Elisabeth Frischauf

Come the Explosion

we are the same.
Blood, gristle,

Some of us are kind
ppppppppsome of us beat our children
ppppppppppppppppsome of us prefer to tame
ppppppppppppppppppppppppwonder, Why don’t we all
pppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppdo the same?

Others turn and turn
ppppppppfind somebody to blame
ppppppppppppppquick to demean
pppppppppppppppppppppmangle the dream.

Most of us stand by
ppppppppclutch good ‘ol times, but
ppppppppppppppppdrums beat louder
pppppppppppppppppppppppdashed hopes fan flames
pppppppppppppppppppppppppppppppexplode dark pain.

God are you looking?
Are you on your cell phone? A video game?

What happens to a dream deferred?/Does it dry up/like a raisin in the sun?…Or does it explode? From “Lenox Avenue Mural Avenue” by Langston Hughes


Frischauf has been writing poetry since childhood, inspired by her great-aunt who wrote poetry from the Gurs concentration camp.  Frischauf publishes in on-line journals in both form and free verse. She lives on a small plot of land in Putnam County but commutes to New York City when possible.  Both places inspire her work.

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