Poetry
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.
Lashon Hara
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
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
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 Little Wisdom
My wisdom comes in short bursts
Of learning out loud
And in silent contemplation.
A sprinter I am
A marathon runner not so much.
Learned to hear with my heart
To feel with my navel
To listen with my eyes
To let my soul nourish me.
My very own soul
With its own character is enough
When others are unavailable
Are involved in their own lives.
I learned to demand less
To request more
Of myself, not of them.
Learned a little blue Agave syrup
Goes a long way to sweeten the pot
That has always been sweet
If only I had noticed along the way
Those rainbows will always have colors
That I can devour for breakfast.
All rights reserved. ©2010 by Sara Fryd
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.
Christina
God slipped away
Today…
I watched in horror
A family’s grief at the loss of a daughter
Not my daughter
Someone else’s child still dreaming
Of becoming a Congresswoman
Or maybe the President
The first woman of America
To receive that title
Who loved jumping in rain puddles
Like me…
Who loves the August afternoon monsoons
In the Arizona desert
More than Godiva bittersweet
She became everyone’s child
On Saturday morning last
Because God slipped away
To save another, she died
At the hand of a stranger with a gun
Inauspiciously, this nine-year-old
Held the heartstrings of a nation
And brought the universe to its knees
When the President reminded us
“…she is playing in rain puddles in heaven…”
This mother wept, reminding herself
They’re only words, meanings that unleash tears
And in the end, how can you explain
The grief of a mother in words
Anyway…
When God slips away.
*Christina-Taylor Green (9 years old) died during the shooting of Gabrielle Giffords.
All rights reserved. ©2011 by Sara Fryd
After Shave
The car engulfed
with waves of mulled citrus mist
warmed by your face watching mine
in the mirror from the hallway
as I lacquer on deep burgundy
candy apple lipstick
before the sun awakes early
one April morning.
Memories of orange blossoms
permeating the night sky
on Route 66…
the beige top down on
the old black convertible with red leather seats
When I was eighteen
and Steven French kissed me
behind Paradise Mountain
where the sheriff watched
with the gigantic flashlight
and I was told “good girls” never go
alone.
Underneath the auburn henna
graying hair peeks.
Longer jackets of fine silk smooth the hips
and lengthen the torso.
Longer skirts cover the knees.
And still…
I am overwhelmed by emotions
that smother my driving
North on the 605
with one whiff of warm mulled citrus
transferred from your face
to my sheerest pink silk blouse
during our dark, early morning embraces
that still make my knees weak an hour later
my heart pound.
Remembering again how it felt
to be wide-eyed, eighteen
and waiting for my prince.
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
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