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W. C. Friesen


Parksville, BC, CA

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W. C. Friesen

Filled with pain and fear
the needs to sleep to eat or starve
are hidden - hidden in words that make no sense
when you speak with the gentle folk.
Christ died for them but not for us
who search for cans - garbage and rotting orange peels.
Hands torn raw from picking tobacco for minimum wage
with soles just passing through
make him long for his Rose Marie
who was soft and gentle.
Some day he'll call her on the telephone - if she's there
he may return for he is tired
tired of this human smell, the foot steps
and the blood leaking from the cuts in his hands.

Man in a Tree


W. C. Friesen

High above the annelids and terra firma
contemplation's of the fantastical pass
seldom seen by the young
sculptured images and painted dreams
for innocent young minds
who flock to his feet, eyes raised to heaven
begging - pleading - for just one more tale
then rushing to homes - reality
young minds soon closed - erased - by elders
who, in safe boxes huddle, planning the plot
to rid the world
of the lunatic in the tree