All of Them Were You

I’ve loved a lot of men

          you know…

Some of them were true.

I’ve loved a lot of men

          you know…

Though none like I loved you.

Some loved me back

          some didn’t care.

One kissed my nose

          then touched my hair.

Questions asked…

          then left unanswered

Who came before? 

Were they romantic?

Why is it men have such needs to know?

Who came before?

Then how many?

What of your thoughts? 

Now here’s a penny…

I’m not a contest or a prize.

Only female…

          often unwise…

Why who I’ve been with should it matter?                                 

I’ve been alone more than together.

Please, stop questioning

          what I can not answer.

I’ll love you now until September.

For when the leaves begin to fall

I may not love you

          then

                at all…

 

All rights reserved.  ©2009 by Sara Fryd

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.

Egos

          Why is it

                   some men need to be

          played like violins

                   to accomplish

          the same task

        one could get a woman to do

                   merely by asking?

         

           Seems like such a

                   waste of energy

          to have to massage egos,

                   and climb walls

                   before getting to the

                   truth of it all.

          Competition excites

                   challenges for a while,

          Though in the end it burns bridges

                   and breaks hearts.

          When ultimately

                   aren’t we all…

                                    …on the same side?

 

All rights reserved.  ©2009 by Sara Fryd

I Remember Our Kitchen

I don’t need a special day

Lucy & Nusha

          to remember you

Or our kitchen.

A place that invited all of us in

With smells and tastes

Not matched by any restaurant.

A place where we would gather

For sustenance and hugs

As well as daily discussions

          of earth shaking proportions

Of who did what to whom.

Your kitchen came filled with laughter and love.

Where all my friends wanted to visit, and stay

So they could spend time with my Mom.

You know…

I will never again find a place

          where I feel so at home

As in your kitchen…

And where you are so at home

          as in my heart.

 

All rights reserved.  ©2009 by Sara Fryd

Juncture

Here…

©2006 Sue Norwood & Jim O'Neil

 

Between adolescence and womanhood

lies a bridge, a crossing over

an opaque, murky, slow moving river

cutting through tall rocks with striped

layers of dark rust and pale blush light

Whose banks are filled with cottonwoods,

towering sliver dollar eucalyptus,

and hiding places for feelings

heavy as rocks.

Prickly thistle hurt your palms

like an occasional wayward boy

your heart.

Dandelions ride the wind

on tall grasses green as emerald gems

landing on newly discovered spotted puppies

left alone hiding near the shore.

Adolescence…

holding ropes in lieu of wooden slats

with tight fingers, dark painted nails

tentative, unsure, crossing slowly

moving planks, unnerving to the soul

from baby girl to child to teenager to woman

the child in yellow flowers turns toward the light

“Mama, Mama help me,” she cries with wondrous eyes.

Wistfully turning…

the beautiful woman waits with outstretched arms

knowing, I cannot help, I cannot venture back

across the bridge

the present does not permit return

except in dreams.

Life, my life, my future yet unexplored, unknown

whispering faintly with anticipation

when courage takes me willingly

now in this moment, across the bridge…

 

for Abbie

All rights reserved.  © 2009 by Sara Fryd

The Face in the Mirror

Staring back…

I see a face in the mirror,

Her face, not mine.

How could that be my face

I was just 16, I was just 23, I was just 32…

When did time disappear?

When did that face in the mirror become hers not mine?

When did her face meld with mine?

When did we begin to look like one another?

It’s hard to write about Mother

For to write about her

            is to write about the Mother in each of us…

The Mothers we were…

The Mothers we are…

The Mothers we have yet to become…

When we finally get it right.

To write about them is to write about us.

It’s terrifying to write about Mothers

For to write about them is to write

            about the face in the mirror

The one we now see,

            the her we were never going to see looking back

The face in the mirror we know so well

Though not at all…

Maybe…

That’s when we know we’re finally free

When the face in the mirror stares back

and we love it anyway.

With all it’s shadows, lines, and crevices

With all it’s learning, perception, significance.

For when we love that face…

Our face…

The one that happened while we were busy raising children

Creating homes, and lives for others to step into

            when they were ready…

And while we were busy teaching them to love each other

We magically grew up and learned to love ourselves.

The Waltz

He said she loved the waltz.

The dance between a woman

and the man who knew

how to make her feel

a cherished treasure.

validated…

known…

in the affirmative

in silence.

 

He knew how she felt inside

when words wouldn’t come

and only feelings

spilled all over her skin

that no longer fit…

water cascading

from a pitcher held by angels’ hands

painting striated canyon walls

  …D      

            …O   

                        …W          

                                    …N

the Havasupai Falls and        

          o                

               v          

                    e

                         r

her…

 

All rights reserved.  ©2009 by Sara Fryd