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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Cats in Antique Shops

When you behave badly

Or cheat another

Or yourself

You carry that pain with you

Like trash you wish you could throw away

Accidents and illnesses follow you

Goodness and happiness disappear

Attaching themselves to others

In order to grow…

When you act rightly (says the Little Prince)

Treating yourself and others kindly

If for no other reason than “because”

You are a safe place

A place to grow and thrive.

Joy attaches itself to you

Like presents with love written on them

Found in corners of antiques shops

For friends you cannot stop longing for

No matter their

Distance from home…

 

*There are three special people whom I love who also love cats.

This is for Trudy, Shoshana, and Josh.

An Empty House

 

 

 

I wanted to matter

To you

So much

But you didn’t hear me

Or maybe you couldn’t

Hear

Or see

For so many reasons

I lost count

It seemed the more

I tried

The harder I worked

At us

The more alone I became

And when you finally

Remembered I mattered

All my footsteps, my music

No longer lived in our home

 

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