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  

Black Widow

Some people beg entrance

For a while…

Eyes wild, heart on fire

Words flowing, arms open

Promises tossed like candy

To small children on Halloween

Capturing you in their net

Requesting your soul for eternity

A safe place…

“Rest assured my Dear,” says the spider to the fly.

“Come stay awhile, rest your weary heart

Here, next to mine for always.                                    

I will care for you forever

You will be safe from harm.”

Then the voice who sits on your shoulder

Behind your right ear

Reminds your heart

Who will protect you from them?

 

All rights reserved.  ©2009 by Sara Fryd

Coffee Ice Cream

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?

 

Criminal Intent

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.

 

Crusty Lady

They say you pick your friends to be a mirror

   Then I must have a side that’s warm and free

Look at me in navy skirts with parochial blouses

Long flowing skirts in flowers of spring is what she sees

For all my shyness she’s outgoing, an explorer

Where my weaknesses lie, she becomes strong

She listens to all of my words unspoken

Never judging my feelings as wrong 

Underneath she’s a bowl of green jello

The smallest injustice, brings her to her knees

Though she’ll tell you she’s a crusty old lady

Inside she’s a red gingham cowgirl like me

 

All rights reserved.  ©2009 by Sara Fryd

Dear Heart

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

All rights reserved.  ©2010 by Sara Fryd

Dichotomy

I cried for you last night

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

 

Mother…

I cried for me last night

For lifetimes spent searching

Lost, searching in pursuit of myself

Searching for a Mother who never existed

Never will be, never could be

Creating me, tough with my impenetrable heart

Safe…against you world

 

Mother…

Make me strong, protect me, nurture me

Be…

A catalyst of encouragement…or not

Gone…

In rationalizations of explanations

In therapists offices

That go on forever

Weeping for me, weeping for you

Tears, I forget, then remember

She too was once a little girl

Lost…in search of self

She too was looking for her Mother

Who never could be all things to her

 

Looking outward I see inside 

Then seen inside of me

Circles round bring us home to ourselves

Accepting her with flaws, I accept myself with mine

The way I am…now…with a penetrable heart

That let her in and found myself

Then found my world

Fierce

Disappear fear

Of unconscious feelings

Carried so long

So far, so deep

Toss them aside

In blue recycling containers

Like plastic bottles

I pick up hiking the glorious desert

So worshiped and adored.

For who would wish

To leave it messy

Messy outside

Like me inside?

Permit him joyous entry

Knowing I’ve been

Waiting for him too long

And I will share the real me

Open me, all of me

Then maybe

Maybe…

He won’t move on

All rights reserved.  ©2010 by Sara Fryd

Footprints on My Heart

The best girlfriend I ever had was a buyer named Ron.  Ron was my dear friend, my soul mate for about 10 years.  He was gay, I wasn’t.  I sold ejection seat sensors for the F-16 ACES II ejection seats.  Ron was the buyer for the company that made those seats.  He got me a yellow “eject” handle from the F-16 scrap bin for my RX7.  I used it to threaten my son’s teenage friends with a trip through the moon roof.  They all thought I was “real cool.”

I loved him so much I threw a birthday party for him January 1983.  He showed up in chaps.   Thank God he was wearing jeans underneath.  Joey asked him if he was cold.  He laughed.  When I went to his house we would go shopping for material for curtains, which he would then sew, calling me to ask what colors went with what.

He was 6’4″, blond, stunningly gorgeous, had abs no one would believe, and came to my office wearing beige slacks (with a pressed fold), a hot pink golf shirt, a white jacket, loafers no socks.  I’m 4’11″ and everyone in the building thought he was madly in love with me.  One could only dream.  He played everything to the hilt, driving his aqua Cadillac convertible with white leather seats down Hollywood Blvd.   He called me “Babe” and “Dear” during a time when everyone minded, but me.

He called screaming everyday at 9 am and 1 pm sharp.  I would lay the phone on my desk speaker side up and let him scream for 30 minutes.  The secretary and I would look at each other and howl silently.  We were always late on parts.  He would drive from Burbank to Torrance and scream at all the big wig vice presidents.  My boss would hand me $400 in cash and tell me to get him out of building.  “Take him to lunch, anywhere he wants to go.”  We would leave in my RX7, go to Redondo Beach, and wait till we crossed 190th Street to start laughing.  Lunch was three hours of gossip and stories – mostly whom he picked up on Hollywood Blvd in the aqua Caddy.  It was 1982 and the aids virus was only a whisper in certain circles.  What did I know?  I didn’t travel in those circles.

If I could get a redo a year it would be 1992.  It was not a good year for me on any level – personally or professionally.  He died that spring of complications from the aids virus.  I remember so many tiny details of the ten years we were best friends I often surprise myself.

After the funeral I sent his Mother a Flavia card that read “Some people come into our lives and quickly go, some stay for a while, leave footprints on our heart, and we are never ever the same.”

 

All rights reserved.  ©2009 by Sara Fryd