantly
as the whole fats milk of
truth
oh, how I will embrace thy
one and only,
when given,
your
one and only
for do we dare disagree that is
each other's truths that
shall set us free?
•••
for we are the inhabitants,
of this wild land of
no inhibitions,
no rule of laws,
except one,
defend the essence,
protect the defenseless integrity,
promote the mystery of the
human poem
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 9:21 AM UTC
I can’t remember what I said right before…
I kissed you.
I think I was wearing your blue and orange hat,
the one with the pompom
(You look ridiculous in it).
I’m sure you thought I was cute when I
took it off your head
and clicked up the sidewalk backwards as I put it on.
I probably thought I was giving you sexy-eyes.
I thought you’d think I was crazy when I showed up at your door
and rang your doorbell,
(like eight times)
at 4:37 AM.
But I just wanted a kiss I could remember—
one I could accept my diploma with.
Not a face-full of beard
and a blurry hint at what color your eyes
might have been
when I…
took
a step
back.
I wanted to kick off my black Frye boots
that made me taller than you on the hill.
I wanted to shave that beard
to see your face for the first time.
Sep 14, 2012
Sep 14, 2012 at 10:36 PM UTC
<In Memoriam: Joel M Frye>
we spoke perhaps twice by antiquated conveyance,
actually exchanging voices, real words, not ionized,
we knew so little, so much of other, in modern ways,
where you can feel without touch, see with eyes closed,
scenting tthrough a wire, hearing the voices whenever
inhaling each’s poems, tonguing, tasting the words aloud
nonetheless, ‘tis nonsensical, that his earthly disappearance
should defect my affectations, with the chested sensational
of loss, deprivation,, that I am missing a poet, his insights,
his way of saying the same thing yet so differently which is
exactly what we do here daily, reheating upon rehearing
each others verbal notions of rue, worry, love lost,
abandoned faith, momentarily reignited, wondering instantly
and perpetually do words matter, just before we, with excited sighs
we pick up the unique utensil fluidity that allows this communication
of spirit; now it strikes me hard, it is his spirited humorous man-n’ere,in everything, that became has attached to me, consciously and consciencely, humanizing me by his good graces that cannot
now be refreshed
until I
reread
him
one
time
more
Jul 5, 2023
Jul 5, 2023 at 7:22 AM UTC
Do not stand at my grave and weep:
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starshine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry:
I am not there; I did not die.
Jan 9, 2016
Jan 9, 2016 at 3:04 AM UTC
My third attempt to commemorate Joel Frye.
News arrived Mid-May, found me far from home,
found me shock-gasping in a hotel room,
on the wrong coast,
though he sort-of-warned-warned,
about a month earlier, I misunderstood his subsequent
silence, thus it caught me unawares, unprepared,
and strangely grasping for proper comprehension
and the right words, that usually come so quickly,
even too easy~quick, when one’s emotions are
running fast, like a springtime Northwest mountain stream
Imagine a conversation of nine year’s duration,
one of a number forged in the iron-y of poetry,
a most
genteel art.
I found his words above in a comment on a poem (1)
of mine, writ in 2015; the subject, so apropos, to be
ever gentle to thy words.
Our dialogue and mutual admiration lives on and survives,
for bonds forged ex-the world of poetry, but more so,
in real deeds and deals and realized poems come true.
We never met.
Not unusual for an on-line community, where the social, literate
media can foster a closeness surpassing the normative
standard need of the physical,
which nonetheless the absence of that touch is now
deep regretted.
But Joel do not be concerned!
Your words will live with others, as per your desire.
This my promise, this my premise:
A debt of brotherhood that will be,
must be, paid in full.
So let’s begin…shall we…
~~~~
Joel Frye Sep 2015
Friends
Some for a reason,
some for a season; even
lifetimes come and go.
All things are transitory. Doesn't mean I have to like it.
<>
(1j
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/1425812/oh-poet-be-ever-gentle-to-thy-words/
Jun 27, 2023
Jun 27, 2023 at 8:10 AM UTC
It was the way the branches were shaped. I have lived in this house for exactly a year and seven months. I have sat in this exact chair and observed my surroundings. I have studied the positions of the trees, the way their leaves are shaped. I have sat here and talked about life with the greatest man I've ever known. Watched the snow fall, filled with anxiety, I thought I was trapped forever. Seasons passed and I grew with the changes. Tonight I sat here, blood soaked in ***** norco dissolving in nasal passages, Mary Jane dancing in the wind... I felt the frightful chill of October. It was like death and despair had arrived and taken hold of my soul. They reached out their ghostly arms and embraced me, filled me with dark cavernous thoughts. I was numb and the weight of a thousand worlds fell upon my shoulders once again. I saw his face, I longed for the chance of laying upon his bed and breathing him in. Breathing in the nights when he said he had my back forever, inhaling the bittersweet sting of a love rejected. I missed his laugh, his temper. I saw his name written in the trees and I knew his voice. The wind whispered through the leaves and played a song like Mary Elizabeth Frye once described. I heard his song, crying out for me to live, to make this existence matter. Cheeks turned, I blamed the higher being, "why such a beautiful soul? Why?" I am so cold and I can't feel my limbs, frozen in yesterday, frozen in the October wind. I sit here and I read it in the trees, it tells me to live but I think I've forgotten how.
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 3:09 PM UTC
ducks need water
possums need acting classes
a horse needs to run
ligers need fans
and monkeys need macadamia nuts
I need some ray bans
dogs need love
cats need mice
like mice need hide-aways
I REALLY NEED those Frye boots
mosquitos need blood
and fire needs air
water needs a pathway
I need a new weave
feet need ground
sails need wind
Louis needs a direction
and I need their new cd
Mar 19, 2013
Mar 19, 2013 at 11:17 PM UTC
Crazy Guy Sends His Poems to a Dead Guy
~for Joel Frye,and yes it’s true~
ah another trivial pursuit of trivial nuggets
bout yours untruly, that is a truly truly,
poets that
I’ve known here, but who have moved on,
it’s my obligation to keep them posted on the
au courant,
so slip them a poem or two,
when you ain’t looking to
make one wonder even more,
what makes a man a nutty Natty.?
well if you don’t know the answer to that after
two t h o u s a n d plus poems, you are not getting me
but Joel Frye,
mutual enjoyed our scribblings,
yeah, he got me,
so via social media,
keep him posted of my latest écrits,
fancy french for scribbles,
of course he gets them
before me,
in so far I assume
my thots are known to rise
or more likely drop,
even before
they traverse that narrow passage between my ears…
but really, just in case,
in the peace and quiet
of the hubbub above, with all them comings and goings,
he, God forbid, (ha!), he may overlook my inane insanities,
and the weirdness
of my compositions,
real, ethereal and in between~al,
that’s a great whew~relief knowing,
at least
some one!
is reading my stuff…
natty
Dec 17, 2023
Dec 17, 2023 at 5:58 PM UTC
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
by Mary Elizabeth Frye. 9/12/2016.
Sep 12, 2016
Sep 12, 2016 at 4:27 PM UTC
Do not stand at my grave and weep;
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there.
I did not die.
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 9:24 PM UTC
~for Joel M Frye~
give me your blunt, stunted words,
rooted in the genome human
give me rough, toughened words,
wizened savvy by caress and punch
what use angels ethereal pinheaded,
inexperienced in the vocabulary of the maddening crowd
give me anger, rage, envy-jealousy,
the burnt ashes of the remainder of real
give me perspective of eyes facedown on concrete,
feel of flesh hands pounding the soft spots of the skull
In return for? What bargain struck? What consideration exchanged?
for your blunt, stunted words,
I give you this:
the homage of inspiration
the honor of no questions asked
one day of my life
poured into your vase
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 7:00 PM UTC
Opened Frye's Paving
Company...specializing
in good intentions.
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 9:59 AM UTC
I trace your faded prints upon the dirt
around them, mud congeals to form my hurt
failing falling stars confuse my path
I shuffle feet for miles but stay inert
all false the trails refusing to subvert
antipathetic strands to stir my wrath
The trees all flay themselves to spill the secrets
thou swore undying oath to never keepest
lest all worlds align to hide the truth
Pausing, taking breaths beneath the deepest
floors of pits that tenderly would keep us
undestined, lost and wild to know our youth
And seek you out I must, I must, I will,
at universe's end, a galaxy
where we would rest, reborn; become, to be
where every breath relaxes into still
Ever will you walk alone, until
you witness me in my entirety
Come, my unforgotten one, you see
arrival less one is a bitter pill
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 4:30 PM UTC
~~~
"all poetry is confessional, whether written in the first person or not. If nothing else, it is a homing device to our souls, telling any who read where we stand, what we see from our perspective and our poet's eye. When enough of us speak of what we perceive,
perhaps someday we'll understand that the tree, the snake, and the rope are indeed an elephant."
Joel Frye
perhaps
the essential modifier of our lives,
or as one of the greatest philosopher reprised,
Professor Alfred E. Doolittle,
"Oh, you can walk the straight and narrow;
But with a little bit of luck,
(perhaps)
you'll run amuck!"^
this thence,
one more mine true
confession,
so many discoursed, cursed
have seen the
roped wrapped tree
firmly snaking around its cored trunk,
issuing forced strangling sounds,
the musical product of its own
umbilical chord
still and yet,
the jungled elephants,
from my visionary,
remain ghostly hidden,
stolid solid doesn't not comport with the
hallucinogenic jive of running
amuck!
limitations shun my expectations,
abilities misrule hide my
hoped-for-destination of hopes,
my elephants,
still and yet,
elude the grasp of exhausted roving eyes
undeterred and reaffirmed,
until and then,
when the elephants come to me
on bended knee,
can understanding be
perhaps
pronounced,
as being blessed with best satisfaction,
with the finest of
illuminating,
most-happy-fella,
well known,
elephantine-humantine-pink
combine
phrases
A Happy Ending
After All
^My Fair Lady - With A Little Bit O' Luck Lyrics
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 5:20 PM UTC
I waited under under a waning moon
for a night that did not start
Beneath the pale
of exacting twilight
I ripped open my chest
and held out my heart
The darkness surrounding
consuming its light
drumming of heartbeats
an encrypted call to a lover,
a predator
no one at all
But you called to me
You asked me to answer your prayers
and in the coming night
I wait for you
under the pale moon light
a silvery silence which sounds
of a hopeful despair
Which now knows of the who
but not the where
Silvery is the moon
the silence I can not bear
am I to be frowned upon
even as I am aware
I am here
You are there
the weighted distance counts
the miles aloud...
I'm not allowed to seek you out,
must stay suspended in my lunar shroud
I felt your every heart beat
Like footsteps upon the floor
I even felt the finality
when you decided to close the door
The moon was shielded by
clouds that night
She, like me, couldn't bear to see
the agony of your fight, your flight
Torn between survival
and what could never be
breathing just for revival
Jun 15, 2013
Jun 15, 2013 at 6:24 AM UTC
I lit incense
and a candle
and chanted a prayer
for my dead father.
Feb 9, 2011
Feb 9, 2011 at 4:02 AM UTC
kiss me with your words
touch me with your soul
brush against me, tightly
lose your self control
brand me with haiku's
flay me with short spiked whips
crisscross the marks on my body
alliterated under a lunar eclipse
trace the edge of my demons
as they crawl beneath my skin
flick them from my opalescence
denying their claim of original sin
Oh, how I adore you!
you embrace a pattern of acceptance
for the road that I crawl upon
darkness is a cloak I wear heavily
and all I have is you, to depend on
In the house I set up on the corner
of Bitterness St and Lonely Rd
You never saw me as a mourner
just one who shared your old zip code
oh, how I adore you
you totally relate, so unrehearsed
you stroke a fever with a feathered cane
crisscrossing old scars on a new body
dancing along the same orbital plane
oh, how I adore you
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 3:47 AM UTC
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.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 2:52 AM UTC
To truly know the fire,
one must taste the ashes.
To truly feel the burn
one must know the flame
To truly burn with fire
casts off the brightest light.
and in the ashes lay
the taste of another day
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 6:29 AM UTC
If I could ask your heart how much from me it could bear,
I might as well ask the same from the legs of my chair.
For posted on a chair, is a specific warning to heed
How much weight it can hold, how much not to exceed.
And as for your heart, for it not to break,
I should’ve been perfect, and should’ve made no mistake.
But over the years, I increased all its strain
Never knowing how much stress it could really sustain.
As if this heart wasn't holding enough
I’d given it more to lug when things got the slightest bit rough.
I knew of things you’d endured, the dark of your past
Instead of a savior, I was a lethal bomb blast.
Only when you broke did I accept all the blame.
You dealt with identical faults, my errors the same.
When cognitive dissonance and other issues arose,
Regrettably it was of you that I chose to dispose.
But if you could ask my heart how much for you it did care
You might as well ask me how much I need air.
For posted on my heart is a picture of you
And a list of things that I’ll never let you go through.
Apr 17, 2014
Apr 17, 2014 at 11:36 AM UTC
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
by Mary Elizabeth Frye
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 6:18 PM UTC
Do not stand at my grave and weep
by Mary Elizabeth Frye
Do not stand at my grave and weep:
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starshine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry:
I am not there; I did not die.
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 12:11 AM UTC
The poet cannot talk about what he already knows.
Northrop Frye
light splits the world in seen and unseen
night accelerates some fascination
I contemplate the poverty of words
who is doing the autopsy of freedom or something,
a requiem for a country that torments its name
streets don't smell of winter but of loneliness and oblivion, exhaustion and rage
some have already forgotten the meaning of blood
we like sweating not weeping, cursing not dreaming, finding the stain not the brain of fog
we practice forgetting like the snake charmers
dreams look like second hand stores, like the promise of the apocalypse, a local version of Munch's scream, like an uninvented wheel or the beginning of the world.
an old lady sells fir wreaths in disbelief
too many drugstores ignore the untethered soul,
a place of redemption they are, unwittingly
here there are poets, there are beasts, gentle souls and blind alleys,
indifferent smiles and lazy hands
and who can hear/bear the echo of that song... better dead than communists, comrades
province hates the center, the center forgets its north,
the all good sequestred against the all bad, no dialectics in doublespeak
truth to be told, there is no consent for telling the truth
ersatz emotions exchanged casually, Hell is other people. always. some play Russian roulette with reality, we are the heirs of a history disorder
if my dreams are full of birds, waters, lonesome deposits of the flow of time, I have to wonder
is history a desire machine searching for some mythical proportions
this country or a ****** mother with indifferent hands
here citizens have no faces, but interrupted gestures, fractured thoughts without containment
I fear those who cannot cry
without the meaning of blood history has no meaning or maybe it does, look at the speed of some digital thoughts, the attack of ready made ideas. ideology becomes eulogy
no wonder I don't know how to end this poem
we need new words that contain their power
what is freedom? who knows, who cares.
oh, an old adagio, a gangrene of our undiscovered minds
Jan 8, 2025
Jan 8, 2025 at 4:22 PM UTC
The shadows have been cleared
through watery eyes
A soul well fed by creativity beyond measure
…you fed me well my friend with grace, ease and peace
As the sun cleared the rain I ceased breathing
the sorrow poured from my depths
I honor the words, the love…dark and light
you are the bearer of many truths
I honor you and our words.
Eternal peace Friar⭐️
From your TLC💜🙏🏻
May 19, 2023
May 19, 2023 at 7:39 AM UTC