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.

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.

 

Daffodils in Cleveland

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.

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

for ClustrMaps

Red dots they bring daily

Big ones and little ones

Here there and everywhere far away

Dots on maps of the world

Maps of continents green and brown

Of deserts beige, ice caps white

Oceans blue – pale light and dark water 

Red dots they bring daily

Big ones and little ones

Here there and everywhere far away

How could they know the gift they bring

For a little girl who traveled those roads

Far away from home

Somehow finding a path to safety

Red dots they bring daily

Big ones and little ones

Here there and everywhere far away

 

All rights reserved.  © 2009 by Sara Fryd

For I Can Fly

There are those
Who cannot see above the clouds.
Or dream beyond
The rainbows of the stars.
People blind to colors
Such as midnight raven blue
Or ocean thunder black
Yellow orange mango sunset hues, or
Purple heather painted vines
And velvet lavender lilac blues
Nestled in the mountain’s lakes.
There are those for whom
I do not write a gift of tears…
Words on paper
From my very soul.
For there are those
Who would not understand
Where I have flown, and
Where I still intend to go.

He Sings

He sings…

In the middle of the morning

For no apparent reason

I can fathom

He must be happy

So it would seem

To those of us who hide in cubicles

Completing  joyless tasks

Bitching and moaning

About nothing or less.

What wonder…

Some souls are joyful

No matter the mission or task

And wasn’t it Abraham Lincoln who said,

“…that most folks are just about as

happy as they want to be.”

Souls exuding the awe of life

Through their skin

While carrying a ladder

Or cleaning an oven

He sings…

In the middle of the afternoon

Fixing this or that

Music of times past and days gone

Of high school and other lives

What wonder…

I wonder

What it might be like

To have someone walking

Walking through my lonely life

Daily with songs like his.

 

Little Girls & Purple Cats

She said she had a cat named Purple…

I mentioned cats didn’t come in purple.

She replied, “You’ve never seen him

sleeping on the roof at sunset!”

How does one argue with five year old logic,

Eyes that see magic at every turn?

“Little Judy,” a creative, forty year old mind

inhabiting a little girl’s body,

with hair and eyes the color of ravens

and midnight.

I remember her sliding down the stairs

one by one on her behind.

She called it “sledding on carpet,

warm snow with bumps.”

Watching her giggling all the way down;

a flashlight in one hand, Purple in the other.

You never knew when you needed a light

for making rainbows or turning cats purple.

To where do they disappear, I wondered…

The magic wands, purple cats,

staircase rainbows

made of flashlights and magic?

When do little girls grow up,

and stop sliding down stairs?

 

All rights reserved.  ©2009 by Sara Fryd

Longing

   Though I’ve worn my heart

Upon my sleeve (and around my knees)

More times than I care to remember

Or talk about in mixed company.

There is that special place I keep for you

Like the bag that’s packed

With brandy colored lipstick, ginger cologne

A little black dress, and pink lingerie

That ignites fire in those knowing eyes.

             In case…

                       Just in case…

The wind ever whispers your name

On a crisp October evening

When I answer a knock at the door

And a stranger with your face

Requests to come in.