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.

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Blood Pressure

Sunday morning, I dine alone at Coco’s

Ordering from the over 55 menu

Because the food is good

And it’s only $5.99 for breakfast

With sourdough bread

Butter and blackberry jam included.

The $300 Eileen Fisher and Tahari suits

Have found other lives in others’ closets

Thanks to Goodwill and the Salvation Army.

My 5” inch open toed black stiletto sandals

And patent leather pumps

Are packed away in a hot pink plastic box

Waiting for another life with another owner.

Clark ballet flats leave me

Officially 4 feet 10 and 7/8 inches tall

Instead of the 5’ foot 2” lie

I’ve written on doctor’s charts and driver’s licenses

All these years.

I wonder out loud, to no one in particular

Knowing that rare is the friend

Who listens without comment

When your heart shares concerns…

 

But hey, my blood pressure is 120/72

Closing in on seventy I take no prescription drugs

And my doctor tells me that

I can look forward to twenty more years of Sundays

Sitting here eating brunch alone.

 

 

All rights reserved. ©2018 by Sara Fryd

 

I Don’t Like Spaghetti

baby-spaghetti

 

Spaghetti is slimy, squiggly too.

It tickles my throat; tastes just like glue.

I don’t know why grown-ups think it is so great.

Wish something else was sitting on my plate.

Why don’t they ask me, what I want to eat?

‘Stead of making me swallow stuff like meat.

I’d rather have carrots all cut up in sticks.

Celery with peanut butter is my favorite pick.

Apples are great all chopped up in sauce.

He makes me eat what he wants, ‘cause he is the boss.

Won’t know how to choose what to eat for myself,

If I don’t get to pick different stuff from the shelf.

Please, please let me try, I’m smarter than you think.

I can scramble eggs quick as a wink.

I can make my own meals, I can do it, I can.

Then I’ll wash all the dishes and turn off the fan.

 

How Old Are You?

I live at Skyline Gateway, an apartment complex of 250 units. People are moving in and out daily. It’s hard to keep track some days. My dogs love little kids, so I take them out frequently.

One morning an adorable whirlwind of a little blond girl comes running over waving and yelling, “Hi, what’s your name? I’m Sadie and I’m 4 years old. That’s my sister Maddie and she’s 6 years old. That’s my Mom on the phone over there and she’s 27. How old are you?”

I smiled at her, stuck out my hand and said, “Hi, I’m Sara and I’m 105.” Her eyeballs started spinning as her brain was trying to add all the way to a hundred and five.

All the while she was screaming, “Mom, that lady over there is a 105.”  I think they heard her in Sedona, a couple hundred miles away.

© 2017 by Sara Fryd

 

Sisters of Different Mothers

Driving through Northern Arizona from Albuquerque to San Bernardino to have breakfast with my friend Shoshana that I met at La Verne Law School. So excited that I leave at 4 am when it’s black out and one can see the shooting stars and those that are still only flickering. A couple of hours fly by down I-40 and I’m near the Painted Desert signs and light is coming up all around, so I pull off at Highway 77 to the State Park.

It’s pink, peach, mauve, ivory, and palest of yellows, tans, mochas. The colors are overwhelming, remembered when one closes their eyes to sleep or writes poetry about such momentous events. I pull the car over and wander out to stare at such bounty saying a silent prayer of gratefulness to the Almighty. How did I get so lucky to be here in this moment in time?

Looking down at my shoes I remember from college geology class that most of Northern Arizona was once under water and seashells are everywhere.   I am positively enthralled at what I see. Seashells, lots of seashells near my feet. I reach down grabbing several handfuls laying them gently in the bottom of my purse. Off I go to meet my best friend and bring her a present of seashells. I can’t remember if I ever told her about the Grand Canyon being carved out by the waters of an ocean.

A couple of hours later I pull into a Denny’s and Shoshana is already at the table inside. I start chattering as I always do when I see her or hear her voice. I tell her about the stars, the colors of the desert (she hates cactus), and of course the seashells. She feigns interest, smiling as I reach into the bottom of my purse and place a handful of shells in the middle of the table.   She bursts out laughing, shaking her head.

I respond with, “What?”

“One certainly can tell you’re a poet,” says my friend.

“What do you mean,” I ask?

“Don’t get upset,” says Shoshana. “Those are pistachio shells, not seashells.”

All rights reserved. ©2017 by Sara Fryd

My friend died Saturday last.  This was the last email I received from her.

—– Forwarded Message —–
From: Shoshana Anne Simon <shalom.shoshana@gmail.com>
To: “Fryd, Sara” <sfryd@yahoo.com>
Sent: Saturday, February 11, 2017 3:00 PM
Subject: Sea Shells in the Desert

Ever since you found shells in the desert and we may have mis-identified them as pistachios, something about that whole transaction has bothered me.

I’m reading The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho, which I’ve never read and is now a classic, and the boy (the hero of the book) find sea shells in the desert (in North Africa) and I’m bounced right back to you and me and the pistachios, which may have been shells.
In this book, the idea is that everything in the world/universe is connected and that the desert was once the sea and is just waiting for the transformation back again to the sea.
So, a google search turned up this neat article
 
With pictures.  I thought your poet’s soul might appreciate this turn of events. Especially in the time of craziness.   And I hope we don’t have to leave this country with it’s “religious registries” and clown president.
Love,
Shoshana

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.   I remember thinking I was glad they had not married or had children.

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 !