A Painter’s Daughter

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.

A Rock Slice

On my desk is a plastic baby doll dressed in pink (another story) and a large glass jar with a lid.  In its former life on my desk at work, the jar held trail mix of raisins, walnuts, almonds, brazil nuts, and sunflower seeds for visitors, now it holds treasures of shells, sand, notes, and rocks.  It also holds two prized possessions – an orange rind rose and a rock slice. 

When you are veterans of a Holocaust, have been homeless for most of your teenage years and twenties stuff and money matter most.  They matter more than shelter or food, because stuff can be traded for food and money buys food.  My childhood home was one where money, material items (stuff), and food mattered.  Often we believed they mattered more than we did.  They argued about everything; even the plastic covered couch and who had the right to sit on it. 

I spent most of my childhood learning how to become a “success.”  I have a very different idea of what that means to me now than what it did then.  From my teens on, I spent most of my time trying to succeed at becoming financially and materially successful according to the values of my parents, which meant education, nice car, good job, great house, money in the bank.  The American Dream personified. 

In 1992, there was a recession that hit Southern California harder than any earthquake I have lived through.  I lost everything of material value – my job, my house, and all my stuff.   Everything I had worked for my entire life, with very few options (or so I thought then), and very little money left.  California became a bad dream as I moved near my family in Phoenix, Arizona.  Probably should mention here that I married in 1967 to escape Phoenix and the family, so having to come back divorced and broke was a fate worse than prison or death (one and the same in my book).

One day, contemplating my financial failures with daily reminders from the family, I wandered into Van’s Rock Shop on 7^th Street in Phoenix for lack of a job or anything better to do with my time than write or listen to them.  I must have looked like death walking, wandering up and down the aisles of this block long store.  

A young female clerk came over and tapped me on the shoulder.  I thought she was going to ask me if I needed help.  When I turned she handed me a polished rock slice – pale tan with colored concentric rings of dark rust and orange (like a slice of an old cut tree).  I told her I didn’t have the money to pay for it (it was $1.98). 

This beautiful young woman with a sandy blond pony tail whispered, “It’s a present.  Remember it took millions of years of stress and pain to create something this beautiful.  It’s yours.”  I clamped my jaw shut, my eyes filled with tears ready to drop, and nodded “thank you” to keep from sobbing.  

I have a clear glass cookie jar on my desk filled with treasures.  My rock slice and orange rind rose are inside.  Remember it takes millions of years of stress and pain to create something this beautiful.  It’s free, it’s yours.  May I share them with you?

 

All rights reserved.  ©2009 by Sara Fryd

After Shave

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.

Anticipation

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  

Ballerina Dance

©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

Base Camp

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

Be Still My Heart

 

©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

Another amazing photograph by Howard Paley.  I wrote this poem staring at the photo.

 

Beautiful Ladies

Some ladies

            in black hats, and

                        red flowered

Green jackets,

            have a way of entering a place,

                        making heads turn,

                                    no matter their age.

Society teaches

            to be envious of

                        beautiful young women,

                                    with tight bodies,

                                                forced smiles, and

            unfulfilled vacant eyes…

Having been twenty,

                                    thirty,

                                    even forty and fifty…

Sometimes looking at

            life through a

                        rearview mirror…

I’m sure,

                        given the chance,

I’m looking forward

            to becoming

                        a beautiful lady…

                                    …in a black hat and

                        red flowered green jacket.

All rights reserved.  ©2009 by Sara Fryd

 

*Edith Kroschel & Nancy Friday (two hot babes in their 70s) and I flew  from San Antonio to Los Angeles May 10, 1991.   We kept in touch for about ten years by mail.  When Edith went to live in a retirement home, she used to read my poems to the “girls” in the swim class while they were exercising in the water.  Edith was a famous watercolor artist who was commissioned by the City of San Antonio to paint a picture of the Alamo.  This poem is about them.

Before Breakfast

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 a new dawn in

With hope, with a smile

            With my heart full of joy.

 

Blueberry Pie

washed blueberries

drain in a red colander

with cherry cut out holes

on the sides

laid out on an indigo flowered towel

to dry

silently thanking God

for blueberries

remembering I’d forgotten

to thank God for green apples

pomegranates and figs

blessings not requested

though gratefully received

 

 

 

 

All rights reserved.  ©2009 by Sara Fryd