Drifts

Whispers of winter

Drift over pearl dunes and dry cheeks.

Under sun dogs and over black bears.

 

Sleeping giants.

 

Rushing into the windows of a smoking traveler.

 

Pitch black.

 

Screams and whistles and moans.

Subzero scowls and hot coffee night owls.

 

Protest- then drift away

To the cheeks of farmers, cursing the winds of this January day.

 

 

 

The Weight of The World

When as man chooses to stop learning

Is the day that he truly dies.

 

The herd of the mundane

Ridicules the fires of passion as insane.

 

And so the man suffocates it.
The embers smolder, crackle, and hiss.
He has destroyed comfort and direction.
He is now cold and blind.

“You did the right thing.”
The herd offers its petty assurance,
“At least now you’ll have health insurance.”

But it is still so dark,
The man lays to rest
He’s toiled and troubled today
for someone who doesn’t know his name.

With eyes closed, he smiles.
He sees
That roaring flame that used to be.

King Can

Kickin’ back with a King Can

of Black Ice.

Everything’s gon’ be alright.

Half a pack of Player’s Red
and the liquor store is open ’til ten.

You call me a feral man,
a leech to society.
But you don’t gotta put nothin’ in my outstretched hand,
so I prefer the word, “free”.

Who the Hell is “Daryl Lect”?
Who the Hell did we elect?
That would let us freeze without Tundra Ice?

Who the Hell asked for your advice?

“Get a job”?
Thanks. I haven’t thought of that!
I can instantly snap out of this,
all it takes to go from slob to snob,
in no time flat!

Winter Is Coming,
and I’m on the 5th season in Game of Loans.
I miss my daughter.
The girl needs her father.
But I’m just kickin’ back
with my King Can of Black
The King without a Queen or a Castle,
dying on his concrete throne.

You call me a bum,
a scourge, a disease.
You don’t put nothin’ in my outstretched hand.
You snarl, you bite, you fit me into God’s plan.

But I smile,
and say, “God Bless”.
You’ve walked an inch as I’ve walked a mile,
but you still win the race, delusional in determination, but I digress.

I may be a chaotic, wild mess.
I may not know the real me.
I still am a brother, a father- just forgotten and seen as less.
I am cold and I cry, but even eye contact is denied.
Let alone a helping hand, I close my outstretched hand.
But have not lost my way, I am not blind I still see
The turned backs of my fellow man deserve dignity.

 

Invisible Enemies

Feminists smash the patriarchy
with the tools of fascism and anarchy.
They destroy their oppressors,
with slogans and letters.
Echo chambers far to the left of sensibility
regurgitate the thoughts that they are told is right,
and what is left of critical thought, of responsibility?
We will worry about that once the patriarchy is on its knees.
Everybody has invisible enemies.

Incels cry and they wail,
that this cruel world has cursed this selection of males.
Women only want the rich, the strong, the handsome, the tall, and the Chads.
Women only want what I do not have.
Instead of spending time with the fairer sex,
they hide in putrid basements, they utter putrid heinous threats.
They sleep on stained mattresses, only to wake to wallowing in self-pity.
Echo chambers feed the entitled, lost without an identity.
Everybody has invisible enemies.

The gays are destroying our morals and families,
the church prescribes with a twisted glee.
They are pushing an agenda, they are here to convert your children
No one is safe, they will not rest until the world is a cauldron of sin.
If they must live that way, do not push it down our throats,
Do not rant and rave, do not shout or gloat.
Your children are safe with us, never-mind that we relocated your priest suddenly.
We are educated enough to know that you can make that choice in secrecy.
Everybody has invisible enemies.

The corporate investor growls and hoards his cache.
He damns the threat of his inconvenient past.
His employees are greedy,
His government is needy.
He had to work hard to get where he is,
His father spent a lot of money to persuade the Yale selection list.
Echo chambers far to the right of sensibility, bicker and tear at the seams,
you can’t deride the boy- he was a good student and a part of the football team!
So what if he made some girls do things they didn’t want to at a few parties?
This is a witch-hunt, the ramblings of a jealous mob seeking to destroy the American Dream.
Everybody has invisible enemies.

It is far easier to point a finger
than to look yourself in the eyes in the mirror.
You may have flaws, but theirs are far worse.
And they are lethal, they must be dispersed.
Onwards we fight,
to slay the creatures of the night.
We believe they are out there, lurking to destroy us.
We need to believe, or else we’d have to look inside, where they dwell and they fuss.
It is our duty to end these atrocities.
To end our invisible enemies.

The Steeps of Time: Poems & Paintings (A Book Review)

“The Steeps of Time: Poems & Paintings”
by Victor Carl Friesen
Published by Your Nickel’s Worth Publishing
Reviewed by Ben Charles
C$25.00 ISBN: 9781988783222

The Steeps of Time: Poems & Paintings is the latest publication from legendary Saskatchewan poet Victor Carl Friesen and his fourth collection of poems and accompanying paintings, both of which produce warm, nostalgic, and detailed recollections of the beautiful nature found in Saskatchewan and of life on the farm.

Printed in July of 2018 and published by Your Nickel’s Worth Publishing, this riveting collection of fifty-five poems is separated into two portions that each illustrates different themes in the author’s life. The first section, titled “A Burgeoning”, is comprised mainly of descriptive, traditional poetry that, as mentioned, describes the natural phenomenon and rural life in Saskatchewan. The latter section, titled “The World Illuminated”, is far more abstract and delves into the emotions, opinions, and outlooks on life of the author. In both segments, Friesen showcases his uncanny descriptive abilities that immediately transport the reader to the bountiful natural beauty found in Saskatchewan. While reading such poems as “A Leaf in the Wind” or “Spring’s Regalia”, I was reminded of times being out in the fields while hiking or hunting, appreciating the beauty of rural Saskatchewan, myself. Through Friesen’s words, I could clearly see the fields, the deer, and the grouse. I could feel the crunch of yellow leaves under my feet and felt the sweet scent of autumn in my nose.

On the surface, many of the settings that Friesen covers may seem mundane, but through his brilliant, quirky, insightful wordsmithing and incredibly detailed paintings to complement them he animates these times and places to life. In my opinion, this is best showcased in the poem, “A Bird of His Own Feather”, in which Friesen engages in a one-way conversation with a simple crow.  Most Saskatchewanians would view crows as a dime-a-dozen, but Friesen instead comments on their mischief and their undeniable essence to Saskatchewan winters.

To conclude, The Steeps of Time: Poems & Paintings is an extraordinary piece of literature that belongs in any poetry or art fanatic’s collection. Through both the pen and the brush Friesen has truly immortalized the beauty found in our great province. I hope that whoever reads this piece next gets even half of the enjoyment I did from it, and that it inspires them to take a moment to appreciate the beauty of our natural world that Friesen sees.

THIS BOOK IS AVAILABLE AT YOUR LOCAL BOOKSTORE OR FROM WWW.SKBOOKS.COM