Barbara Froman's Blog

I imagine my new site will undergo changes as it grows, but in the meantime, Twists and Turns is live and ready to explore.

Happy reading!

I’m not a fan of it.

But this AI photo is a frighteningly close representation of the way my website is starting to look and feel to me…and it’s making my brain hurt.

So, I’ve taken a step back to organize. Within the next few weeks, I’ll be migrating all of my poetry and short prose to a new site, twistsandturns.net, which is currently under construction. This site will then become an author’s site, with a page for past blog posts. All Music and Prose related writings will be nestled ...

Miranda didn’t trust her mirrors so she crawled out of herself for an objective look. It was a nasty trip, through a spongy maze of gray matter, past the eyes, and down the nose. If she had known the route was going to be so twisted and sticky, she would not have worn her cocktail shoes.

When she finally made it out, she slid down her upper lip to the floor and took stock of herself.

She was not impressed.

So she spun away in dismay only to trip on a sneaker and fall flat on her bac...

Once upon a time, there was Comfort, and there was Safety, and they were very close. Comfort could live without Safety, and Safety could live without Comfort; but as they realized they were better as a pair, they preferred not to be apart.

All went well for a while, until people started to mistake one for the other—saying, I want comfort, when, in fact, what they meant was, I want safety, and vice versa. At first, Comfort and Safety found the confusion amusing. But as it increased, th...

Ankle deep in winter
the heart knows only a truth
imagined about
a toadstool
the size of a throne,
near which a single crocus sprouts,
game for breaching weathered ground.

Knee deep in winter,
the fissures on each path,
hide ice the strongest sun won’t reach.
Every bulb is now as inert
as the fronds on last year’s pine,
and as prone to fall.

Waist deep in winter,
eager tendrils pry into cells,
dividing them at whim,
as skin and hair blanch,
and scars boast tales of parts replaced,
and parts removed.
Sq...

PROMISES

Before the hare, before the chase,
before the twisted dream,
there was a hole, its site disguised,
its endpoint undisclosed.

Was it pure youth
that made her trust the flask and drink,
despite the waistcoat, watch,
and steep descent?
A rabbit’s warning cry?

Too late, I see, too late.

How soon until we wake?

© 2025 All Rights Reserved

My late father-in-law built a birdhouse for our yard. It was a simple thing—a box, painted dark brown, with a peaked roof, a hole, and a peg.

My husband hung it near the garage and we kept watch. Maybe birds were put off by the smell of paint, or the location.  Who knew. Whatever the reason, it was ignored. No birds flew around it, landed on it, or looked inside.

Then, one year, during a fierce storm, it was knocked off its hook. My husband found it in pieces on the lawn—walls scat...

Knock, knock.

Who’s there?

Pineapple.

Pineapple who?

Knock, knock.

Who’s there?

Pineapple.

Pineapple who?

Knoc...

A recent viewing of the documentary, The Automat, launched me on a nostalgia tour through the New York City of my youth. I have ample memories of Horn and Hardart’s Automats in Manhattan, the excitement and pleasures of eating there, which I’ll talk about in a future post, but for now, I invite you to take a detour with me, as I can’t help dreaming of date-nut bread and cream cheese sandwiches.

My mother and I went on frequent outings when I was a child—to the theater, the ballet, opera, museum...

When I haven’t been reading or baking, I’ve been watching some of my favorite musicals. I grew up on them, on stages, and on screen. My parents were big fans, and introduced me to those that could be watched on our black and white television, and those that had just been released in theaters. I saw South Pacific, which I was too young to understand, but walked out singing, “Bali Ha’i” anyway, Carousel, which I was also too young to understand, but felt transformed by, “You’ll Never Walk Alon...