Posted by: tsopr | June 29, 2013

Melissa Fry Beasley, American Poet

Melissa Fry Beasley Melissa Fry Beasley is a Humanistic poet of Cherokee origin, who resides in Oklahoma. Through the written and spoken word, she examines the gap between the ideal and the reality involved in living in our world during this time. Her work is both personal and subjective, yet she does not turn aside from the political and social issues of her environment. She is a woman who seeks to express her individual perspective and needs while accepting the diversity involved in questions of gender, race and culture. Melissa believes that change is necessary and deploys her writing to reflect her personal experience in the wider socio-political context. She’s a columnist at Yareah Magazine and is the Literary Editor for Churn: an Art, Music, & Fashion Magazine. You can find her work in print and online in Indian Country Today Media Network, The Native American Encyclopedia, FirstPeople.Us, Working Effectively With Aboriginal People, Churn Magazine, Big River Poetry Review, Daily Love, Leaves Of Ink, The Alzheimer’s Foundation, Poetry Bulawayo, Stepping Stones Magazine, Moov Magazine, Tuck Magazine, The Dandelion Farm Review, Lake City Lights, Galatea Resurrects, Eos: The Creative Context, Ken*Again, The Shot Glass Journal, The Fib Review, Dog On A Chain Press, The Political Poet, Enhance Magazine, A&U Magazine, The Glass Coin, Poetry Pacific, Yareah Magazine, Cuento Magaine, NativeTech, Native News Today, and others. She has two chapbooks forthcoming.

Featured Poetry of Melissa Fry Beasley

I Carry In My bones

We lie under a dream
in endless months of harsh weather
skeletons too close to skin
always swallowing unnecessary syllables
eating doubt until bloated
trying to leave hunger behind
punishment proportional to the
distortion of boundaries
In the slow caress of years
weight is doubled
by the burden of others
we worry over scarcity
& leave a trail of broken things
in our wake
shedding ourselves of meaning
like dead skin
what we see is only a substitute
for what is real
despite our pretensions
for how fallible we are
unassailable discordance
as we yield more eagerly
to our humiliations
no matter how we started
we end up somewhere else
the arborescence of innocence gone
a great feeling of loss
which I carry in my bones

I Am Made Of Secrets

I have come
with the same heat
as the sun,
same cold as emptiness.
I am those before me.
This soil is my ancestors,
and I am made of secrets.
Sickness in silence.
Things we become
when the light has gone.
Black and blue
like butterflies on fingertips,
or birds eating some dead thing.
Men are made of consequence.
Strong hands will close
reluctantly into fists
when there is no other way.

Running From Here

The universe has given me nine lives
and I’ve surely used at least 8 ½.
My father taught me that thoughts
are like people & must be buried properly.
Fears always manifest themselves
to the one who creates them.
I see when spirit is food
and what entity is eating you,
surrounding you until you’re heavy

Looking up toward the mountain
where I worship inside you
I fail to see flowers blossoming at my feet.
These stars of earth, graceful and sylphlike.
Silent influences unconsciously felt.
Thorn where your voice should be,
in this dark of dissolving faith.
Old solitude upon which we feast
while we fade like old sheets,
as a lonely sun slips behind scumbled clouds.

In Lonely Rooms

& empty beds
We watch as the weary sun
Slowly sinks into the embrace
Of a rusted horizon.
Some days this
Is as near to God
As I dare tread..
In this heartbroken country
Where light came
Until it was lost,
Everything withered.
Broken trees
Fingers of
Our Lord
Reaching for things
Done and left undone.

These are not the wrongdoings
Of the compassionate.
This is the place
Children learn to know shame,
Grief born of guilt,
All bad things
Don’t come to an end.
Inside it rains
Like you have not seen,
Runs down walls
Like the blood of The Lamb
Preaching love to nonbelievers.

It was not that the stars had fallen down
But we had forgotten to look up;
Distracted by sounds of the living
Like hisses in the wind,
In a land of strange tongues
I cannot understand.


Too thin children
Run wildly on spindly legs
Seeming barely large enough to carry them.
Hopping carelessly from heartache to happiness
Not noticing the shade and shadows in between.
Chocolate smeared on faces like warpaint
Feet as black as an endless night
In rural Oklahoma
Smiles beaming brightly as morning angels
Singing praises to the dawn.
Sunflowers and starbursts have nothing on this.
Belly laughs and shortcuts
To places I haven’t been for so long.
Who knows where their young minds carry them
This day or any other?
Worlds far and away,
Lands of plenty,
Past dimness of dreams
Into the
Living light
Of endless possibility.
How I would love to soar on gossamer wings
Of undaunted childhood
Walk through fields of purity
Not yet jaded
By the realness life becomes.
I long for the days
Joy could be bought
From the back of ice cream trucks.

Last Forever

Nothing lasts forever
but nothing really ends
Day in vain
attempts not to be
consumed by night
You do not miss me
when you sleep
For I wake
into your dreams
Freshly cut symbols
of life and death
Lies like rose bushes
with thorns that prick
Only in silence does truth speak
about words that hide in light
Reach for the stars and
drag them down with you.

Love’s Knocking

When we live in these fallen beams of moonlight
Wrapped together in love and nocturnal darkness
Night winds turn and sing
As we unmake ourselves
In the roadways of searching
We took to get here

Black coal of dream
Live coal of life
Dark honey sticky to the lover’s lips
Released from being stone and wool
Or the damp bowels of earth
Not for deserts alone warming
Nor rivers carving through snow

Rest in me
Let us close our eyes
As yesterday goes falling away
And we open the door
To love’s knocking

Poets Melancholy

Into hiding again
Locked away
In dirty houses
With partners wondering
Why nothing gets done anymore
Sleeping sitting up
But only in the afternoon
No more or less
Waiting to hear
If my blood is good enough
To be spilled upon your pages
Fucking and dreaming
Waiting and always writing
Tablets in every room
On every surface
Each drawer
In case something strikes
You must get it down
Moments preserved
Like faded photographs
Burned onto pages
Into memory
Forever suspended

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.

If Only I knew I Might Serve You In The Temple
3rd Song For Yancey Red Corn

Together we lay wrapping each other in sleep
though love is awakened in our hearts,
bodies are lost in each other.
I am hoping this night has a tongue
as long as eternity.
We are worlds stitched together.
A patchwork of mouths, hands, and spirit.
You are tears of joy pouring forth
mighty as rain, nocturnal hush of dew
beneath my feet in a night
of the bent bow moon.
Between us we forget the darkness.
Stars are driven back
by the early light of dawn.
As we slowly rise
from a dissipating slumber
and you put constellations
around my neck.

Copyright © 2013 Melissa Fry Beasley



  1. Lovely poems..enjoyed reading, esp lines such as –
    ‘Nothing lasts forever
    But nothing really ends’

    Good work, Keep going, Melissa.

  2. Melissa, I have been aware far too long. Love your word craft.

    “My father taught me that thoughts
    are like people & must be buried properly…” ….very nice indeed.

  3. Like wandering, Melissa, roaming through thoughts, dreams, and happenings, never lost, but always somewhere within the written share, the moments in expression, remembrance, past, and futures, present. A hunger to read some more, even if just to share in your world.

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