I’ll Carry You

When you can’t feel your hands,
when you can’t weather the storm.
I’ll Carry You,
back into familiar lands,
back into the warmth.

When your legs tremble,
when you cannot stand on your own
I’ll Carry You
until your strength assembles
and your name the world fears
and your name the world knows.

Yes, I’ll Carry You
when you’re yellow, when you’re green and when you’re blue.
When you’re healthy, when you’re sick,
when you’re ornery, when you’re ticked,
I’ll Still Carry You,
It starts with an “I Do”.

But much like my gold,
I’ll get spent, I’ll grow old.
I’ll Carry You
with a broken back, one knee
and a smiling face.
Like Depends, my bladder might be a maybe
I’ll Still Carry You

Much like this song,
soon I’ll be gone.
I’ll Still Carry You
when I’m laid to rest,
do not fear, do not fret.
I’ll Carry You
through our daughters and our sons
in my arms, in your love.

I’ll sit with St. Pete,
He’ll lean into me.
He’ll ask, “how did you get through life?”
I’ll say, “If I can bum a smoke and light,
I’ll tell you it’s alright.
You know what? It was kinda easy.
Because I had a great woman,

who carried me.

A Family of Roaches

I stroll through barren alleys and cracked cement,
unheard to me are the pleas of the roaches.

A titanic shadow approaches from above.
The end is near.
Sick in disease, they are, with a sickening disease.
They repulse mice, they repulse fleas.
The men welcome death.
The women have done their best to flee.
In inactivity, they wait to die.
In captivity, they say goodbye,
to pay the respects that they never had.

What am I to do
When I look down on my shoe?
I see a brother, a predator, a pest,
a life with no chance.
I shrug, and I stroll
for it is only a family of roaches.

The Oxen

The days pass him by with
the heat on his back.
The dirt in his face.
Sweat on his brow. 

He plows on
and on, and on.

With the sun’s faithful glow
and the rain’s nurturing gifts
The Oxen begins to watch his fields grow,
his labor yields a great bounty
as the seasons start to shift.
Much to The Oxen’s dismay,
the farmer takes him away.
To the corral, he goes,
just as he knows.
While the field is harvested and razed.

The grain is now stored in bins as tall as the sky,
The farmers are now fat and happy on bread, beer and rye.
While The Oxen shivers in his frozen stall
he begins to wonder if this is worth it at all.
The Oxen rests on his haystack prize.

The sun has returned, all is now well.
The soil and grass lift his spirit with their uplifting smell.
The Oxen prepares himself to return to work
when reality gives him a conspicuous jerk.
The farmer has sold him to dig trenches and wells.

The Oxen has given all that he can give.
Can one fear death when one hasn’t lived?
Hooven pads collapse in the mud.
Bladed whips lash into his blood.
The Oxen rises. Now a frail, crimson sieve.

The days pass him by
with the heat on his back.
The dirt in his face.
Sweat on his brow. 

He plows on
and on, and on.

Smothered

Breathless gasps
above raging waves.
Hapless grasps
slipping on the reigns.

A race that I cannot win,
A weight that I cannot lift.
Too little forgiveness of sin,
Too much space in this rift.

Pushed down,

down,

down.

Expected to rise.

I will drown
in the quicksand.
Small grains build muffled screams and burning eyes.

Throw me a rope.
Throw me a hand.

To get here you must have been a dope.
At least pretend like you understand.

Tar on my heels,
tar in my head.

I’m sorry if that’s the way you feel.
Maybe try growing up instead?

Smothered

Like a mother who won’t let go.

Undiscovered

Like under a dusty vinyl cover, the contents hidden and stowed.

Eggshells

Why must I tiptoe around dysfunction,

why not trade a lifetime bliss by raising a little Hell?

Why must I obscure my own vision,

and scuttle through the eggshells?

 

Why must I sit, when I know I should stand?

Why must I whisper, wilt and whimper?

Why be a worm, when I must be man?

I lick my wounds, guilt and bitter.

 

I cannot make waves to save Earth,

I must silence justice

and prepare her hearse.

Where is God, and his iron fist?

 

Seated, I stay.

My lips sewn shut.

The wolves lie in wait

Will no one stop their strut?

 

Time To Write

Time to write,
after a shower and a bite.

But then again,
I should first clean my den.

Ok, that’s done.
I have to sit down, write a ton.

But wait,
I got time to masturbate.

Sorry for the TMI,
I really shouldn’t – I gotta write my “Life of Pi”.

Is that movie on Youtube?
I better be sure, I best not assume.

Enough dicking around.
Time to sit down.

I have my tea, I have the motivation.
I have to check my 6 New Notifications.

Is there no one who can see my plight?
When will I ever find time to write?

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