Excerpt for Poetic Gifts of Sylvia L. Fry by , available in its entirety at Smashwords


Written entirely by Sylvia L. Fry


PUBLISHED BY: Steffanie Sandlian on Smashwords

Copyright © 2018 by Steffanie Sandlian

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  1. Letter to Anna

  2. Changing Love

  3. The Stone

  4. Just a Baby

  5. Meditation on Motherhood

  6. Meditation on Parenthood

  7. The Trick

  8. The Good Life

  9. Unfinished

  10. Anna

  11. Compensation

  12. Contentment

  13. The Way To Do It

  14. To Mother

  15. Wisdom

  16. Warning

  17. A Chance to Learn

  18. Make Her Happy

  19. Decision

  20. Apart

  21. The Monkey

  22. Vacation with Pay

  23. What Is Love

  24. Behind the Wheel

  25. Black Tire Marks

  26. Free Wheelin’

  27. The Friend

  28. The Man

  29. The Master

  30. To John

  31. Alone

  32. Christmas

  33. The Unexpected

  34. Daughters

  35. Lesson of the Rose

  36. Final Request

  37. Regret

  38. Stand by Me

  39. Almost Persuaded

  40. Why

  41. Chained

  42. Friendly and Kind

  43. Question

  44. The Painting

  45. Midlife

  46. Purpose

  47. Invitation to Dance

  48. New Awareness

  49. Blarney

  50. Power Pact

  51. To Irene

  52. My Father

  53. Overdue Visit

  54. Winter

  55. Mourning

Letter to Anna

Sylvia L. Fry 1977

Dearest Anna,

My mind races with introductory statements so that I hardly know where to start, but first of all, let me say that I hope you will understand my reasons for considering this as a somewhat unique, if not worthy, gift. It is not because the following pages are filled with myself. Many of the compositions are very personal, private disclosures of my deepest feelings – ones that I have never really shared with anyone but those most intimately related to me, I have always felt this intimate relationship with you, and therefore feel that you will appreciate the feelings of which I speak. I think that you will read between the lines and find the hopes and fears, the joys and disappointments, the sweetness and the sorrow; but, most of all, I think you will see the love and concern I have felt from others and how, through that, I have grown to what I am now.

I have written about some of the people who are most dear to me, and who I feel have most influenced my growth. You are one of those people. For that reason, and because we share a love of poetry, I have decided to share these compositions with you.

I do not mean to appear egotistical, but I do take pride in what is compiled here, as I feel anyone should in a talent they have been granted. I do not feel that my talent is great, or ever will be, but I am thankful for it none the less. It is a good feeling to create something beautiful – and I have always appreciated the beauty of poetry.

Words, after all, are one of the main things which sets man above other animals. Though they many times cause hurt and sorrow, I prefer to believe they more often bring peace and joy. I also believe that to be able to put them in a melodious order to create an artistic mental picture is a talent not to be taken lightly. I dwell on this belief because I want to show you how much I appreciate the inspiration you have been to my small talent. You have inspired me in many ways, but without your inspiration and encouragement in the direction of poetry, I might never have compiled the pieces which follow. I shall probably never write with the ease and depth you do, but I derive much pleasure from what I write. And, that after all, is the only reason I do write. I hope that you, too, will find some measure of enjoyment from this collection.

I would entitle it, “The Complete Works of Sylvia Sandlian”, but I do not feel that it will be complete till I die, nor that it is work, so instead I will only say,



Your baby sis, Sylvia


Sylvia L. Fry 1962

Our Love was once a pure, good thing

Sweet beyond compare

Because of it each day was Spring

And all our life was fair

We heard the birds, we saw the flowers

Our hearts with joy did sing

We’d dream together by the hours

And laugh at anything

But now just one short year’s gone by

Now everything is wrong

We can but make each other cry

And sorrow is our song

Our spring has turned to winter

The birds have gone away

The flowers all died so long ago

Our dreams fade day by day

A million little things each day

Are said or done for spite

Our love no longer seems so pure

It seems not even right

You try to show your love for me

And I for you, sweetheart

And yet each day I see that we

Are one more day apart

Some small thing said, some small thing done

We let our anger spurt

Although it may be said in fun

We always end up hurt

How long can we go on this way?

Perhaps for twenty years?

Or maybe just for one more day

Of anger, hurt and tears

When will our love completely die?

I cannot say, but still

I know more as each day goes by

Unless we change, it will!


Sylvia L. Fry 1963

A tiny, lifeless boy was born

A few short years ago,

The mother wept, the father mourned,

For they had loved it so.

Long before the flicker of life

Within the womb did stir,

Visions of the man and wife

Were of joyful events to occur.

But the stillborn child was laid away

In a tiny unmarked plot,

And mother and father intended to lay

A marker, when it could be bought.

The years passed by and no stone was placed

At the head of this child at rest,

But his memory could not be erased,

Though time tried it’s very best.

The grave was covered with sod and weeds,

But in his parents mind,

A garden was sowed with lovely seeds

That could never be lost in time.

For the parents thought of their eldest boy,

More oft than anyone knew,

And many a time at the sight of a toy,

Their minds to that tiny lot flew.

What greater marker could anyone ask

Than the thoughts of those whom they love.

This is the stone that forever will last,

And will mount to the Heavens above.


Sylvia L. Fry 1964

Inspired by, written for and dedicated to Steffanie Mae Sandlian

An angel lives at our house,

With fair, sweet, smiling face.

A cherub, gay and happy,

Who brightens up the place.

She looks just like a baby,

No hair, no teeth, few clothes,

Two pink lips and two blue eyes,

And a tiny, turned-up nose;

Two fat cheeks, fat tummy too,

Two tiny feet to match,

Two small hands that reach for

The things she wants to catch;

A little bottom, round and cute,

And tiny, tiny curved ears,

A laugh so sweet it thrills you,

And sometimes a few wet tears.

Though she looks just like a baby,

I’m sure it is not so,

For how could just a baby

Make the sun shine and fair winds blow?

She surely is an angel,

For, tell me if you can,

How can just a baby make

A king from a common man?

And how can just a baby

Turn the cloudy skies to blue,

And do so many pleasant things

No grown-up can ever do?

How could just a baby make

A lonely house a home,

And give more joy and happiness

Than ever has been known?

How could just a baby

Make a gloomy day worthwhile

Just by snuggling close to you,

Or with a tiny smile?

How could just a baby

When angry you have been,

Make you forgive in a moment

All the mischief she’s been in?

She surely is an angel,

Sent from God above.

For how could “just a baby”

Teach so much about God’s love?


Sylvia L. Fry 1964

A mother’s life is spent removing dirt for her loved ones. She uses a dishrag to remove it from their dishes; a dust cloth to take it from their furniture; a broom and mop to keep it off their floor; a washing machine to remove it from their clothes and a washcloth to cleanse it from their hands and faces. She spends much time washing windows, cleaning bathrooms, changing children’s clothes, cleaning stoves and refrigerators, and sometimes even removes the dirt from the family car.

But the greatest cleaning task set before a mother is that of keeping dirt off the souls of her family. It is a job for which she has tools of a very different nature.

Her dust mop is a happy outlook; her dishrag is her faith in God; her broom and mop must be tolerance for all peoples; her washing machine is her regard for the good name of her fellow man, and her dryer is the ability to refrain from trifling with that name; and her washcloth is woven of love, patience and understanding for those on whom she wishes to use it.

Use these tools wisely, Mother, for the cleanliness of your child’s soul is your most important household chore.


Sylvia L. Fry 1964

Inspired by a first child

Each child is a tiny part of God. They come into the world full of innocence and beauty, with no thought of, nor desire for, evil. They ask only nourishment, warmth and love, and in return offer treasures worth more than the riches of Solomon. For each ounce of nourishment, they give fulfillment beyond all expectations. For each spark of warmth, they kindle a holocaust of delight to warm your heart into eternity. And for the tiniest drop of love, they pour your cup to overflowing, by their trust and devotion to you.

Indeed, your bread is multiplied ten times when cast upon the waters of their tiny existence, and for every grain of strength they take from you, it is returned in dynamic proportions.

No mother, with a tiny head at rest upon her breast, and fist clenched tight upon her finger, can deny this is the greatest delight she has ever experienced. No father, seeing the joy in his offspring’s face at days end, can truthfully express a greater joy. And there is no fuller excitement than the first tottering steps of your own “piece of Heaven”.

In our children, God has granted us a taste of His promised joy, and one method of repaying the Divine Sacrifice He made of His Son for us.

All He expects in return for this gift is that we do our best to see that it remains pure and loyal to his Creator, and that we give them the strength and wisdom to guide their lives and the lives of their “pieces of God” in the upward, homeward direction.


Sylvia L. Fry 1965

While lying still upon my bed,

One quiet dreary morn,

The thought occurred to me that I

Was feeling quite forlorn.

It wasn’t long until the cause

Of my distress was plain;

A ball of fire within my throat

Was the reason for my pain.

The doctor came and poked around,

And then he said to me,

My dear, this can be serious,

At the age of twenty-three.”

But chills and fever were just part,

Of my great discontent.

When friends found out, the greater pain,

Was my embarrassment.

My child, by then, was old enough

To get the germ herself;

And there I lie, upon my bed,

Like a rag-doll on the shelf.

Chills and fever and pain did pass,

And time soon healed my pride;

But never will I e’er forget

The trick my tonsils tried.


Sylvia L. Fry 1966

How many times I have wondered,

As I blundered along life’s way,

Why can’t my life be made easy,

Like neighbor Brown’s, let’s say?

How nice it would be to have money

To buy all those things that I need,

To buy all those nice little “extras”,

And of price tags never take heed.

How nice it would be to have servants

To handle each tedious chore;

To go th the beauty shop weekly,

Have jewelry and clothes galore.

How nice it would be to buy groceries,

And never a flinch at the till;

To never again receive in the mail

Those notes titled “monthly bill”.

How nice it would be to never again

Lug clothes to the laundromat

Or debate about the cheapest way

To remodel last Easter’s hat.

Yes, oft I think how nice ‘twould be

To spend without thinking twice;

But the thought that is soon to follow is

Would it really be so nice?”

How nice would it be to have money,

When you’ve bought everything that you need,

And you’ve servants to take care of all your work,

Lots of jewelry and clothes and feed?

What is the joy in a new coiffure

When you have one every week?

And the challenge is gone with the old Easter hat,

When you’ve bought that new one so chic.

What is there left to live for,

When you’ve gained everything you can gain;

When you’ve bought everything that money can buy,

And there’s nothing left to attain?

I wonder why life’s not made easy,

And then I realize,

The answer I’ve often heard to that

Is an answer so very wise.

If we had everything that we wanted,

And got it the easy way,

It would not seem nearly so precious

As the thing that we earned day by day.

The joy in the “little extras”,

Is not in the “having”, I’ve learned,

But in the anticipation,

And the knowledge that each has been earned.

That thick, juicy steak tastes oh so good,

Not because of the meat itself,

But because it was paid for by counting

Each cent at the canned goods shelf.

That new pair of shoes looks better,

When you know the price you paid,

Was earned when that shop window outfit

Was passed up for one that you made.

So though I may ne’er have it easy,

And monthly bills keep rolling in,

I’ll be thankful for what I already have,

And keep hoping that times get less slim.


Sylvia L. Fry 1967

Memory holds me captive dear,

Of days of long ago,

When we marveled at our new found love,

As we watched the falling snow.

With Spring our love grew warmer

And blossomed in our hearts,

We shared the mating call of Spring,

And vowed ne’er more to part.

How sweet those days of courting were,

How precious were our nights,

As we watched the Summer stars shine down,

And thrilled to new delights.

In Fall we waited patiently,

For the product of our love,

Though ne’er it was to give us joy,

Ordained by God above.

Since then, we’ve watched the seasons come,

And watched the seasons go.

Six more times they’ve passed us by,

Ne’er dampening the glow.

With every changing season,

Our love but stronger grows;

And nothing daunts it – blazing sun,

Nor cold and biting snows.

For now our love is something more,

Than even in it’s youth;

Understanding, peace and joy,

Faith, forgiveness, truth.

As future seasons pass us by,

Our love will strengthen more,

Until completely it fulfills,

That promised love of yore.


Sylvia L. Fry 1968

Written for and dedicated to my inspiring sister Anna (Fry) Dashkowitz

I’ve watched the turmoil of her life,

Ne’er envying her toil and strife.

I’ve seen her take the ups and downs,

I’ve seen her smiles and seen her frowns.

I’ve wondered oft what passions made

Her face the future unafraid.

I’ve wondered at her peace of mind,

At times when Life was so unkind.

I’ve watched her grow from young to older,

With burdens great upon her shoulder;

And yet, I’ve never seen the day,

She’d turn a soul in need away.

The wisdom she has earned, she lends

To all who seek it, foes or friends.

Constant is her understanding,

She gives to all – without demanding.

The good she praises in each man,

The bad she sees, but understands.

Greatly loves she life and beauty,

Courageously she follows duty.

The secret wishes of her heart

Seldom from her lips depart,

But, thoughtfully, she does her best

To fulfill the wishes of the rest.

Humble she may seem to those

Who cannot see the wealth that grows

More impressive, day by day –

The wealth of wisdom laid away;

The wealth of kindness, peace and friends;

The wealth of love that knows no ends;

The wealth of strength; the wealth of laughter;

The wealth of faith in the Hereafter;

The wealth of understanding those

Who cannot see how her wealth grows.

Her attributes I wish were mine,

Perhaps they could be, given time.

Yes, oft I hope I someday can

Compare half-way with my sister – Ann.


Sylvia L. Fry 1968

I think of all the things I’ve missed

In life with you so far,

I think of many fancy clothes,

A big house, and a car;

I think of jewels and silver,

And voyages afar,

Of restaurants and night clubs,

Lit up like yonder star.

I think of all the things I’ve missed,

And what kind of man you are;

And I don’t miss the things I’ve missed,

For I’d miss you MORE BY FAR.


Sylvia L. Fry 1968

It’s hard to say “I have all that I want”

In today’s hectic, fast-moving life;

The treadmill we’re on keeps us gasping for breath,

And our longings increase with the strife.

There’s always one thing we’d like to obtain,

That hovers just outside our reach,

Keeping us restless, our minds running wild,

Till finally we conquer the breach.

Then we find something new we can’t live without,

Sometimes an impossible dream;

The treadmill keeps running at breakneck speed,

Till our hearts seem for mercy to scream.

It’s hard to say “I have all that I want”.

Harder yet, to believe that it’s true;

But, truly, I have everything I desire,

My darling, because I have you.


Sylvia L. Fry 1968

There are so many things we each must do,

In this busy and arduous world,

If we look at them all combined, it’s enough

To set our poor heads in a whirl;

Enough to make us believe we can’t

Get all these tremendous tasks done.

The way to do it, I’ve finally found

Is to tackle them one by one.

If we start on one, and forget the rest,

Until this first one is through,

Before we know it, we’re ready to start

To work on task number two.

Each time we complete one little task,

The next one seems easier done;

And before we know it, we’ve finished them all,

By taking them one by one.

Of course, there is always another job

To start when this one is through;

But this is what gives us the will to live,

This “one more thing” we must do.

The problems of life are many and great,

With always another in view;

But tackle these, also, one by one,

And you’ll find them solved easier too.

For this is God’s plan – live day by day,

For tomorrow may never come;

But if it does, it is easier faced,

If the tasks of today are well done.


Sylvia L. Fry 1968

A mother, so says Webster,

Is one who’s given birth;

But a SPECIAL mother is much more,

She’s love and help and mirth.

She’s guidance in decisions;

And sympathizer, too,

When all the world’s against you,

And everything looks blue.

She’s patience to the utmost,

And cheerful to the end,

Kind and understanding,

And always your best friend.

She’s always there to help you,

In every way she can;

No matter what your need may be,

She lends the helping hand.

But most of all, She’s loving,

With a love that’s so sublime;

A love that spans the universe,

Endures the test of time.

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