Melissa Beasley Poetry


JANUARY 2, 2014
by Melissa Beasley
copyright 2014
previously published in Lake City, 2013

I dream of running with mustangs
In endless fields on golden days
Tall grass fading to brown
Edge of autumn
Smell of long leaf pine and cedar
Juniper berries, sage
Hawks circling and diving

I dream of running with horses
Shimmering in the light of dusk
Breathing in and out
Seeing beauty all around me
Impressions imprinted
Without utterance
A silent question which has been answered

I dream of running with ponies
An unexplainable and incomprehensible longing
To swallow the stars
And drink in the milky way
The moon my only witness
Like birds alien and distant
Indifferent to the problems of people

Editor’s Note: CHINLE is a strong poem by newcomer Melissa Beasley about love’s promise of redemption accompanied by the searching


by Melissa Beasley
copyright 2013

Dreams disturbed by too much night
Pale moon quivers then departs
Leaving tawny star that shines faint
Remembering a man from Chinle
I know him by the shape of prayer
Reflection of promise in fonts of holy water
Beneath the surface the
Redemption we have both been looking for
Blessings shared soul to soul
In places even maps don’t know
Spell staying strong
Like time, it clings
I wanted to go with him
Stay and remain there
Brushing and tying
His hair thick as blades of grass
In these warm honeyed deserts
Sweet like agave
With it’s fleshy arms
I wanted all of this but was bound
With no way of going yet
And he was taking my hand
Expecting me to leave it with him
After I learned
Hearts sometimes turn
To stone


Just Enough To Carry On

JANUARY 2, 2014 • ( 0 )
by Melissa Beasley, copyright 2014

What do we mean when we say time stands still?
What is it waiting for?
 The wreckage of what has been used up and discarded?
Whispers? Secrets?
The places I am not welcomed?
Does it wait for young death or old laughter?
Does it mean it’s just enough to carry on,
Like our mothers after learning our fathers were only leaving anyway?
Does it wait for words without language,
Screams without sound?
Perhaps it waits to make virtue of detachment.
Loss and shame here
Are blessing and thanksgiving somewhere.
I used to remember more than I forgot but
Now I count the kinds of grief love teaches and light candles for each.
There is no shade but the shadow still crouching in the back of my mind.
Sun flickers through tall pines
Looking at the place where time slows and stops,
Stones on grave;
Hoping they will know we came.
Maybe time waits for the scattered bones of precious saints
Knowing only the dust that blows from the dryness of the parched earth.
Does it mean it’s just enough to carry on?

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