I am a yellow dandelion flower
sprinkled by a gentle rain
falling from gray stratus clouds,
a blanket draped upon the land.
The shower passes over,
washing and watering me.

I am a cotton dress shirt
spotted by water droplets
falling from the sprinkler top
on an old Blue Nun bottle.
The iron passes over,
steaming and pressing me.

I am a man in a yellow cotton shirt
splashed by the vigil’s asperges*
flinging blessed water,
a reminder of the primal washing.
The spray passes over,
refreshing and renewing me.

*From the Latin phrase, Asperges me, meaning “Sprinkle me,” that begins the portion of the liturgy when holy water is sprinkled upon the altar and the people.

David M. Frye
April 13, 2009
Denton, Neb.

We bend words thin and pale
at their points of flexion,
our forearms shaking,
but no filigree makes talk
of chrysalides and butterflies
grain and wheat emerge
triumphant from oral caverns
as the metaphor with shoulders
broad enough to carry us across
the chasm from death to life.
We turn instead to exclamation–
Christ is risen! He is risen indeed!
Alleluia!

David M. Frye
April 12, 2009
Denton, Neb.

Hope sounds like meadow birds
singing in the darkness before
the rising of the sun,
riffs entwined and floating
like the bubbles Grandma made
when she dipped her metal wand
and spun in a circle, her arms
outstretched, a trail of iridescent spheres
arcing behind her hand, riding
the spring breeze in the garden
as I chased and batted and giggled
until my hands grew soap-slippery
and my eyes glimpsed one last
bubble borne upon a gentle breath
above the dogwood, rising
free, a fragile and glorious
balance of tensions and pressures
cut loose from the earth,
beyond my fingers’ fatal touch.

David M. Frye
April 11, 2009
Denton, Neb.

Like crystal milk the frost
embraces a Busch can
tossed with a hand’s wave
to the beachgravel road pocked
by double-crescent prints
of deer crossing in files
of four that bound up
the grassy rise in grey
light to stand in vigilant
profile against a hazy sky
flushing blood red ahead
of dawn’s rays running
across slumbering meadow waves
marked by the elongated shadow
of a telephone pole’s trunk
and crossbar trapping
shade and frost, night and death,
bathed now in the inexorable light
of the rising sun’s redemption.

David M. Frye
April 10, 2009
Denton, Neb.

Bread of life,
we break your body,
tearing you to pieces,
allotting our own portions.

Bread of life,
we crack your crust,
scattering you in crumbs,
serving our own desires.

Our hands raise you up,
clench and pull.
Our eyes watch you
split and rip in our grasp.

One loaf, offered for many,
one loaf, one body,
both crust and flesh,
broken and bleeding.

Bread of life,
making us whole,
forgiving all our sins,
you feed us.

Bread of life,
broken and in crumbs,
suffering for our desires,
you die for us.

David M. Frye
April 9, 2009
Denton, Neb.

The telescope dozes on its tripod,
head tilted back, one eye closed,
steady on three feet, waiting

patiently for gentle hands
to lift and carry it reverently
into the darkness of a starry

night, open its solitary eye,
turn its gaze to the skies
and peer deeply into heaven’s past.

David M. Frye
April 8, 2009
Denton, Neb.

Hands hold bat
unnaturally, left
snugged against knob, right
gripping handle above.
Stance still square to plate,
but left shoulder points
to mound and pitcher.
Head turns left, eyes watch
waiting for ball’s release.

Mind wanders in waiting,
wondering why the switch.
Life is left-handed, sinister,
a litany of accommodations.
Scissors digging into hand
pencil smudging meat of palm
ladle pouring soup backhanded
water fountaining from knobs on right
watch stems sprouting at 3 p.m.

Back to game and pitch
ball in flight toward plate
wait … swing … miss.
Mist blows across field
faceless pitcher fading away
hands suddenly empty no bat.
Eyes open to darkened room
head raises from dampened pillow
right hand presses button: 5:15.

Yesterday was Opening Day. Coincidence?
Who was pitching? Why no face?
What happened to my teammates?
Why a strike and not a hit?
Why the switch?

When I identify myself, I
give my name
tell my age
check my gender
say married
circle Caucasian
note Lutheran.
But no one ever asks
and I never answer,
“Left-handed.”

Then I wonder how my life
would feel if I were not ….
Not a man, but a woman.
Not a Christian, but a Buddhist.
Not white, but black.
Not straight, but gay.
Not a leftie, but a rightie.

Could I handle the switch?
What accommodations would I make?
Would I still be myself, know myself?

Would you still recognize me,
know me,
love me?

Cut the red seams
peel off the bleached hide
unwind the endless yarn
reveal the resilient center.

I hold the naked, diminished sphere
gently with my fingers
reach back and toss it to you.

God, catch me, please.

David M. Frye
April 7, 2009
Denton, Neb.

Today’s poetic attempts lie
on the page. Unfinished.
Entangled in squiggles,
dead ends, cross-outs.

But that’s the nature of experimentation.
Not every filament lit up Edison’s bulb.
Most flashed and crumbled into ashes.

So I’ve flipped the switch today.
A quick feeble light and embered darkness.
Time to strike a match and light a candle.

David M. Frye
April 6, 2009
Denton, Neb.

A party gathers in the streets
flash-mobbing by word-of-mouth
raising voices as one with joy.

Hosanna in rhythm
he’s coming hosanna
hosanna I see him
ecstatic hosanna

Amen shed robes
wave palms amen
amen he’s here

Yes look
see yes

Oh!

Now is the time!
This is the day!
We are the ones!
He is the hope!
We will be free!

Wait!
What?
Did you hear?

Have faith in God.
Give to the emperor.
Not one stone will be left.
Brother will betray brother.
Be aware, keep alert.*

Did you hear?
What?
No!

A crowd takes to the streets
flash-mobbing by word of mouth
raising voices as one with passion.

Crucify…

David M. Frye
April 5, 2009
Denton, Neb.

*Mark 11:22, 12:17, 13:2, 13:12, 13:33 (NRSV)