A Little Wisdom

double rainbow

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

blue ford

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.


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.

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

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.

And the World Held its Breath

peace accord

The world watched and

held its breath

as two previous enemies

agreed to lay the past to rest

for once and always.

We who have grown up as

children of one war or another

prayed that this would be the

greatest miracle of all…

a sign

a beginning

an omen.

That maybe in our lifetime

the world would know…


And each of us who

so cherish this fragile planet

could continue

with the important job

of making this place

more special

than we found it.

*signing of the Peace Accord July 1993


Albq enhanced

I have loved the thought of you since dawn…

My soul was touched at twilight,

melting my five year old heart

as first stars appeared on the horizon in winter.


Hold my heart’s attention

like the saxophone notes

that breeze past gracing walls

as sounds drift up the stairs

stirring my eyelashes

as sleep envelops me.

For I have known the thought of you since nine…

When Alan pulled my hair and made me cry.

Not felt feelings this intense since twelve

when Michael kissed my mouth in darkness

on my childhood porch;

As she was imminently awaiting me,

the woman I could hardly wait to be.

I have heard the music of this melting voice,

my blood has turned to maple syrup more than once.


So intense they’ve since become

a warm caress of summer sun, ivory sand in late July.

For I have loved and lost but not as this,

knowing love and loss go hand in hand.

I still can hardly wait to feel your kiss…

This love of yours will surely be the one

that lifts my spirits higher than the plains.

Gently held in trust above the clouds,

time escaped though never lost in vain.

My arms are open wide to grasp the sun as if in reach…

praying for your touch so warm at dawn

as sleep surrounds my silent waiting heart.

Joy as this comes only once then may be gone.

For I have loved the thought of you since dawn…

and I will love the thought of you till I am gone…


All rights reserved.  ©2009 by Sara Fryd  

Ballerina Dance

Georgia O’Keeffe, The Lawrence Tree, 1929


A ballerina twirls

With silent joy

The sun has come out to play

To warm the wisps of hair

Left loose to fall

Down the back of her neck

What beauty

Pink ribbons

Crisscrossed about her ankles

Barely blushed like her cheeks

As she spins to music

Only she can hear

Cascading from the heavens

To uplifted arms

That envelop her with passionate moves

Escalating from pirouette to twirl

To twirl, to twirl

To twirl…

All rights reserved. ©2011 by Sara Fryd

Be Still My Heart

Night Sky

The photographer calls me

Echoing God’s voice as it reverberates

Against red walls of stone

A sculpture of magical vistas whisper

Dewey dawns of morning light

Amethyst blush of babies cheeks

Ochre shades of foxes’ tails

Raccoon eyes that see the night

Become dawn’s glow

Such hidden treasures

Permeate the Arizona landscape

As peppermint canes peaking out

From branches of Christmas trees

In front of the arched window

I love to peek out of

Sipping melted chocolate

With gummy marshmallows melting

Absorbing the seasons’ shift

Dancing in rhythmic days

Moving softly from one foot to the other


All rights reserved.  ©2010 by Sara Fryd