Volcanoes Erupting
Feelings…
…unacknowledged since childhood
are erupting
like open wounds
not properly cleansed with antiseptic.
Mourning my losses
resolving my fears
become the purpose of each day.
Emotional scars
ignored too long,
forgotten,
locked away
deep in ones’ subconscious,
not dealt with,
stuffed so deep
one hardly remembers…
…becomes the molten lava,
expanding from inside out,
ultimately,
irrevocably,
pushing away
all those relationships
that finally come to us
with open arms.
All rights reserved. ©2009 by Sara Fryd
I Saw a Mountain
I Saw a Mountain
© by Moses Schulstein
I saw a mountain
Higher than Mt. Blanc
And more Holy than the Mountain of Sinai.
Not in a dream. It was real.
On this world this mountain stood.
Such a mountain I saw–of Jewish shoes in Majdanek.
Such a mountain–such a mountain I saw.
And suddenly, a strange thing happened.
The mountain moved….
And the thousands of shoes arranged themselves
By size–by pairs—and in rows–and moved.
Hear! Hear the march.
Hear the shuffle of shoes left behind—that which remained.
From small, from large, from each and every one.
Make way for the rows–for the pairs,
For the generations–for the years.
The shoe army–it moves and moves.
“We are the shoes , we are the last witnesses.
We are shoes from grandchildren and grandfathers.
From Prague, Paris and Amsterdam.
And because we are only made of stuff and leather
And not of blood and flesh, each one of us avoided the hellfire.
We shoes–that used to go strolling in the market
Or with the bride and groom to the chuppah,
We shoes from simple Jews, from butchers and carpenters,
From crocheted booties of babies just beginning to walk and go
On happy occasions, weddings, and even until the time
Of giving birth, to a dance, to exciting places to life…
Or quietly–to a funeral.
Unceasingly we go. We tramp.
The hangman never had the chance to snatch us into his
Sack of loot–now we go to him.
Let everyone hear the steps, which flow as tears,
The steps that measure out the judgment.”
I saw a mountain
Higher than Mt. Blanc
And more Holy than the Mountain of Sinai.
Madagascar
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

Antananarivo at Sunset by Steve Evans
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.
All rights reserved. ©2009 by Sara Fryd
*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.
Seattle On Sunday
Are you ever going to see
Or even get to read
All these letters I write to you
On Sunday mornings,
Early…
Before the sun comes out of hiding?
When we should be sharing our bodies
warm and wanting.
S…T…R…E…T…C…H…I…N…G
Like lazy cats on summer days.
All these feelings spilling out on paper
instead of on to you.
Sitting here…
…alone.
Drinking coffee
staring at a gray sky.
Dreaming thoughts of you and me
Sharing our bodies, early
On Sunday mornings
Warm and wanting
hungry…
so hungry…
With thoughts and feelings of you.








“Papa, there’s a spider in the bathroom,” screamed the little boy! I’m too little to catch it. Come quick! I can’t take a bath. I’m too scared.”










