Posts Tagged ‘ poetry – mine ’

but God

but God

by Dwight Friesen

I walked
I ran
I put my headphones on
I turned up the noise
I flipped the channels
I changed lanes
I turned the page
I sampled a taste
I couldn’t sit still
I didn’t want to do anything
I can’t think straight
I shake and tremble
I regret
I fear
I worry
I cant’ sleep
I ….

But God!



poetry disclaimer

The poetry I write usually flows from journaling or from times of SoulRest. I have no grandiose illusions about the quality of my poetry, yet it is mine.  And though at times it is idiosyncratic and amateurish it gives voice the state of my heart, my longings, hurts and frustrations.  I invite you to listen to them as you would listen to the words of a friend: not to judge or rank but to hear and so to better understand the gift of “me” which I present to you.

Peace, dwight



church

church

by Dwight Friesen

Restless boy yanking at his neck tie
Flipping through hymnals, Bibles and Sunday School papers
No match for the sermon fidgets

Those warming the pews trade yawns
Waiting
For the last song and benediction

Long winded preachers
Dryer than Sahara
Compete with thoughts of roast chicken in the oven
And the football game about to kickoff

At last the final Amen is pronounced
The hope of home awakens
As the weary congregation forms a clergy receiving line
“Great Sermon”
“Thank you”
“I never thought of it like that before”

He has a way of gripping hands and looking in eyes that can melt a person

Like airplanes taxiing down a runway
Kids race the center aisle
Turning the sacred into a playground

Women reclaim their Tupperware and casserole dishes from last weeks potluck
A teenager in band hawks subscriptions
While one young couple remains seated

Her shoulders shake
He tries to comfort her
But their heads hang low

An older woman spots the couple
Slowly and with great effort makes her way to their side
Offering a tissue and a gentle hand on the knee

This is the church
And she’s beautiful.



failure

failure

by dwight friesen

  

2×4 skeleton

Only partially dressed

Weathered

Rusted nailed

Forsaken

 

Makes me wonder:

A castle never to be?

A dream awakened too soon?

 

No moving vans

No kids doing the “dance of the summer sprinkler”

No humming lawnmower

Or cookies from the new neighbors

 

Jungle grass

Crushed beer cans

Fermented piss

A worn-out mattress

And a Ford Escort put out to pasture

 

Was it poor planning?  Bad timing?

 

Regardless

 

The weathering beams stand leaning just slightly to the south like a tired runner out of breath

Birds nesting in her rafters like a like bobby pins in a mop of hair

 

She’s the neighborhood eyesore

A testimony of failure

A short exercise for a lucky bulldozer

She’s every match’s dream



comfy chair

comfy chair

by Dwight Friesen

  
Afghan wrapped and curled up in a comfy chair
She sits for hours in another world
Laughing and weeping with her fictional friends
Her heart breaks with theirs

Her tea grows cold, in her big clear mug precariously perched on a pile of emptied books

Walking into the room
Her Eyes lift from the page and a ringed hand emerges from the

blanked warmth to draw Me in
Sharing a line, a scene, and a tear
I climb on her lap, carefully avoiding her chilled Earl Grey
And I too – am swept away
Into another world where my heart breaks with hers
My hopes build on hers
And I am warmed and comforted and home



brittle branches

brittle branches

by Dwight Friesen


  

Bunches of brittle branches

Felled – by sea gale and my large toothed saw

no life

no sap

no flex

no growth

blocking sun

 

cut – pile – burn

 

it takes so little to snap a dead branch

the slightest breeze blankets my roof and fills my gutters

 

gusts of wind are nothing more than natures pruning sheers

and I am left with the cleanup

 

dead branches have a way of cluttering up life

making a mess of what was neat and tidy

 

Got to keep growing

sap flowing

 

purposeful pruning

an ounce of prevention

a pound of cure

 

I will submit my branches

to the gardener’s sheers

 

better now then when the storm kicks up

better at the hand of the gardener

then the thoughtless northern winds

 

cut away o gracious gardener

make me spinally and distorted

but make me strong

Then send the wind

I will stand

bend but not  break

sway but not snap