Bibliopiles
by Carmon Friedrich
(Dedicated to my friend, Laura D., who knows exactly what I mean. With apologies to every published poet, both living and dead.)
Books in piles, books in stacks,
Books face down with broken backs.
("Use a bookmark!" Mother pleads—
Son grunts back while he reads.)
On the nightstand, on the floor;
Look above the bathroom door,
Where paperbacks fit just right,
Not out of mind, not out of sight.
Musty, dusty, some pristine,
Shelves are groaning, precariously lean.
(Hear that crash—what was that?
Has anybody seen the cat?)
Authors obscure, some of renown,
Some bring on smiles, others a frown.
Every genre, old and new;
Books with pictures, not a few.
"Do you have a system to read them all?
A to Z—short to tall?"
What! Start at 'A' and then go on?
Perish the thought—do books make you yawn?
(Wodehouse, Wise-Brown, Wilder I'd never see—
I'd still be stuck way back in 'B'!)
Come on kids, hop in the car!
We don't have to drive too far.
First to the library, then to the store;
We need some books, let's get some more.
The Day of Small Things
by Carmon Friedrich
(Dedicated to all the young mothers whose weariness and frustrations I understand...Zechariah 4:10)
Fretful wailing pierced the night;
I wearily switched on the light.
Calming babies, soothing fears,
Shedding bitter, angry tears.
Must my strength be all poured out?
So, discontent, I start to doubt.
Seeing others free to roam,
With pretty clothes and spotless homes,
While little ones to my legs cling.
Dirty laundry and apron strings
Seem to be my lot in life—
Grumpy mommy, weary wife.
Packed away in mothballs now,
Diplomas, ribbons, awards show how
The world once gave me accolades
As all my talents I displayed.
So many dishes now crowd the sink,
My overflowing brain can't think.
As I grumble, baby sleeps—
Quietness over my spirit creeps.
My joy comes not from flimsy stuff:
His strength in weakness is enough.
It's wrong to think I'm in a cell;
Wide's the space God gives to dwell.
How could I forget that when
I willingly submit, it's then
My joy is full, I'm made complete,
Prostrate and worshipful at God's feet?
Small things and trials I mustn't despise,
But see them, trusting, through His eyes.
The Working Man
by Carmon Friedrich
Sighing in his sleep, his dreams assail
The peace he sought when on his bed he lay—
Cares heavy on his mind amidst travail;
Dreams unpack the burdens of the day.
Oh, weary man, who lovebent leads us where
He follows Wisdom—humility fits to guide—
Though chastening duty's often hard to bear,
Forbearing love has bound him to our side.
Thus loving, he protects and provides more
Than our thankless expectation does deserve.
Losing one's life to find it, self deplore—
Joy found in patient sacrifice, life preserve.
Heartily he labors, his calling to fulfill;
Desire subsumed by God's desire, His will.
Measure of Time
by Carmon Friedrich
The buzzing, work-filled day has now gone past,
Yet my full brain continues to buzz on.
The children sweetly slumbering at last;
I pray they will remain there until dawn.
It's time to take a measure of my day
And calculate the sum of all this toil.
Have I spent my moments in a wise way—
Will the fruit of my hands flourish or spoil?
O, God, help me to make each moment count,
For what is gone cannot be gained anew.
Time speeds on, and small is its amount.
Direct my thoughts to dwell, Divine, on You.
Sleeping sweet faces focus, free, my mind,
And cause me, Lord, Thy calming will to find.
To My Son
by Carmon Friedrich
Little man-child, downy head.
Many smiles, few tears shed.
Daddy tickles, makes him scream—
Mama rocks him, dreams her dreams.
Growing boy, sturdy, strong.
Goes to church, learns right from wrong.
Independent, knows his mind—
Learning quickly his path to find.
Nearing manhood, almost grown.
Yearns to follow roads unknown.
May God protect him, help him stay
Upon the right path, the narrow way.
Still, Small Voice
by Carmon Friedrich
What? Excuse me? Can You repeat that please?
(Too much time in the world—not enough on my knees)
It's hard to concentrate with the whispering in my ear;
The tickling feels good but makes it very hard to hear.
Listen, My son, to the mighty water's roar,
Not the babbling leech that only cries out for more.
Focus your earlids on the One who can save
And snatch you before you sink under the wave.
I thought I heard something, but I drowned out the sound
With the drone of the crowd and the din all around.
The music is cranked up so I don't hear His voice;
I'll just harden my heart—but isn't that my choice?
You didn't choose Me, son, I first chose you.
Your hearing is dull though My mark's in plain view.
Heed Rachel's weeping and the wilderness cry;
Wisdom is shouting—don't turn a blind eye.
I did hear Your voice, but I hid from You, Lord.
I covered my ears, was blind to your Word.
Have mercy upon me, restore my good name:
Against You have I sinned, I take all the blame.
My sheep hear My voice, they feed on My Word,
Sweet as the grass blown by the breath of the Lord.
Come, feast with Me, son, with joy in your heart.
My robe is upon you—make a fresh start.
Smashed Pots
by Carmon Friedrich
Vermiculite winks impudently
among shards of gold-painted clay.
Though potting soil and garden loam
make an amicable alliance,
Children and wedding gifts do not mix.
No use crying over spilt dirt;
(though heirloom petals torn
deserve a modest tear).
Beauty is fleeting—
even that which is dirt-anchored.
The fragility of clay pots and flowers
would freeze my soul
If I didn't know about spring.
Sweeping up my woe, I remember,
and searching, excavate a humbler vessel
in which to entomb the naked bulb.
Moistened by that single tear and
fertilized by patient repose,
Faith says all things will be made new.
I put away broom and dust pan—
until next time.
Limerick 1
(written after a night of little sleep)
There once was a mother of ten
Who had fond memories of when
Her hair had no gray
And she had time to play,
But life was much less interesting then!
Haiku 1
Unflappable, she
Guards her nest, poised for fight with
Stern and watching wings.
Epigram 1
Looking high and looking low,
Some culture for to find—
My eye, offended by the show,
Plucked out, now I'm half blind.
Triolet 1
Poetry is hard to get
People to admire it—
I woo and prod and fuss and yet,
Poetry is hard to get.
If the perfect poem before them set,
Then would the fuse be lit?
Poetry is hard to get
People to admire it.
Statement of Faith
Italicized poem by Carmon Friedrich
I believe in God the Father, Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth:
Immensity wrapped around the universe enfolds my "Abba" cry;
And in Jesus Christ, his only begotten Son, our Lord:
Mystery incarnated terrible Love, making visible that embrace.
Who was conceived by the Holy Ghost, born of the Virgin Mary:
Three unite in holy purpose, a humble womb for the Most High.
Suffered under Pontius Pilate; was crucified, dead and buried: He descended into hell:
Undeserved and willing wretchedness, He suffered my disgrace.
The third day he rose again from the dead:
Empty tomb filled up the space in which shrouded souls reposed:
He ascended into heaven, and sits at the right hand of God the Father Almighty:
And victorious, the righteous Ruler leaped to fill His throne.
From thence he shall come to judge the quick and the dead:
He'll call His sheep through the gate, which to intruders remains closed.
I believe in the Holy Ghost:
The Comforter sanctifies our waiting, for to sin we still are prone;
I believe in the holy catholic church: the communion of saints:
His seedling army unified with the Sword that can be heard.
The forgiveness of sins:
Our filthy burden traded for attire pure, and more:
The resurrection of the body:
Better flesh made glorious will one day rise up at that Word.
And the life everlasting. Amen.
Even so, come, Lord Jesus! It's You alone that we adore.
Beauty Treatment
by Carmon Friedrich
Gazing out the window, nose against the glass,
Child watches raindrops as they trickle past.
Rivulets of water, tears streaming down her face,
Her angry eyes flashing at some infantile disgrace.
Older but not wiser, she stomps out on her own—
Willfully defiant, consequences hers alone.
Authority rejected, she's a law unto herself,
Hubris placing decency upon a dusty shelf.
As clouds collect on mountain peaks, so lines upon her brow.
They multiply and divulge her bitter spirit now.
Nurturing her selfishness, she's reaping what she sowed:
Clinging to each petty right, relationships turn cold.
When I glance into the mirror, what sort of face looks back,
Eyes gently graced by smile lines, or frown-etched tracks?
Each head turns gray and beauty fades into a memory,
But surrendered spirits bloom afresh in eternity.
Cheesy Sonnet
by Carmon Friedrich
Poets have been mysteriously quiet on the subject of cheese. ~G.K. Chesterton
The silence on this subject I must ponder—
How poets have forsaken such a food.
Triter topics garner notice, wonder;
Left mold'ring on the shelf the greater good.
What more profound and pressing than that brick—
Pungency curdled, comforting and fine.
Clabbered and transmogrified, a neat trick;
Complemented, its soul-mate from the vine.
Taste imbued with ancient connotations:
Time wheels along but staples stay the same,
Why doesn't, with all its permutations,
The unsung stuff have much greater fame?
Grated, crumbled, melted, consume some cheese,
Raising glasses to G.K., if you please.
Prairie Muffin Epitaph
by Carmon Friedrich
Here lieth a noble Prairie Muffin,
Whose appearance was humble and meek.
But she could knock out the stuffin'
Of those whose mendacious cheek
Turned her Irish in their direction—
Righteous indignation ignited—
And she formed a PM connection;
With women in aprons united.
Together their gardens they tended,
They diapered, they fed and they taught.
Now mission accomplished, she's fended
Off what she can, all she ought.
With God's help I've done my best, it's been my pleasure:
By God's grace I'm going home, buried treasure.
Let He Who Is Without Sin
by Carmon Friedrich
Boys and dirt.
They go together like shoes and socks,
But make sure to remove yours before
You step on my clean carpet.
I can't stand to have my tight ship
Rocked
(though a good keelhauling is necessary
now and then).
When picking up that shovel,
Be careful
Where you cast the first clod,
Always making sure
Which way the wind is blowing.
Some of it might come back
And hit you in the eye.
Digging out that speck is such a
Nuisance.
Oh, one more thing...
When you launder those muddy socks,
Think on this as you try to scrub out your spots:
Everyone has lost socks.
Even you.
Handle With Care
by Carmon Friedrich
Dear friends:
When to my store you come and visit,
You see a book and ask, "What is it?"
Please be gentle with that tome
Unless you mean to take it home.
If you would please be so kind
To place it back (and not behind
The other books), in its place—
Try to find the proper space—
You'd save me much consternation
And contribute to the preservation
Of these many books you see,
Some fragile: treat them tenderly.
When you're old, your pages yellowed,
Your binding cracked, temper mellow'd,
I pray others will be careful, too,
Such allowances to make for you.
My Beast Friend
by Benjamin Friedrich
Sharks are cute, sharks are cuddly,
A shark's only thought is to be my buddy.
Sharks are only nasty and mean
When they don't know that I'm a human being.
A shark's diet consists of seal,
And maybe an occasional rusty wheel.
If ever a shark should rip off my leg,
Making me walk away on a wooden peg,
All it would take is a little kiss
Right smack on the forehead of that fish,
And he would take his departure
Returning with my lately lost armature.
Bloody and swollen though it might be
I would still be quite utterly happy
Because I had fulfilled my biggest wish,
Making friends with the king of all fish!
A Sonnet to the Drudgery of Goatery
by Pieter Friedrich
(guess what job he used to have?)
Daily I go to the shag-eared goats
Always, light or night, tediously I milk.
Oh! For powers magic, to turn to stoats,
Those conniving creatures; but all is bilk!
I would load, heartlessly shoot, a big gun,
Tear through their tough hides, with a sharp bullet;
Yet no, still I must attend to their billet,
Feed them, every sour-eyed day their darn hay,
Replenishing their darn water buckets!
Can a true human ever love true goats? Nay.
For as love blossoms: "The goat barn, muck it."
So continue to trudge, to toil, I must;
Yet someday, I welcome it...I will just bust!
Poems of the Seasons: Part One
by Anna Friedrich
JANUARY
The dusty grey clouds came rolling in,
Their thunderous stature increased,
Soon little droplets began to begin,
North, South, West, East,
The rain came dashing in,
Never seeming to cease.
FEBRUARY
Long everlasting month of rain and sleet,
The dreary blackbird caws over the trees,
And the brown hills dip weary feet,
The rain tickles the clouds into a roaring sneeze.
MARCH
The wind moved with joyous conception,
Going over grass and fields,
Ruffling hair without correction,
Getting carried away with the power he wields.
APRIL
Little streams trickle,
Going past the grave,
With their gay giggle,
Growing flowers on the roads they pave.
Fall is a Season
by Sarah Friedrich
Fall is a season where it does not snow,
But rains instead and the wind does blow.
Fall is a season that children do love,
Even though it's cloudy, not sunny above.
Fall is a season, or so I'm told,
That the trees are bare and it's all very cold.
Fall is a season where we all have fun,
Even though there is sometimes no sun.
Fall is a season to be thankful of,
Because God put it there with lots of love.
dead man
by Pieter Friedrich
not a boy
just a man
strained at the slack rein
a fenced lamb
sought the mark of a slave
everything was a sham
so now he makes love to the devil
withering-spirit man shrieks "god is dead"
fool says in his heart there is no God
spins the dial
hates the rock
outstretched
a middle finger at the cornerstone
and so forsook the flock
shepherd knows His sheep
was he one of His?
one of a hundred
tore up the map
wandering in the wilderness
sat in his Father's lap
reached up
and gave him a slap
still the man on the radio
is expiring
radio man shrieks "you dreamed up a god"
the Man/God who is Truth
He is a stone of stumbling
stretched down and touched him
marked him with His mark
radio freak shrieks
"and now you're one of us"
did he know amazing grace?
"the wretched"
was he just trying to save face?
shattered myself once
I was found
now he cripples us all
by his choice
I have lost his trace
and he's chosen Sacrilege
to bear his pall
speakers groan at the voice
of a dead man
radio man shrieks
"god is dead and nobody cares"
all they that hate Him love death
dying
he kills himself
in a roundabout way
calls god dead
and so commits suicide
his spiritual self-murder
shreds you and me
shepherd find him
my desperate prayer
Maker remake him
even though
he doesn't care
©2003 by Pieter J. Friedrich
