My wisdom comes in short bursts

Of learning out loud

And in silent contemplation.

A sprinter I am

A marathon runner not so much.

Learned [...]]]>

The last moments of a sunset and the passing of an early September storm create a rare double rainbow over Balanced Rock in Arches National Park, Sept. 4, 2005

My wisdom comes in short bursts

Of learning out loud

And in silent contemplation.

A sprinter I am

A marathon runner not so much.

Learned to hear with my heart

To feel with my navel

To listen with my eyes

To let my soul nourish me.

My very own soul

With its own character is enough

When others are unavailable

Are involved in their own lives.

I learned to demand less

To request more

Of myself, not of them.

Learned a little blue Agave syrup

Goes a long way to sweeten the pot

That has always been sweet

If only I had noticed along the way

That rainbows will always have colors

I can devour for breakfast.

All rights reserved.  ©2010 by Sara Fryd

I could mix the colors of heaven,

            of mountains; of Arizona in the spring.

Each morning in darkness before the molten Phoenix sun

            would crest the parched desert,

Papa would sneak out the door

            quiet as a whisper

            to paint this house [...]]]> Before I knew the words to describe a rainbow,

I could mix the colors of heaven,

            of mountains; of Arizona in the spring.

Each morning in darkness before the molten Phoenix sun

            would crest the parched desert,

Papa would sneak out the door

            quiet as a whisper

            to paint this house or that castle.

Peeking…

            With one eye around the blinds covering the window

I heard more than I saw.

Sounds my Papa made loading his royal blue

            1948 Ford pick-up [truck] with ladders and brushes,

            turpentine, putty, tarps and cans.

Oh, those magical cans of paint

            that could change the heart of a room

            from sullen to sunlight

            from dreary to delicious.

Some knights ride into a little girl’s heart

            on horseback or steed

            large, tall, strong with white mane flowing.

My knight drove a short, wide blue ‘48 pick-up

            with a three-speed stick shift on the column

            and white wall tires;

            pulling a bed filled with cans of colors streaming

for all the rainbows that surprised us after a desert storm.

For all the saguaros, yuccas, Joshua trees in need of renewal.

Mostly though…

            for one little girl

            who wanted her room the blue of the sky

            after angels washed it with an August storm.

All rights reserved.  ©2009 by Sara Fryd

with waves of mulled citrus mist

warmed by your face watching mine

in the mirror from the hallway

as I lacquer on deep burgundy

candy apple lipstick

before the sun awakes early

April morning.

Memories of orange blossoms

permeating the night sky

on Route 66…

the beige top down on

the old [...]]]> The car engulfed

with waves of mulled citrus mist

warmed by your face watching mine

in the mirror from the hallway

as I lacquer on deep burgundy

candy apple lipstick

before the sun awakes early

April morning.

Memories of orange blossoms

permeating the night sky

on Route 66…

the beige top down on

the old black convertible with red leather seats

When I was eighteen and Steven French kissed me

behind Paradise Mountain

where the sheriff watched

with the gigantic flashlight

and I was told “good girls” never go

alone.

Underneath the auburn henna

graying hair peeks.

Longer jackets of fine silk smooth the hips

and lengthen the torso.

Longer skirts cover the knees.

And still…

I am overwhelmed by emotions

that smother my driving

North on the 605

with one whiff of warm mulled citrus

transferred from your face

to my sheerest pink silk blouse

during our dark, early morning embraces

that still make my knees week an hour later 

my heart pound.

Remembering again how it felt

to be wide-eyed, eighteen

and waiting for my prince.

All rights reserved.  ©2009 by Sara Fryd

          you know…

Some of them were true.

I’ve loved a lot of men

          you know…

Though none like I loved you.

Some loved me back

          some didn’t care.

One kissed my nose

          then touched my hair.

Questions asked…

          then left unanswered

Who came before? 

San Francisco by Sara Fryd

A sign of the times

What sign is that, I ask myself?

That America is in trouble?

That our veterans have no place to live?

That a roof over one’s head is not a necessity

For a Marine?

Who fought [...]]]> He spits in his rag, washes my car window

San Francisco by Sara Fryd

A sign of the times

What sign is that, I ask myself?

That America is in trouble?

That our veterans have no place to live?

That a roof over one’s head is not a necessity

For a Marine?

Who fought for our security and more?  Who now

Sleeps on the ground next to his wheel chair.

Since he has no other place to sleep

Except the grass beneath his sleeping bag.

Roll up a $20 bill and gently place it in his palm

His fingers close around it.

His eyes remain closed, his breathing slows.

I turn my eyes to the cerulean sky recalling

I have no job, nor means of support…

Still…

I have $20, a roof over my head, food in my fridge

And there but for the grace of God… 

Go I…

All rights reserved.  ©2009 by Sara Fryd

My soul was touched at twilight,

     melting my five year old heart

     as first stars appeared on the horizon in winter.

Whispers…

Hold my heart’s attention

     like the saxophone notes

     that breeze past gracing walls

     as sounds drift up the stairs

     [...]]]> I have loved the thought of you since dawn…

My soul was touched at twilight,

     melting my five year old heart

     as first stars appeared on the horizon in winter.

Whispers…

Hold my heart’s attention

     like the saxophone notes

     that breeze past gracing walls

     as sounds drift up the stairs

      stirring my eyelashes

      as sleep envelops me. 

For I have known the thought of you since nine…

When Alan pulled my hair and made me cry.

Not felt feelings this intense since twelve

     when Michael kissed my mouth in darkness

     on my childhood porch;

As she was imminently awaiting me,

     the woman I could hardly wait to be.

I have heard the music of this melting voice,

     my blood has turned to maple syrup more than once.

Whispers…

So intense they’ve since become

     a warm caress of summer sun, ivory sand in late July. 

For I have loved and lost but not as this,

   knowing love and loss go hand in hand.

I still can hardly wait to feel your kiss…

This love of yours will surely be the one

    that lifts my spirits higher than the plains.

Gently held in trust above the clouds,

     time escaped though never lost in vain.

My arms are open wide to grasp the sun as if in reach…

     praying for your touch so warm at dawn

     as sleep surrounds my silent waiting heart.

Joy as this comes only once then may be gone.

For I have loved the thought of you since dawn…

  and I will love the thought of you till I am gone…

All rights reserved.  ©2009 by Sara Fryd  

My friend

Tap dancing, tap dancing

For all who enter

Round and round

Faster and faster

For some who are worthy

Those who are not

The quest for approval

All that attention

All that energy

All that time

Or maybe not

Tap shoes on, tap shoes off

Left outside [...]]]> She works too hard for approval

My friend

Tap dancing, tap dancing

For all who enter

Round and round

Faster and faster

For some who are worthy

Those who are not

The quest for approval

All that attention

All that energy

All that time

Or maybe not

Tap shoes on, tap shoes off

Left outside the front door

Next to the sign

No more – Ø

All rights reserved.  ©2009 by Sara Fryd

The ballerina twirls

With such silent joy

The sun has come out to play

To warm the wisps of hair

Left loose to fall

Down the back of her neck

What beauty, pink ribbons

Crisscrossed about her ankles

Barely blushed like her cheeks

As she spins to music [...]]]>

©2011 by Deborah Scott Lightfoot

The ballerina twirls

With such silent joy

The sun has come out to play

To warm the wisps of hair

Left loose to fall

Down the back of her neck

What beauty, pink ribbons

Crisscrossed about her ankles

Barely blushed like her cheeks

As she spins to music only

She can hear

Cascading down from the heavens

To her uplifted arms

That envelop her with passionate moves

Escalating from pirouette to twirl

To twirl, to twirl

To twirl…

All rights reserved. ©2011 by Sara Fryd

We tried each other on

New best friends

Playing “Barbie” in our sixties.

A task not for the faint hearted.

She had gone on vacation summer 1965

Never returning [...]]]>

We tried each other on

New best friends

Playing “Barbie” in our sixties.

A task not for the faint hearted.

She had gone on vacation summer 1965

Never returning to this life

That I know and love.

She was frozen in another time of 

Long teased hair below her shoulders

That made her look years older.

An alien from another galaxy, she cried

“But men like long hair.”

While I cringed,

Sharing my enlightenment

And love of books

With no one in particular…

Except “Barbie” chattering continuously

About internet websites of men

Loving women with long hair.

Me, not one to understand

Or care that plastic is a fabric…

A fabric that has increasingly become

Unfamiliar to my soul.

All rights reserved.  ©2010 by Sara Fryd

You asked for someone

To make base camp with

So we could climb mountains

And I had never

Climbed to the third floor

Of the building where I lived

Let alone Kilimanjaro with a man

You offered courage, strength

Songs as slow as molasses sap

Running from a tree in a cup

Joy, rich as dark chocolate [...]]]>  

You asked for someone

To make base camp with

So we could climb mountains

And I had never

Climbed to the third floor

Of the building where I lived

Let alone Kilimanjaro with a man

You offered courage, strength

Songs as slow as molasses sap

Running from a tree in a cup

Joy, rich as dark chocolate melting

Melting in a pan

Heating with cinnamon and milk

I heard saxophone music playing

Wafting down

Somewhere from the third floor

And I was certain I might need

To learn to climb stairs

After all

All rights reserved.  ©2009 by Sara Fryd

©2010 Howard Paley "Stillness at Dawn," Sedona, AZ

The photographer calls me

Echoing God’s voice as it reverberates

Against red walls of stone

A sculpture of magical vistas whisper

Dewey dawns of morning light

Amethyst blush of babies cheeks

Ochre shades of foxes’ tails

Raccoon eyes that see the night

Become [...]]]>  

©2010 Howard Paley "Stillness at Dawn," Sedona, AZ

The photographer calls me

Echoing God’s voice as it reverberates

Against red walls of stone

A sculpture of magical vistas whisper

Dewey dawns of morning light

Amethyst blush of babies cheeks

Ochre shades of foxes’ tails

Raccoon eyes that see the night

Become dawn’s glow

Such hidden treasures

Permeate the Arizona landscape

As peppermint canes peaking out

From branches of Christmas trees

In front of the arched window

I love to peek out of 

Sipping melted chocolate

With gummy marshmallows melting

Absorbing the seasons’ shift

Dancing in rhythmic days

Moving softly from one foot to the other

All rights reserved.  ©2010 by Sara Fryd