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Warren Arends Poem
Well if you insist
I am not the color of my skin or the clothes on my back.
I am not who or what you assume me to be.
I am not a foul mouthed gun toting beer swigging cigarette smoking menace to society.
I am not a high school drop-out uneducated crime committing felon.
I am not your local hi-jacker who ties you up and tosses you in the boot, drops you off in the middle of the veld for no one to find.
I am Christian and proud of it!
I am A father A lover A brother and A proud uncle and role model to miniatures of me.
I am Leader and a thinker and a doer and speaker.
I am confident and loud.
I am a product of my father and his forefathers.
I am product of my mother’s womb and wisdom.
I am fearless I am Sound I Am a proud African Son!
And I will live my life so that long after my passing it will be remembered!
W.Arends
Copyright © Warren Arends | Year Posted 2015
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Warren Arends Poem
I will cling to hope As I clung to the picture of you approaching over the horizon
I will cling to hope As I clung to your mother’s hand with you kicking your way into life
I will cling to hope As I clung to silent sleep on wooden benches waiting in a corridor
I will cling to hope As I clung to your crib and your mothers peaceful sleep of bearing a son unto the world
I will cling to hope
I will cling to pictures of you smiling as I cling to the shade protecting you from the rays
I will cling to hope Watching another dawn for you of the Highveld sun
Watching you toss and turn as if your dreams are mine and to this hope you clinging too.
I will cling to hope as I cling to you.
W. Arends
Copyright © Warren Arends | Year Posted 2015
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Warren Arends Poem
I dreamt of a river last night.
I dreamt of a river flowing and I could not determine its direction or where it goes.
I couldn’t establish if it’s flowing north or south or up or down nor east or west.
The river flowed an endless flow.
I followed its flow running along all the way it goes.
Up and down its banks left and then right and then flat and straight for long ends.
Twisting and turning through the hinterland calm at points and violent at others.
Coursing across the plains, thrashing over falls, pushing through the woods.
It started to rain as I ran along the river as it took me along on its journey across the land.
I ran as the dark engulfed me and I struggled to keep up.
I ran as the gloom surrounded me and all I could see were the droplets dancing with the delight.
As it hit the black silken surface of the rivers skin.
The rain ended and I continued to run trying to find this rivers end.
I ran confused and dazed through the dark no end in sight.
No ocean that will signal that I have come to the end, turn around and go away.
Run, no end. No end…no end. No end to this river that I dreamt about.
W.Arends
Copyright © Warren Arends | Year Posted 2015
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Warren Arends Poem
The stillness of the silent heart.
When it doesnt beat and it doesnt speak.
Oh the stillness of the heart when its quiet.
When it doesnt move, its still.
When its grown contempt with its surroundings or come to terms with its turmoil.
The heart, when its lost its heat and its fire.
Oh the stillness of the heart when its silent.
When it doesnt make a sound.
When its grown too weak to weep.
When its grown tired of trying.
When there is nothing left to hear.
Oh the stillness of the heart when it doesnt speak.
When there is no words to form a rhythm or a beat.
When it doesnt move or quiver.
When it doesnt lash out or scream.
When it doesnt click of clammer.
Oh the stillness of the heart when its quiet.
When it doesnt mumble or moan.
When it doesnt wince or whisper.
when it doesnt murmur or mutter.
When it doenst have tenants or tones.
Oh the stillness of the heart when its still.
When its calm as night.
When its knots are un-tied.
When its movemnet has died.
When its lids are dark.
Oh the stillness of the heart when its grown contempt and come to terms.
When it doesnt complain or compare.
When it doesnt fume or fight.
When it doesnt stretch or strive.
When it doesnt define or despair.
Oh the stillness of the heart when its lost its flame and its fire.
When its grown cold.
When its hard as rock.
When its ache and hurt is gone.
When it doesnt hurt or long.
Oh its still.
Copyright © Warren Arends | Year Posted 2015
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Warren Arends Poem
They hold our names ransom
as if our fathers are kings.
Put a cloth over its face and drive
it to a destination unknown.
They hold our names ransom.
They shout their demands over a coin
operated public phone.
In the middle of a busy street,
unmarked bills in black bags, no police.
They hold our names ransom.
They demand a swap the
money for its life.
When we get to the rendezvous point
they drive off and tell us to follow.
They hold our names ransom.
They drive off to the outskirts of the city
where the police are few and thugs a plenty.
We start to panic and hope the police who told
us not to worry will come in time and save us.
They hold our names ransom.
They count the bonded bills make sure it’s all there
then they drag our names from the boot.
We run to it to embrace it and tell it that its safe
but its not because they do not yet see shiny rings.
W.Arends
Copyright © Warren Arends | Year Posted 2015
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