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

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 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

          a poem

                      early…

Before breakfast.

Before caffeine dilutes

My train of thought.

Before dreams are lost

And plans for work

Muddle my mind,

With stuff

Of yesterdays

Of tomorrows

Of days left behind

And gifts of days lingering to become

As yet, unwrapped.

I write…

                 as my heart

Fills [...]]]> I need to write…

          a poem

                      early…

Before breakfast.

Before caffeine dilutes

My train of thought.

Before dreams are lost

And plans for work

Muddle my mind,

With stuff

Of yesterdays

Of tomorrows

Of days left behind

And gifts of days lingering to become

As yet, unwrapped.

I write…

                 as my heart

Fills with pale whispered light

Because sunlight

Eludes my soul…

             before dawn.

I dream…

As charcoal skies crack open

pouring water from the spout

of a cold pitcher

shiny, stainless.

I dream…

And write

When heavens are bleak

With ashen clouds

And angels cry.

I write…

A poem at dawn, early

Before breakfast…

What a way to breathe in a new dawn

With hope, with a smile

            With my heart full of joy.

All rights reserved.  ©2010 by Sara Fryd

Fill me up to saturation

Desert storm deluges

Soak my soul

As two scoops of Hagen Dazs coffee ice cream

With peanut chips and hot fudge.

Do faucets like wells ever dry up completely?

Will these fingers ever stop talking?

Or run out of things to say

To discuss or argue or [...]]]> Words nourish me

Fill me up to saturation

Desert storm deluges

Soak my soul

As two scoops of Hagen Dazs coffee ice cream

With peanut chips and hot fudge.

Do faucets like wells ever dry up completely?

Will these fingers ever stop talking?

Or run out of things to say

To discuss or argue or feel about?

Will Hagen Dazs ever run out of coffee ice cream?

Now that they know how much I love

A spoonful on my tongue?

      You and I

Met when I was eight

And you were brand new. 

Been locked in combat ever since

Taking sides

Creating insignificant battles

About family matters and such. 

You are my mirror and I am yours.

I see my soul reflected in your eyes

As you reveal me [...]]]> We have a lot of history

      You and I

Met when I was eight

And you were brand new. 

Been locked in combat ever since

Taking sides

Creating insignificant battles

About family matters and such. 

You are my mirror and I am yours.

I see my soul reflected in your eyes

As you reveal me back to me. 

And I remember us in black and white

And various shades of gray

From childhood photos

We share in picture albums

Removed gently from the drawer of my heart

When I need to see how the puzzle pieces fit.

Sisters live on pedestals

Protect you from reality

Feed you breakfast

Let you crash till noon

When you trespass through their lives

            Without apology.

Idols are not vulnerable, and

            Certainly not human, like you. 

I arrived first to teach you

But you taught me…

            About courage

            About strength

            About will.

While searching

Through my scrapbook of memories

Where I go to find minute pieces of a puzzle

So I can make them fit

I see you standing at my back door

Freezing and damp at 4 am

In black leather, in the dark dawn 

Holding an old tattered guitar

After you’d hitchhiked all night

To sing Puff the Magic Dragon

To your new baby nephew…

                 …My newborn son.

As if somehow

I’ve misplaced a part of my life

I now have to find

Just around the next corner.

So I become still, quiet

Trying to remember

Writing accomplishments

About what I’ve done

For so many years

I could do it with my eyes closed.

What am I afraid of?

I too am broken

Holding myself together

With spit and glue

Not a moment too soon

And not a good glue like crazy glue

A temporary glue like post-it-notes

That come off when the wind blows

Oh Lord…

To be able to crazy glue my soul

Still…

When it [...]]]> As with most humans

I too am broken

Holding myself together

With spit and glue

Not a moment too soon

And not a good glue like crazy glue

A temporary glue like post-it-notes

That come off when the wind blows

Oh Lord…

To be able to crazy glue my soul

Still…

When it wanders

To this problem or that worry

Gluing it permanently to the wind

Migrating to unknown places

Learning from you

All souls break and heal

Sometimes with scars, sometimes not

Always though…

With the winds of time

Comes a little wisdom

And maybe with a little luck 

A small sliver of peace

Sticks close to the heart

All rights reserved.  ©2011 by Sara Fryd

I think they call them

Bought by some at a car wash

            or an airport.

An afterthought, not a real present

            purchased by someone

            who remembers

ahead of time

            intending to watch

            your eyes light up the room.

Afterthoughts…

            …like reasons and excuses

                        [...]]]> Last minute presents

I think they call them

Bought by some at a car wash

            or an airport.

An afterthought, not a real present

            purchased by someone

            who remembers

ahead of time

            intending to watch

            your eyes light up the room.

Afterthoughts…

            …like reasons and excuses

                        forget intention.

Though the one receiving

            always knows the difference.

Somewhat, like the difference

            between the flowers one buys at the market

            and the ones delivered

                        as a surprise

            to the office by the florist.

Last minute afterthoughts

I think they call them

Given unconsciously

            always by someone…

…with one foot out the door.

blow and bend

                        east and north

with crisp winter winds

            bracing yellow petal hands

against chilled sunshine

faces smiling 

                                                        D

                                            R

                                 A

                      W

           P

U

Always upward towards a warming sun

that sneaks bravely

            through clouds

that just this morning

            dusted meadows

with white [...]]]> First daffodils of spring

blow and bend

                        east and north

with crisp winter winds

            bracing yellow petal hands

against chilled sunshine

faces smiling 

                                                        D

                                            R

                                 A

                      W

           P

U

Always upward towards a warming sun

that sneaks bravely

            through clouds

that just this morning

            dusted meadows

with white powder reminders

            of icy winter months

            quietly laid to rest.

All rights reserved.  ©2009 by Sara Fryd

I cried for me

For the little girl I saw in you

Who was me

And all the little girls

That have come and gone

The little ones who will be

Tears for those who didn’t receive

What they needed or wanted

When they needed her

Or wanted her