the poetry of Charles Fry

julian

1995–1994

open

is it a door, a room;
may be a house
no . . . a mansion
though maybe not so exalted yet
certainly filled with
beautiful vases
and soft, friendly rugs
where we can sit Together --
sharing ideas -- building tables
and chairs, especially chairs.

but also there are some
splintery floors and
muddy doorways and
even dusty rooms.

"let it go to waste" some cry;
but no, i say, it is too precious.

Here's one for ya. go find yourself. late again skys passing wave raining clouds and offer healing sun où es-tu dim Mornings in the underground memories squirming on the bath room ceiling open the faces on the side walk pass me by life and living Song of Peace from Time the Mountain My Father so i painted a red cross on my chest my living eulogy my plastic house alone again frustrating the Song of my heart as it grows and changes In Dark Brick Dungeons clanteba mortillia Lonely is my call to this Omnipotent generation: friend (and, by now, even brother) my PCC Our Garden Cognoscente The Home careFree the Children full moon if I were a Painter For You Caterpillar March Prison As I Went Walking Norwegian Cockatrice Lampposts Departure or The Falling Apple Peace

the poetry of Charles Fry

belle

2007–2002

dada

2002–1999

sundance

1999–1997

frere

1997–1995

julian

1995–1994

stone

1994–1993

open