Sara Fryd

Without the Other

Sara Fryd — Sun, 24 Mar 2013 07:11:53 +0000

Vietnam Memorial

“Write anyway,” she whispered in my ear

When I began to doubt myself.

Write through the sorrow

Bear witness to tragedy

Tell the history about the present

The future, about the past

In ways no SLR can remember

No heart can forget

Write anyway…

Write feelings, write manner

Share joy, experience sorrow

Grieve the elderly leaving

Applaud the young arriving

Shift minds of distress

To hearts on the precipice

To hearts of exaltation

With memories in tact

Persisting, demanding miracles

For in that heart space, in the same space

Exists feelings of joy and grief

Linked irrevocably…

Memories glued as if in albums of black, white

And sepia tones

Vague memories, maybe distorted

A bit crooked, tarnished for now

Though never forgotten

For as the famous song is paraphrased

Grief and joy are one

And you can’t have one without the other.

*with many thanks to Linda Burt Pressman for inspiring this. Her ”Write Anyway” can be read at Bar Mitzvahzilla.

Blood Pressure

Sara Fryd — Wed, 13 Mar 2013 18:11:15 +0000

I dine alone at Coco’s

order from the over 55 menu

not only because the food is good

but it’s only $5.99 for a whole meal

sourdough bread

with butter and blackberry jam included.

All my $300 Eileen Fisher and Ellen Tracy suits

have found other lives in others’ closets

thanks to Goodwill and the Salvation Army.

My 4 inch stiletto open toed feet

showing burgundy polished toes

are now covered properly with Lifestride ballet flats

making me officially 4 feet 10 and 7/8 inches tall

instead of the 5 foot 2 that I’ve put on doctor’s charts

all those years.

I wonder out loud, to no in particular

knowing that rare is the friend

who listens without comment

to what is in your heart…

Hey, but my blood pressure is 120/72

I take no prescription drugs and at sixty-six

my doctor tells me that at least

I can look forward to twenty more years of Sundays

eating brunch alone.

** http://hotstylefashiongirl.com/shoes/carlos-worked-making-shoes-by-carlos-santana-womens-venetian-pump

Madagascar

Sara Fryd — Tue, 12 Mar 2013 18:11:11 +0000

Forty three feelings of the day arrive

Or fifty-two

In this place in my middle

below my left ventricle

behind, a little to the right,

above my navel

pressed up against my spine.

A place where I know

just know…

That self pity destroys the perpetrator

Complaining falls on deaf ears, and

Hurting is a contagious disease

you catch yourself

For which…

only you have the vaccine.

As I microscope my evaporating life

that left in a heartbeat

I know that I did not plan,

At least not knowingly,

Much of what happened to me

Yet, I know I did.

While pretending that

I do not have the answers

Refusing to unlock the door to let them in…

And Madagascar is an island

Off the Eastern coast of Africa,

And I can find my way there

Any time I please.

*For Dr. Martin Bravin, a professor, teacher, and friend who passed on. He used to play a game with his students. “Want to change your life? You have three minutes from the time I start the stop watch. One, two, three. What is the capital of Madagascar?” he asked clicking the start button on the watch. “How you play the game is how you run your life.” He also had me read the Estachological Laundry List.

Mother of the Bride

Sara Fryd — Sat, 09 Mar 2013 18:11:43 +0000

It takes courage to stand tall

when we feel our wounds so visible

worried that all will witness our pain…

Courage and bravery…

strength beyond words.

You present yourself with such grace

with such dignity, head held high

turning your face to the light

letting the sun warm your soul

knowing that you have…

God’s blessings at your finger tips.

For God lives next to a rose bush.

Every prayer a new rose.

Every hurtful thought a thorn.

If we are willing…

we replace our hurtful thoughts

with thoughts of joy.

We can carry with us

the strength of the thorn

the beauty of the rose

And we are never, ever alone.

*Note: Years ago I was invited to a friends wedding and advised in advance that the Mother of the Bride had recently been left for a younger women. The Father was coming to his daughter’s wedding with his new bride. I included this poem with a thank you note for inviting me.

Dear Heart

Sara Fryd — Thu, 07 Mar 2013 07:11:22 +0000

This beautiful photograph is from Vox Poetica - an amazing website for poets and writers. Click on Vox Poetica and you will be transported directly there.

Little sister dear, little sister

Listen to my stories of Alice and Dorothy

Of Ruth and Naomi

Countless heroines

Women of honor, of grace

Of beautiful eyes and wondrous hearts

Who ride in carriages drawn by golden horses with manes

The color of the light in your hair

I’ll remember for years to come

When I grow older and wish for gentler days

Like those we share today

An instant in time

Seconds that remain in our hearts

Staying hidden, next to the left ventricle

Where I shall carry you always

I promise

Little sister

Listen to my whispers

Discovering letters and words

To share with you

That I am only learning myself

Knowing that I will always be your heroine

For one

Little sister, little sister

Oskar Schindler

Sara Fryd — Wed, 06 Mar 2013 20:04:04 +0000

Oskar Schindler’s grave at Mount Zion Franciscan Cemetery. It reads, “Oskar Schindler, the unforgettable lifesaver of 1200 persecuted Jews.” by Yoninah 30 June 2010

Enveloped

Sara Fryd — Sun, 03 Mar 2013 07:11:26 +0000

feelings envelop me

in multiple shades of gray

all tangled with pleasure and pain

can’t seem to detach

your thoughts

your feelings from my own

our souls entangled

your dreams with mine

entwined imperceptibly

like bodies that have lain together

so many nights

they’ve memorized each other’s

curves and edges

as if by heart

never quite remembering

where one soul begins

where the other leaves off

Retirement Home

Sara Fryd — Thu, 28 Feb 2013 07:11:57 +0000

Leonardo da Vinci

He waited…

His face stuck against the seventh floor window.

Waited for someone to come, to visit.

The only thing he saw at that height

Were birds and window washers.

Where are they all?

The nephews, nieces, children, grandchildren?

The ones remembered

With presents on their birthdays.

Always an excuse, a reason, another day

Maybe another birthday

Sunday spent alone…

Alone with strangers…

Playing Scrabble waiting for the phone to ring.

Like seagulls after scraps with wings outstretched

They were there

When his furniture needed a new home

Mementos were given away

Valuables being passed out.

So he read and studied through the days

Counted ceiling tiles at night

And waited to die.

They forgot…

Forgot about all the times

He got up at the crack of dawn

So there were always cookies

Around when they were hungry.

Forgot about all the colds he cured

all the people he helped

all the stories he told

over and over, again.

So he wouldn’t be left alone again

alone with strangers…

I wonder if any of them understand.

The ones who will spend his money.

What it’s like to be eighty-seven

and know you’re never going home?

*Jack was my father-in-law and my friend.

Married Men

Sara Fryd — Wed, 27 Feb 2013 18:11:05 +0000

The pillows tasted of you

Aromas mingled

Lilacs, lemon

Pristine roses

Picked from my garden at dawn

In a vase a-top my flowered Bombé chest

Tossing…

Turning…

Fitful sleep

Tearful slivered chocolate eyes

Like shards of Ghirardelli

In a tiny plastic bag tied with gold ribbon

Purchased at the factory near Pier 39.

You’re absent without leave.

Left your soul behind

Then took your heart away

Before the sun could take your place…

In total darkness

You left no forwarding address.

Awakening many times

Searching for my core, my home

The nook in your right shoulder

To dream on…

Vacancy sign all lit up in neon.

Tenants moved to another address.

And even when you arrive for respite

Body here, soul always there…

You’re always leaving early

For this reason or that excuse.

Always too soon

Long before love is safe.

Often I have wondered…

Does she miss you?

Like I do?

When you’re far

y from me…

With an raging ache

No water can extinguish…

No medicine can cure…

A hunger no food can satiate…

Or are her needs

Just different than mine?

Not noticing you’re absence

Just as long as

The mortgage gets paid

And…

The grass gets cut on time.

No More Cigarettes

Sara Fryd — Tue, 26 Feb 2013 18:11:09 +0000

*This silly poem was written for my Niece’s 18th birthday a long time ago. She started smoking at 17 and is still smoking at 31. Her Grandmother died in her 50s after suffering with cancer for 5 years. Her Mother has already had several biopsies and turned 52 this year (and still smokes). I know this is a silly poem; however, if it gives one of you out there pause and saves a life, then it was worth it. So laugh, think Emily Dickinson she’s not and throw your cigarettes away. I was one of the lucky ones. I never started. Tony Robbins calls it getting leverage. So get a little leverage and call 1-800-QUIT-NOW (1-800-784-8669) or http://1800quitnow.cancer.gov/ Please…

No More Cigarettes

Some smoke ‘cause they want to stay thinner.

Some smoke to stop biting their nails.

Some smoke ‘cause they think they’ll be sexy.

Some smoke when they’re riding the rails.

There’s a place I go when I’m lonely.

There’s a place I go when I’m sad.

Mostly, I really don’t want to

Inhale smoke from my cigarettes.

Some smoke to be accepted.

Some smoke ‘cause they want to belong.

Some smoke because it’s a habit.

Some smoke when they’re writing a song.

There’s a place I go when I’m frightened.

There’s a place I go when I’m mad.

Mostly, I really don’t want to

Inhale smoke from my cigarettes

I am sure you think I am preaching.

I am sure I sound like your Mom.

I wish it was easy to get ‘round this.

I’m talking to you – to Lisa and Tom.

First your throat will start to hurt you.

Then your lungs won’t get enough air.

Then the smoke begins to inhabit

Your clothes, your skin, and your hair.

There’s a reason the companies did this,

Philip Morris, Camel, and Kents.

They can roll up a really cheap product,

And make a whole lot of cents.

They target teenagers like you

To think you’ll be sexier when,

You start smoking their brand or another’s.

You’ll die a slow death in the end.

If you think I’m trying to scare you,

You are totally absolutely correct.

I’ve watched too many friends perish,

And die very young deaths.

Have flowers to smell on your birthday,

Not some to cover your grave.

What can I do to help you?

You are important enough to save.

You probably think I’m a meanie.

You probably think I’m a rat.

Be pissed as much as you want to

Just stop smoking those cigarettes.

I want to dance at your wedding,

To rock your daughter or son.

I really hate going to funerals,

On days when life is all gone.

Your life is too precious to waste it,

On waded up tobacco sticks.

Humor me, knowing I love you,

And stop smoking those cigarettes.

Me, New & Improved

Sara Fryd — Sun, 24 Feb 2013 18:11:03 +0000

Feelings…

like butterflies

in spring

are coming

in all directions at once.

An open book

every nuance

written on my face

in my eyes.

Like seventh grade

when every look

every boy

crushed your ego, or

broke your heart.

Has it been…

so long

since anyone

touched me

that all my feelings…

are coming

like butterflies

in spring

in all directions

at once.