More Poems

Just Thinking…..

I wrote some more poems….They have not been picked up for publication yet. Probably need more work. But here they are!!!

Factory Tour

Always loved factory tours….

The gears and cogs meshing
round and round
pushing bottles of soda pop
on their stuttering journey to be capped.

Chains and pulleys
moving up and down
placing car doors exactly on the frames
with a satisfying ker-CLUNK.

And snaky conveyor belts
sliding bars of chocolate to the cutting blade
and then catching them below
to slide on to boxing.

Once I was in a pretzel factory.
We watched the dough come out the tubes
and begin to wrap around the pegs
that twisted them into little prayer arms.

The tour guide told us the story
of the monk who made these
as a reminder to pray…..
As a reminder of intertwined love.

The little twists moved on
to a boiling bath.

And as each plopped into the steamy pot,
I wrapped my arms around myself….
my little prayer wings to keep me safe
while the wheels and gears and chains  and blades
whirled round and round….
ceaseless grinding and pounding and tapping
to make this and this into that.

But I was safe behind the plexiglass
munching on little pretzels.

Diana Newquist Parson

Just A Moment (Pompeii)

“Hand me the needle.”
“Just a moment.”

“How about a kiss?”
“Just a moment”

“Come give Daddy a hug.”
“Just a moment.”

“It’s time to let the dog out.”
“Just a moment.”

“Quick! Take it out of the oven!”
“Just a moment.”

“Look at the sky!”
“Just a moment.”

And in that moment….

She began to hand over the needle
He leaned in for a kiss
Little hands reached for Daddy
The dog went to the gate
The bread burned

And the sky was black with sudden ash
In that moment.
Breathing stopped
In that moment.
Voices failed
In that moment.
Arms were frozen
In that moment.

In that moment, life ceased….

And in another moment, long after,
We discovered their lives again…..
Saw the grimaces,
The final jerking movements,
The writhe of the dog,
The clay baking pan shattered,
The needle….

Such a moment…
when time had a seizure
and stopped.

Diana Newquist Parson

Reluctant Weaver

They hum as they weave….
The old songs of women working….
Four notes…..five notes…
Over and over in a faint chant.

Threads pass between their fingers
Four strands…. Five strands…
Over and over in an unending pattern of time past.

If I dare gaze with longing beyond the mountains,
If I dare sigh,

Then the women stop

Threads drop

Humming ceases.

No word arrows pierce me,
But eye arrows go deep into my soul.

They know….. they know
My dreams
And they know….. they know
That I am here only in my body
They know….they know
That I am not woven into their fabric.

And they know….they know
That I cannot hum the old notes,
And that I sit awkwardly at the end
With different colored threads
Woven outside the lines.

Diana Newquist Parson

Father….. Thank You for poetry, for the poetry of the Bible, for the poetry that comes from the hearts of others, for the poetry that You allow me to write.

To God be the Glory….

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