Hello

love on wings

Hello, welcome, sit a spell, thank you for your visits.  Tea, coffee, hot chocolate anyone?  Përshëndetje, مرحبا, Привет, Hola, Zdravo, Ahoj, Hej, Hallo, Tere, maligayang pagdating, hei, bonjour!, Ola, Guten Tag!, γεια σου, שלום, हैलो, hello, halo, ciao!, sveiki, labas, hallo, سلام, witaj, Olá, salut, здороваться, здраво, ahoj, zdravo, ¡hola!, hej, สวัสด ี, merhaba, привет, xin chào

All of you who stop for a visit, read my missives, then leave me notes of joy or wonder, know that I am grateful for you beyond measure, beyond words.   The gifts we have received of writing, reading, being able to share with each other on this heartfelt level will surely shift the world.  Gratefully, I say a prayer for you all.  May we all know a world of peace.

She Slaps a Homeless Man

It took a while to notice

A world so filled with pain

To look around and truly see

The bitterness of rain

I looked around, I wondered

Where do they find a meal?

No shoes

No coat

No gloves

No home

How do they really feel?

What happened to our country?

Full of dreams that one could fly

You remind yourself in whispers

There…

but for the grace of God, go I

Then keep on walking by.

You turn your head, but

Pretend that you don’t see

Get in your fancy four wheel drive

And plant another tree.

Cross yourself with fingers

Palms confessing all your sins

Beg the Lord’s forgiveness,

Then journal all your wins.

Ralph Lauren flowered linens

Martha Stewart tablecloths

Ellen Tracy in the closet

Laura Ashley covered walls

You light a little candle

Throw a penny on a plate

Gently in staccato,

Please God I need your grace

Before it is too late.

 

*Twenty years ago I was walking in downtown Los Angeles with my son’s girlfriend and she slapped a gentle soul who had his hand out.

The Lady Plumber

The Lady Plumber – Irena Sendler

Image result for irena sendler

The Lady Plumber. . . .   (email I received this morning)

Remember this lady?   Irena Sendler

Died: May 12, 2008 (aged 98) Warsaw, Poland During WWII, Irena, got permission to work in the Warsaw ghetto, as a Plumbing/Sewer specialist.  She had an ulterior motive. Irena smuggled Jewish infants out in the bottom of the tool box she carried.  She also carried a burlap sack in the back of her truck, for larger kids. Irena kept a dog in the back that she trained to bark when the Nazi soldiers let her in and out of the ghetto.

The soldiers, of course, wanted nothing to do with the dog and the barking covered the kids/infants noises.

During her time of doing this, she managed to smuggle out and save 2500 kids/infants. Ultimately, she was caught, however, and the Nazi’s broke both of her legs and arms and beat her severely. Irena kept a record of the names of all the kids she had smuggled out,  In a glass jar that she buried under a tree in her back yard.

After the war, she tried to locate any parents that may have survived and tried to reunite the family.  Most had been gassed.   Those kids she helped got placed into foster family homes or adopted.  In 2007 Irena was up for the Nobel Peace Prize. She was not selected.  Al Gore won, for a slide show on Global Warming. Later another politician,Barack Obama, won for his work as a community organizer for ACORN. In MEMORIAM – 65 YEARS LATER I’m doing my small part by forwarding this message.  I hope you’ll consider doing the same.  It is now more than 65 years since the Second World War in Europe ended.

This  e-mail is being sent as a memorial chain,  In memory of the six million Jews, 20 million Russians, 10 million Christians, mostly Lutherans and 1,900 Catholic priests who were murdered, massacred, raped, burned, starved and humiliated !  Now, more than ever, with Iran , and others, claiming the HOLOCAUST to be ‘a myth’, It’s imperative to make sure the world never forgets,  Because there are others who would like to do it again. This e-mail is intended to reach 40 million people worldwide !

Churning Butter

sc185680

Jean-François Millet, French, 1814–1875

It’s tough becoming greater than the sum of your beliefs and history. I write to teach myself to be more than my beliefs, to sort out my feelings so they make sense to me. Unlike time or life, memories don’t come in a pre-conceived order.  I’ve been asked “what kind of writer are you” and “why do you write,” so many times and until now I didn’t have an answer. I’m an emotional writer. I write when I wish to heal, to remember, to feel, to cry, to be joyful, to gain courage, to share.  And since humans leave most of their memories to their subconscious to handle; that’s where mine have been in their little jack-in-the-boxes of time slots.  I turn and turn the handle churning my memories like one making butter.  When through my writing I stop editing myself, the memories pop up without my having to spend a lot of time thinking about them.  So forgive me for the lack of order of chronological time.  None of these poems or stories are in the order of my lived life.  They are in the order that memories brought them to me.  They arrived as I found them, ready to share them with you.

 

Lashon Hara

 

hawk

Lashon Hara (the Hebrew term for defamatory speech or gossip)*

They stood under the southern live oak,

Who had heard every story told under her canopy of branches with leaves,

Living amongst these exterior walls for more than forty years.

Three angry women from various lives

Who daily congregate in the shade of the oak

To pick apart strangers as sporting game.

Without comprehending other’s lives or their own.

More than fifty years have vanished,

There they are, as if in a high school bathroom

Openly denying access

To those that are not members of the “in crowd.”

I stare at my wise beloved oak

That makes the world right, answering a multitude of questions.

The lowest branch holding a fledgling cooper hawk

Tearing apart its recently caught prey.

I smile and keep walking with my lesson for the day.

Nature is so truthful, so honest it hurts

Watching a species rip apart another for the hunger of survival

Unlike humans who rip each other apart for nothing more than sport.

*the halakhic term for derogatory speech (true speech for a wrongful purpose i.e. gossip)

All rights reserved. ©2016 by Sara Fryd

Automatic Weapons

Army-Gun-Woman-Stock-Photo-girl

she used words as bullets

when she felt weak or powerless

as she fired one insult in rapid succession

following another

watching him cringe

as if struck in slow motion

by hollow points

bleeding pools of aching tears

profusely all over the red oak floors

smiling

she felt she’d won this battle

not comprehending

ultimately

she’d lost all the wars yet to come

on the horizon

for all his pecks, his huge muscles

given him to protect his body

his heart was surely as vulnerable as hers

and words can kill as surely as bullets

though the death toll is slower

taking

an interminable amount of time

to die

 

 

 

All rights reserved. ©2016 by Sara Fryd

There are Men Too Gentle to Live Among Wolves

Dad

For Berek Nathan on Father’s Day this incredible poem by James Kavanaugh from his book of the same name…  Benny would have been 99 this September had he lived.

“There are men too gentle to live among wolves
Who prey upon them with IBM eyes
And sell their hearts and guts for martinis at noon.
There are men to gentle for a savage world
Who dream instead of snow and children and Halloween
And wonder if the leaves will change their color soon.

There are men to gentle to live among wolves
Who anoint them for burial with greedy claws
And murder them for a merchant’s profit and gain.
There are men to gentle for a corporate world
Who dream instead of Easter eggs and fragrant grass
And pause to hear the distant whistle of a train.

There are men to gentle too live amount wolves
Who devour them with appetite and search
For other men to prey upon and such their childhood dry.
There are men to gentle for an accountant’s world
Who dream instead of Easter eggs and fragrant grass
And search for beauty in the mystery of the sky.

There are men to gentle too live among wolves
Who toss them like a lost and wounded dove
Such gentle men are lonely in a merchant’s world
Unless they have a gentle one to love.”

  © by James Kavanaugh

A Library for Krakow

I belong to a Holocaust Survivors e-mail list that travels around the globe online helping Survivors find other Survivors.  More than six years ago I received an email about a young man who wanted to start a library in Kraków Poland and needed help filling the shelves with Jewish books.  Seems he was raised Christian to save his life.  Finding out as an adult that his biological parents were Jewish, he was determined to make this happen.

As much as I love my books, I’ve learned to share over the years and this seemed extremely important.   I boxed up a huge box of books that included my college freshman Children’s Literature anthology (that was 30 years old) and my Bat Mitzvah prayer book (which was even older).  Books are one of my great loves, so there were many books that had been on my shelves for many years.

It was important I told myself and left for the Post Office, almost leaving when they asked me to fill out a huge amount of paperwork for Custom’s reasons.  Never heard anything, assumed my good deed was in a black hole somewhere at the bottom of the Atlantic.

While casually searching Google the other night for the three blogs I’ve created, to see what is being sent out to the universe (by me), I came upon this website in Poland which had my name attached.  Being unbelievably curious and not knowing Polish, I used Google translator.

Copy, paste, click, read.    Copy, paste, click, read.  I had no idea what happened to my book box until now.  On Google.com it says “darczyncy” and my name.  The Rabbi Remuh Jewish Library was established in June 2005 and it is the only Jewish Library in Krakow open to everyone. czulent_salon_1

I am listed as a donor.  Oh my God was all I could pray through all the tears.  What makes this so special is my Dad Berek Nathan was born in Warsaw.  His entire family – brothers, sisters, parents, aunts, uncles died in the Holocaust.   He was the only living survivor.  Saving himself by running to the forest while the Nazis were kicking his brother to death on the streets of Poland.  He was 15.  Berek Nathan died August 2005 at age 87.  He was my Hero.  At least some of his books are back in Poland at a Jewish Library where they always belonged.

 

 All rights reserved.  ©2009 by Sara Fryd