pay ( working title )
the I.M.F. come lookin for their fix
they'll take it in a pound of flesh
everyone makes a dividend off the interest
But a father is put to the test
when he watches his children go off (to make laces)
and he braces himself for another day
for a dollars pay
the minimum wage in the world's work place.
Chris Janzen
Intrest (working title)
Sullen corporate beggars
cut throats
in their quest for dollars
looking for buried treasure
in the flesh of those struggling to survive
swollen fingers prodding
swollen bellies
for pennies they do not have
It's a matter of interest on investment,
"you can understand that," says the devil
to a mother who silences a screaming child
on a milkless breast
Chris Janzen
There is the scream. The scream so loud it will be the last word. The scream so loud it will render the man mute. The scream so loud the man will die. You cannot release such a cry and survive. You can only release such a cry if it is the last thing you do. You can only release such a cry if all things are done.
It is the cry of death.
It fills the whole earth. The very earth shudders. The very earth splits. The very earth might not survive. The very earth tears.
The very rocks tear.
And history tears. And all stories tear. My story tears.
Scars
1.
He shivers
when I touch his scars
and looks at me
open
like I could hurt him again
I hate that.
I linger in the doorway
reluctant to step over the threshold
He stands before me
His hand held out in invitation
‘come, Dear One, I’ll show you the way’
I take His hand and He leads me into the unknown
into the silence, into the darkness
ever deeper into the emptiness
my heart pounds
I’m afraid
can this be right?
I thought being a God-follower meant being led into light
and joy and freedom
‘trust Me’, He whispers
we stop for a moment, a pause on our descent
He takes both my hands and He looks into my face
its not necessary to speak, His eyes say it all
‘its going to be alright Fi’
He breathes, I breathe
He waits ‘til calm comes
then we walk on, hand in hand
into the sorrow, into the heartache
ever deeper into the emptiness
THREE POEMS
The life
so short
only a few buds
Spring
buds, blossoms
then summer fruit.
None came to pick from the tree.
AUTUMN
Fruit bearing season
was over, done,
finished.
There was such a
final fling of colour.
RSD
'There is a contemplative in all of us,
almost
strangled
but still alive,
who craves
quiet
enjoyment of the now,
and longs to
touch
the seamless
garment of
silence
which
makes
whole'
Alan P. Tory
Gary Bauman, Bryan Ward and I left Abbotsford at 6:00 a.m. on Sunday August 20th, and we wound our way up the Sea-to-Sky and arrived at Whistler by 8:30. The lift did not open until 9:30, so we waited, swapped tales and anticipated the hike under the blue canopy and the heat of day star. We were, by 10:30, off the peak chair and on the wide dirt roadway. We dipped down into the valley, and it took us little time to bid adieu to the heights of Whistler and be on the trail. The older path took us up and over the Musical Bumps (Piccolo, Flute & Oboe), then down into Singing Pass. Many a pleasant ski run has been down in the powder of the Flute bowl.
Continue reading "Russet Lake--Afghanistan: Aug. 20 & Sept.5 by Ron Dart" »
Recent Comments