Returning on a Poetic Note!

Wow, what a month. The Editor was away teaching a writing course at UT Austin and now is back at the helm. It is our pleasure to introduce some poetry by Melissa Fry Beasley. Enjoy!

Old Iron Bridge


Remember that old arched iron bridge we used to walk across


Laughing and holding hands?


Remember our hiding place beneath the bridge


Where we would steal away to


When no one else was there or watching?


We sat on boulders beginning to crumble at the edges.


Why did you unbraid my hair before you kissed me?




In the shallow water near the shore


We gathered broken pieces of colored glass.


There was a fisherman’s path


Grown narrow and choked with weeds


We would walk it anyway and


Gather dun colored feathers along the way.


I still have some in a box in my closet.


That river flows through my dreams.


Does it ever wind through yours?


Why did you unbraid my hair before you kissed me?


  Pleasure In Silence


 We took pleasure in silence together


Listening to beating of hearts


And vibrations of universes


Smooth sweetness and symmetry


Of syllables left to wizen


Prayers wakened from dreams sleeping in their echo


Sound falling like a feather


Into the desert


Blown into air by charms


Words of stone


Falling into wells


Wishing we would always remain here


In this lovely silence together


  Real Or Behind My Eyes


You are still here


Real or behind my eyes


Always near


Even when the time has come


To let you go


Light burning


From stone gardens


Meant to guide you home


All things


Come into existence


Then cease


Attachment etched deeply


In ruins


That remain


A cold winter must pass


Before sun’s rays warm


These narrow straits


Between the living


And the dead



 You are still here


Real or behind my eyes


But always near


Sleepwalking lost


Through dark hallways


Wet streets


Empty rooms


Edge of daydreams


Night dreams



 The cold displaced


Quietly lead


Mourners no more


Candles flicker and lick


Showing you the way back home


That Night

That night




In quietude


We saw the moon


Rise slowly above the lake


Paving stones on path


Worn smooth with secret walking


Waterlilies edging water



 Pale and Small


 She stood pale and small


Against the night sky


Silently watching behind the full skirts of her Grandmother.


She stood observing all the magic and metamorphosis she could dream of.


The drum is like a heartbeat,


Heartbeat of the people”


She hears Grandmother telling her.


She watches


As the men become eagles


Take flight.


She sees hunters stalking


She carefully looks on


As even the grasses merrily dance.


Her heart thumps excitedly as Grandmother grabs shawl,


Heads into the circle.


Slows and turns saying, “you coming?”


She danced small and pale against the night sky


Making big circles, hand in hand.


Feeling each beat of the drum


Resonating and vibrating deep,


Down into her tiny bones.


She wondered how long a beautiful moment might last.


She wanted to dance right into tomorrow.


Dance right into next week.


Right into forever.

Melissa Fry Beasley is a poet, advocate, and activist from Oklahoma. She is proud to have red dirt running through her veins. Working with literacy programs, and doing various volunteer work, she tries to keep busy and discover interesting content for her literary endeavors. Melissa has been published in several magazines and journals both in print and online. She is currently adding the finishing touches to her first chapbook.


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