Contact Info Sara Fryd
520-909-0270
sfryd@yahoo.com
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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.
San Xavier Mission
 The last moments of a sunset and the passing of an early September storm create a rare double rainbow over Balanced Rock in Arches National Park, Sept. 4, 2005 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
That rainbows will always have colors
I can devour for breakfast.
All rights reserved. ©2010 by Sara Fryd
 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.
All rights reserved. ©2009 by Sara Fryd
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
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 week an hour later
my heart pound.
Remembering again how it felt
to be wide-eyed, eighteen
and waiting for my prince.
All rights reserved. ©2009 by Sara Fryd
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
He spits in his rag, washes my car window
 San Francisco by Sara Fryd A sign of the times
What sign is that, I ask myself?
That America is in trouble?
That our veterans have no place to live?
That a roof over one’s head is not a necessity
For a Marine?
Who fought for our security and more? Who now
Sleeps on the ground next to his wheel chair.
Since he has no other place to sleep
Except the grass beneath his sleeping bag.
Roll up a $20 bill and gently place it in his palm
His fingers close around it.
His eyes remain closed, his breathing slows.
I turn my eyes to the cerulean sky recalling
I have no job, nor means of support…
Still…
I have $20, a roof over my head, food in my fridge
And there but for the grace of God…
Go I…
All rights reserved. ©2009 by Sara Fryd
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.
Whispers…
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.
Whispers…
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
She works too hard for approval
My friend
Tap dancing, tap dancing
For all who enter
Round and round
Faster and faster
For some who are worthy
Those who are not
The quest for approval
All that attention
All that energy
All that time
Or maybe not
Tap shoes on, tap shoes off
Left outside the front door
Next to the sign
No more – Ø
All rights reserved. ©2009 by Sara Fryd
 - ©2011 by Deborah Scott Lightfoot
The ballerina twirls
With such 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 down from the heavens
To her 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
We tried each other on
New best friends
Playing “Barbie” in our sixties.
A task not for the faint hearted.
She had gone on vacation summer 1965
Never returning to this life
That I know and love.
She was frozen in another time of
Long teased hair below her shoulders
That made her look years older.
An alien from another galaxy, she cried
“But men like long hair.”
While I cringed,
Sharing my enlightenment
And love of books
With no one in particular…
Except “Barbie” chattering continuously
About internet websites of men
Loving women with long hair.
Me, not one to understand
Or care that plastic is a fabric…
A fabric that has increasingly become
Unfamiliar to my soul.
All rights reserved. ©2010 by Sara Fryd
You asked for someone
To make base camp with
So we could climb mountains
And I had never
Climbed to the third floor
Of the building where I lived
Let alone Kilimanjaro with a man
You offered courage, strength
Songs as slow as molasses sap
Running from a tree in a cup
Joy, rich as dark chocolate melting
Melting in a pan
Heating with cinnamon and milk
I heard saxophone music playing
Wafting down
Somewhere from the third floor
And I was certain I might need
To learn to climb stairs
After all
All rights reserved. ©2009 by Sara Fryd
 ©2010 Howard Paley "Stillness at Dawn," Sedona, AZ 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
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