Sharon Frye – Five poems

poetSharon Frye is a poet living in Northern Oklahoma. Her poems appear in “the first cut” Issues 6 & 7 “Between Earth and Sky,” Silver Bow Publishing
“Bonfires” – translated into Portuguese for “O Equador das Coisas.”
Her poem “Risen Heroes” will be inscribed on a sculpture for first responders, commissioned by Dean Thompson of Dallas, Texas.
Sharon is in collaboration with Irish narrative artist, Eabha Rose, in spoken word and audio productions.


He shuffled comets, stacked a dozen at
a time. Blew them like dandelion dust
to farther places, past Andromeda,
Orion. His eye fell on buffy brown
sparrows, purple veined addicts, white hooded
robes of Klansmen, black habits of sisters.

He readied the gondola. Last time, he
made an ark. This time, a flat bottomed boat,
made of oak, cherry, elm, mahogany,
and shittim. He breathed in spicy timbers…
Perhaps he should have added galbanum?
But damned Isis… always in a hurry!

Had to have her new Tree of Life, not that
he was the type to hold a silly grudge!
He lifted heavy oar, listened to stream
of Friday night karaoke, beer-breathed
guffaws, jokes about Jews, prayers for Mary’s
little lost lambs, petitions that started

If only you do this… I promise I‘ll
do that. Oh my, how they went on and on.
He stopped laboring, focused Heaven’s eye
on desert lilies, nostrils flared cosmic
gold dust. With right hand, he gathered stellar
bodies, pinned them as celestial footnotes.

The Gondolier scrambled into stern, rolled
Levis into short cuffs above ankles.
His huge calloused hands gripped smooth shiny oar,
with lightning sweep, pushed it through forcola.
He sang as he glided through meteor
swarms, galaxies…on to The Bridge of Sighs.

The Wailing Wall

Perhaps I should have written a prayer note
to channel its way into a small dark niche
between ancient blocks on the Western Wall,
my kvitelach. Certainly Jehovah’s ears would
have listened to my plea, scribed in black ink.

Or maybe I should have dusted myself
with smoke from silver leaves of sage
while I tied red and blue prayer flags,
to carry my entreaty on white clouds
of smoke to Heaven and the Great Spirit.

I should have kneeled, begging Saint
Anthony for a miracle or healing from
Saint Raphael, while pink quartz beads
slid between pointing finger and thumb.
Hail Mary, full of Grace. Blessed art Thou.

No doubt, I should have fallen prostrate
on my prayer rug, face towards Mecca
and prayed to Allah, the Mighty, Lord
of the Mighty Throne to heal this baby girl…
distress seizes her, but you, Allah, are merciful.

But no, I found a green-chipped bench
and sat in the park weeping, whispering
prayers for yet another orphan from Baghdad.
In the name of the Father, the Son and the
Holy Spirit…You forgot to take her pacifier…


Prelude, Voice Aquiver

I am not content
to fade into yesterday’s
almanac, landing on a
shelf of dusty dreams,
fading to sepia tones.

I am not content
with a ribbon of gray
threading through the
needle of my existence,
stitching my life
into a burial shroud.

I am not content
to leave words unturned,
eroding into fragments
of ash gray limestone.
White chalk smeared,
scattered on a blackboard.

I am not content
with splinters of dripping
flaxen honey, wrestled from
the comb, stuck in webs
to my right hand.

I am not content
to leave syllables
whispers from sage
in twilight sleep:

“I carve on cavern walls
hieroglyphs of
moonblood, birth.
I paint meringue clouds
rocket fire,
blue mayhem,
fossil butte…

speak my signature,
voice aquiver.”



She wrote with a white pen,
eased him into paragraphs,
dipped minnows of words
against bare skin until he
nibbled at pink feathered bait.
He walked into the streets of
her story, left crescent moon
smile, lingered behind blue
whiffs of smoke and vodka.

At first, she debated writing
an allegory where his name
would have been Moby
or Dick with unique sonar
for fragile flesh. Gulped little
rag dolls, one swallow down
into bile of his belly, then tossed,
spit them back into the sea.

Or she could summon words
for epic hero, whose boundary
was foolproof, whose armor was
fireproof, never touched by banked
embers of unseen offerings.

In the end, desperado Muse,
whispered talisman. His
voice danced in darkness,
sent visions of blue. Green
galaxies clouded daylight
moments until black Adagio
notes rolled away stones and
finally…lured her pen.


City Block

There were some on her city block
that called her loony, a new age nut.
They sneered at what her bones knew:
Without anyone’s knowledge or say-so,
energy flowed from home to home,
pulsed with momentum, tumbling, rolling.

She plugged into her tiny spot
of earth amidst daisies, lilies
and coneflowers. Dark crescent
moons replaced white of nails
as fingers sank into fertile humus,
dug down deeper until she felt jolt.

Energy surged through damp soil.
She saw herself connected to all,
Great Gaia herself listened, had ears
for her prayer of thanks. Humming,
she buried a ripe pear, a gift of chi,
wrapped in speckled green skin.

Juice channeled to entrance points, exits.
Charged lines linked every occupant,
neighbor to neighbor. Mel, the old colonel
walking his boxer, Duke. Mrs. Brown,
speaking Christianese, peeking out her blinds.
The Dollar Store princess, heading to work.

She rolled her cuffs up, stuck her hands
back in her garden. Down, down, down.
She felt pulled into a vortex of silent water.
A whirlpool dark as the mystery of the moon.
Yes, she thought to herself, the current flows,
it flares and blasts…unbridled as a flood.

Aside | This entry was posted in News. Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to Sharon Frye – Five poems

  1. Seeing someone’s soul revealed
    Always appeals

Comments are closed.