Friday, December 28, 2012

Stuttering Mumbleing Fool

I stutter and mumble, I cannot think.
You wonder and fumble, but then you wink;
Between your ranks, you social friends,
My heart has sank, my life ends.
Inside this circle of trust I sink,
I cannot fulfill what is on the brink
Of my tongue to fulfill, what is on my mind;
My true hearts calling I cannot find.
Within this mire of scalawags
I am tired, my eyes are dark bags.
I stutter and mumble, I understand not.
My heart be made humble, lest I be caught
In the proud man's net, a fool's residence!
The world loudly is set upon my fence,
To jeer and caterwaul, a dirge of rain.
By this my call is submerged in pain.
You who do wonder at what I say,
True friends do not rue this dark sad day;
Since amends may be made without a thought
To one's feelings, at bay is what pride has wrought.
You that consider what a shamble I am,
Do not confuse me with my state, dame
Not my soul with my sorry confusion;
Ought we, whole souls, not in delusion
Pamper not our state of mind with comforting ideals
By ill thoughts? Golden orr we did find in our minds? Zeal's
Web suggests that we be sure of ourselves,
Yet forgets that certainty never dwells
Without faith and believe; that is certitude.
And so I beg of you, I presume to be rude,
And ask each peg leg, be not a broom
That throws dust in the air; a musty room
Is the result of throwing blame and shame around...
Confuse not my state with what's inside to be found.
I stutter and mumble, I rub at my eyes.
I consider this shamble, is my house made of lies?
Is all that I knew but a mumble, a stuttering word?
Was it that I merely drew what I though to have heard?
For such is the state of a man or a woman
That cannot of late discern God's good omen.
I look to the left, and I look to the right,
Out of dark corners, of shadows, comes light...
That is what I hope for, that is where my mind lies...
Waiting for some future decision, my mind denies
The present need for decisive action;
And thus I am denied of my present satisfaction.
I stutter and mumble, do you wink your eye?
Or are you a humble, true friend? Speak or deny!
Let your heart be open to me;
Lest between us be a wide open sea
Of bitter distrust and malicious deceit,
Let each of us to each other our hearts treat
Of honesty and valor, of courage and love;
Of this alone I am certain, love comes from above
While hatred, and anger, and maleficent deeds
Are empty and hallow, from them evil breeds.

My tongue is numb from uncertainty...
Be for me a light, a friend, set me free;

Stuttering, Mumbling Fool (c) Luke Bennette, December 2012

Thursday, December 27, 2012

Bare Bones

To speak in silence is of the mind,
A tale untold, we all do find.
A word that's spoken is but thin air,
It's potency naught but bare.
The truth may be, it may be naught,
For all things within the net of truth are caught.
Though truth untold by man is not a myth,
Wisdom lies within it's girth.
Although festering lies do our hearts wreathe,
A willing heart is not buried beneath
The rocky fastness of the mountain;
Is sustained by an underground fountain.
The silver lining hides away
Behind the clouds, the banished day.
Yet it sustains we here bellow,
And when words do themselves show
A barren empty mind and heart
The truth is where I'll turn instead,
Lest I should in mistrust make dread
The king of kings, the greatest art.
So speak not out loud lest first inside
You cast out arrogance and foolish pride,
Give heed of what your thoughts are made,
To what cause such thoughts give aid.
Listen to my silent words,
My eyes that speak as heralds
On a cold clear night of frost;
Such may be the speakers cost
If he expects his words be heeded,
And if he wishes his ideas to be not lost,
He will his thoughts, ideas, have kneaded
With the roller of wisdom and truth.
No other way shall silence, in sooth,
Become any meaningful thing at all;
But it shall remain a silent thing,
A word that's bare, a mere load man must haul
That lends only misery and hate
As man's companion, his mate,
Ill fortune shall such a friend bring
Though at first it appears as glamorous luck,
Soon he shall find himself a sitting duck.
A word that's spoken is but thin air,
If it doth not withstand truths piercing stare.

Bare Bones (c) Luke Bennette, December 2012

Monday, December 10, 2012

Gale and Lark

Betwixt the snow and rain that falls upon
The head of snowy white, a once raven
Dyed twine that glistened in the darkness,
Is nothing but a glistening ocean
Of nothingness; so that out of this void
Is said to come something. And looking up
You smile, your lips part in a childlike grin
As you spin around, and around again!
And your head shines in the dark like the sun
Since underneath the lamppost you have fun.
And I do merely look upon your joy;
Here in the dark. I remember the boy
That once saw a girl and called out to her
With a timid squeak; an embarrassed peak
That almost was the end of me! I'd have
Run faster than a kite in hurricane 
Season had you not been listening for
My call; you were waiting like a morn lark
Waits for the dawn; you sang, and turned my tracks
By singing out your heart from behind locks
Of blackened sheen. My task was lightened by
A single blessing I had never thought
Could ever be, that you had longed, as I
For you, for me. Now I call out to you,
And you stumble back, surprised. In the snow
Your grin takes on character, a grimace;
For any woman knows the sound her beau
Makes. And this grimace hides underneath it
A daring plan, a joke. From beneath that
Lamppost you call me to join your revels,
That together we might throw out devils
That do muster beyond the lamp lit fray,
And remain locked in arms until the day
Do take us to heaven; if it may.
Smiles do take us by surprise, and so was
I taken by her smile beneath the lamp
Light. With heavy steps that spoke of my age
I lumbered forward. No longer a page
As in my youth was I, no handsome knight
In shinning armor that could make you sigh,
No clever gentleman of humerus
Gab, I have no intellect! I must stab
Out and take a risk in walking to you;
But risk it I will, for I love you. True
Heart that beckons to mine own I will walk,
Voice that beckons me speak I will talk! Face
That bespeaks of beauty I will gaze on!
And though I am but an old man that's gone
From youthful fancies, whose lost fancies breed,
Still I'll love you more than any young seed.
Now five paces away I stop to look,
I see in you a story, such an open book!
From the tip of your toes beneath brown shoes
To the tip of your hair made white from age,
I see in you a woman fair, and choose
To saunter on,  am forever your page.
You regain your feet, and your smile becomes
Lost in those telling blue eyes of cold steel
Made bitter sweet by wounds that did heal. Did
You step nearer to me? I could not tell!
For I am lost forever, your eyes fell
Me like a tree and I would topple were
It not for your hands around my waistline.
Here we are, wrapped together, lost in time.
And from my mouth comes the nightingales part,
For I must sing my piece, my heart must start.
I never look away as I sing. Your
Eyes brim with tears, I feel your golden ring
Upon your aged hand dig into mine,
Your head collapses on my chest, you pine
With joyful memories of love and life...
Now my song is done, but not yet is strife.
You take up the song from where you are still,
The dawn begins to shine, your song doth fill
The open air with peals of a woman's
Glee, you proclaim from your heart our story.
Betwixt the light of the sun and the dark
We stand and we sing, the gale and the lark.
Underneath the light of a old lamppost
Two are one; two of the least become most.

                Gale and Lark, (c) Luke Bennette, December 2012

Wednesday, December 5, 2012

Missing You

Because a world of memories is clear
To the one who holds them close, as a dear
Heart holds close the memory of of a soul
That helped you to surrender all control
In the moment; and what better moment
Than that inexplicable time present
To us in this waking state of being
To open up anew our hearts and sing?
But memories once shared loose their luster,
And loose all their power; I did muster
So many a time at the thought of you
The needed energy to make it through
A blistering day of dreariness, a
Frigid day of hopelessness. Does a May
Lie waiting around the corner if I
Should expose these thoughts? Shall memory die
If I share with another the this old bliss?
Or shall I forever loose you and miss
You; even as shadows miss stormy clouds?

Missing You, (c) Luke Bennette, December 2012

To the Heart

A man whose formed by many pairs of hands
Never knows whose hands to slake, whose demands
To surrender to with abandonment
Of heart and soul; he withdraws to the tent
Of his mind and contemplates affections
That affected him so strongly outside
The tent of his soul that they were likened
To a hurricane, bent on destroying
His mortal frame with many bending winds
Of pointless direction. The surging tides
Of a man's heart may be fickle that
He becomes enamored of the whole world,
And as easily becomes indifferent;
Even so, a man who sows so as to
Win for himself the whole wide world of men
Woes the day that he accomplishes his
Feat of feats, since at it's end he has not
A single formed conviction but a mass
Of melted butter that is his heart. All
His principles have gone by the way
Of siding with a side rather than a
Form that forms a side; like a man who picks
From his meal only the side and leaves the
Main course that was his own to be looted
By so many pairs of hands. Thus is man
Perplexed and confused in his discernment
Of the heart and soul, the mind is a tent
That is ripped asunder from within, and
Many woes that could have been avoided
Become a reality that woes man's heart.

To the Heart, (c) Luke Bennette, December 2012

Monday, December 3, 2012

Stranded out at Sea

Door of oak, solid and fast.
Ceiling of paper, a paper mast
That holds the fan;
A flimsy plan.
Two candles burn,
Their flames in turn
Dance about and dart
Through an empty heart.
Echos smart my ears
Even as my peers
Evaporate from sight;
Such is my plight.
Pictures everywhere,
Silent converse their fare.
Books beside me, three shelves up...
A full stomach from sup.
Yet the mind goes zooming round.
Nowhere to be found
Am I to be, nowhere at all.
I listen everywhere for a call,
A simple sound, a voice...
One upon which to cast my choice.
A desk before me sits,
A computer holds my wits,
A phone counts down the time
Until the end of this morning rhyme...
Then music will cease,
Prayers begin.
My brow will then crease,
My soul within
Will sicken like a tree in autumn's wind,
Like an inn that's put out to much ale;
And having taken to much I'll end
With a sad sops mopping tale.
Dark surrounds me,
Dark within me,
Dark behind me,
Dark above me,
Dark to my left
Dark to my right,
Dark in the cleft,
Dark is my sight!
Where has my light gone?
Where am I, this pawn
Of one so great,
Where is the dawn?
Why doth my heart hate
The very waked sleep
That doth my eyes keep
From a softer bed?
What is in my head
That I should lay
Upon a floor of hay
That's grown sour after
So long in the rafter?
Or upon a marble floor
In front of an oaken door?
Curling lips do tell
That my mind is hell
To walk through tonight...
Like a frost or blight
To the greenery is I
Who do groan and sigh
With confused pain
Like down pouring rain!
And shall the door open?
Shall He return to me?
For right now I'm coping,
I'm stranded out at sea.

                Stranded out at Sea, (c) Luke Bennette

Thursday, November 29, 2012

Seeing Music

Music to mine ears...
Keeps away my fears.
Dancing too and fro
Makes me want to know
Why it is that angels sing?
Why in them doth ring
The eternal song of God
Which they hear and laud?
For in hearing they speak
They comfort the weak,
And are turned back again
To the creator when
Having spoken their song
Comes a ringing gong
That signals the King
Is here in the Spring.
And so music doth ring
To me like a spring
Of water in the desert
When tempted to desert.
It doth shelter the soul
When the body seeks control.
It makes glad the heart
When struck by the dart,
The chalice and cup
The sufferance sup
In which we partake
When with hands we do make
The sign of the cross.
Our souls do cross
The chasm of pain,
When we utter his name.
So is music the sting
Of medicine to my flesh
That will my soul bring
My body to confess
How much I long for him
Who doth remove my sin
With a single glance
Even as I sing and dance.
Music be my remedy
When all else that I see
Has lost it's mystery.
Eyes look to the sea
That music can be,
Lest you dwindle away
At the passing of day.
Listen my heart
To music, the art
That is seen by the ear
That takes away my fear.

Seeing Music, (c) Luke Bennette, November 2012

Saturday, November 24, 2012

The Mind Engirthed

Lithe be the scythe on a Monday morning,
A Trifle tad slow to Neanderthals.
I girth myself with a belt of leather,
When in circles I listen to the calls;
Dizzied their putrid effect on my
Mind's memory, stifled by this affect
Of monstrosity known as lady sigh.
By what means does a mean slow man protect
Himself from the stare of a pincing girl,
Set upon him in the gripping snow? How
Shall he deflect her piercing gaze? O Earl,
You have nowhere to hide! You are a sow,
Backed into a corner, the knife is raised
Above the sun's blinding ray's and it falls
Swiftly like the dart of nightfall; unfased
Is she who hunts you, as you in your thralls
Of pain and agony call out to wind,
Wind that is unsympathetic to your
Dire need, that struck you down. For you have sinned,
And though no man advise lady sigh gore
You in the side with cruel hate, no man
Will disuade her from her spate. The small girth
Of her arm heaves behind her a great fan
Of hatred and spite that brings a furies
Delight, the anticipation of mirth,
The flurry of a snow storm as flurries
Begin to accumulate on one's brow.
So has she lifted up her bow to smite
Your ear with memories distaste, a frow
Upon her eyes of bitter spring that light
Up as she contemplates your inmost being
As snuffed out from the universe she walks.
So shall any man who seeks her, or talks
Of seeking her be put down by his sin...
If in seeking her he does not seek to win
Her heart along with her beauteous
Form of pearl and golden sheen.

           The Mind Engirthed (c) Luke Bennette, November 2012

Wednesday, November 14, 2012

To A Friend

Cool and slick, all ease is his gait. Hard
For men and women to appreciate
A man when he fails, but the cool hand bard
Is able to hide his ails and put fate
Behind his back. Strange tales he tells, while lard
Slips down the gullets that do contemplate
His quips concerning drunken sailors. Ward,
That be his name, yes that be he; first mate
Of the Capitol Danny Fee that's shored
Up in the Aegean Sea! Some do hate
To see a man so liked at table, board
Up their hearts to decency; second rate
Is their smile, their grin is grim as a sword
That's been unsheathed before a fight. A spate
Be sure to ensue since the door is ate
Up by their presence, their girth. Yet a ford
Is easily waded by those that slate
For themselves provision; and such a guard
Does mister Ward always have on hand, bait
By which he may turn his foes. He, unmarred,
Exits the building as water a grate,
His enemies none the wiser. A card
Up his sleeve he always has. But the yard
Is cold now, the silvery moon is late
To rise, and the sun is long gone. A chord
Of music is heard from the throng. Such bait
Can hardly be ignored by one who’s gored
By interior sorrows that are stored
Away, untended in the light of day.
There in the freedom of man’s company
Is another man capable to see
That he’s not lonely when he has his friends.
In such company all sorrow, pain, mends.

And so I wish you a happy day,
Wherever you are, on whatever way.
I hope you enjoyed this poem of mine;
But if you didn’t, well, that’s all fine!
May your style never grow slack with dis-ease,
May you always know just how to please
The heart of your audience with a treat;
Of healing laughter, now that were a feat
Only a few have managed in this world!
May you be then, laughter’s Herald.
And when in need of laughter yourself,
Don’t forget that an actors wealth
Is found in the friendships that he makes
Within the world he lives in. He so takes
To both make believe and reality
That he is truly happy, and truly free.
That is my prayer for you good friend.
Good day to you, good night. The end.

                   To A Friend, (c) Luke Bennette, November 2012

Monday, November 12, 2012

The Current Current

When asked what life I am leading today
I responded in quite a refraining
Tone. Because I cannot escape the fray
That is present in me. A refraining
Groan escapes my lips from time to time, sighs
Of frustration do become my heart strings
As I harp on my failings. A mile high
Wall as sharp as broken glass and knives sings
Merrily as it advances towards me;
Like a hare caught in the chase do I feel,
Already caught between the forest sea
And the weight of my fear's and of my zeal.

Yet when I stop to look around me I
Cannot help but laugh! For I found once in
This way that the hounds of hell in fact die
When I do not fight back against them. Sin
Is but an escape from God when a great fire
Is raging up within the soul. I wink
At those around me when I do aspire
To take that exit before I do sink
Into the abyss created by flames...
But having realized that my God names
Men and calls them to be,I realize
That ignoring my fears will set me free.
There is one fear that I must keep near me.
One light by which I will fight the great sea.
That is a fear of loosing my God, that
Fear that I should fail to laud out to him
Who has created me, has freed from that
Chain; a chain over a chasm, a brim
That seemed to close for my comfort. Thus
Now do I realize how foolish I
Do behave at times when I do espy
A fear from afar! When closing in on
It I do say "how bizarre" that I should
Think so much of this thing, to think upon
What is merely a ring of false beliefs,
Such recognition allows sweet reliefs!

I walk the flat of a narrow blade,
Between God and nothingness, am staid
By false fears and expectations from
What I seek, which is God. Conundrum
Two is that I do at times clamp down
Upon myself with a heavy frown,
And such behavior is not comely;
Tis a chain as much as fear. I see
Now that between the lines lies laughter,
At myself for being so serious.
I see outside there is a gaffer,
That tends to my lawn and yard; which prompts
Such tender emotions, thankfulness.
I see in the poor a heart of pain,
Which draws mine own into the refrain
Of compassion and mercy for them,
Of whom society speaks to condemn.
And in the end I smile with ease, as
She who did receive forgiveness from
The great and mighty I am, Jesus.
I hear the words, Go and sin no more,
And contemplate once more on the thrum
Of my heart beating with life giving breath...
I live my life for Christ until death.

Betwixt laughter and seriousness
Is the love of God which doth bless
The heart with happiness and mirth...
Which doth give to man new life, new birth.

Betwixt the stride of man's intent,
And the wavering will of his consent
Lies God in the mix, guiding both;
Who ever guides the tiller north.

Betwixt the Navy and Army
Lies the Marine all in green.
He does both for love of country,
Is willing to give from the spleen
His emotions made of glass,
And of his head the will to pass
Through fire and dungeon,
Through sword and gun,
Through every declension
By which victory is won.

So betwixt these fears and these sighs,
Betwixt these strides and many prides
You'll find me walking with God, my teacher;
Who finds a way to make me sure
That even in my mistakes I will find
That God still loves, still pays me mind.
And by such a teacher do I learn the task
Given in the previous lines.
No drama, no pretend or make believe,
Do I undertake in all of this, no mask
Do I put upon my brow filled with lines.
Rather I do relieve my inner self
With the greater portion of wealth
That comes from illuminating rays
Of God's purging mercy found in day's
Long enduring strike, it's piercing eye!
At the end of it all I will so sigh
With relief that I did cling to God, my belief,
And so be joined to him whom I do love,
Who is in heaven, my sweet God above.

What more can I say to assure you my friend
That I am as I am? Am on the mend?
I cannot, because we both still live.
And thank God for it! Since we may both still give.
So I'll keep on talking, and hopefully you
Will be there to hear me when I am blue.
And likewise I'll listen with a trumpet in ear;
Lest I should not what you have to say hear.

Then let all things be done, let it be!
Strive forward with a shrug and see
That there is no such thing as enemy
Unless it deprives you of God's mercy.

No more will I say.
Silence must bay
Out what is within;
Lest in speech I do sin
To speak forever,
Thinking myself clever.

Listen with me
To the sound of God
Within the sea
Of the world we trod...
Listen with me
That you may see...
The ray's of eternity.

                 The Current Current, (c) Luke Bennette, November 2012

Thursday, November 8, 2012

Words Must Do

In truth? I am unable to speak.
Why? For fear that words may appear weak.
My words? Well they are only a streak!
Within the past now gone is their peak.
It is the present now which I seek
With all it's rose pedals intact.
Yet the winter to come makes the pact
Of words wither in truth; tis a fact!
I, no matter the frost that will come,
am by future mystery outdone!
Whatever words I use to descry
The soul's beauty will go so awry
In the end that I should rather coat
My answer with the naked silence.
For in the quiet man may gaze so
Piercingly and yet not pierce the frame
Of woman. By such a silent show
Is the man by woman conquered. Name
One man who ever did enter in,
To the eyes of woman, who has made
His way back again to what he had been?
                                           For before...
Man saw woman he sought out the door
That would lead him to his salvation;
Yet wherever he went was he staid,
By drunks, gamblers, with debt was he paid
As he gave of himself to find God...
Then he saw her, he pushed past the bawd;
For her he forsook men, was outlawed
From the old way's of restlessness. Won
In woman's eyes the piercing delight
That slew his malicious heart; such bite
Was a gift, in order to heal his sight...

Such contradiction is what I face,
When with words a woman's form I do trace.
Then do not be angry with my lines
If they speak more of man. For he pines
For completion, having been alone;
In you your man will find, he is shown,
A source of love and a reason to serve,
That he may no treason commit. No swerve
May be found in the steps of a man
Who found true love of God through woman.

Then keep close to God O woman so fair.
Remain in him, and so by him prepare
To lead your man in God's loving ways,
Since you know so well of all his plays
You are well suited, apt, for all days
To direct the soul of one who loves you.
And are challenged by love to be true.

May he for his part give you his heart
As a ransom for your love; in part
Because such surrender's necessary.
Else a woman is chained, she is not free
To love her man however he may be.
Then keep no secrets when you have wed,
And keep each other's until you are dead.
Together wend the path to God,
Place upon his alter your human laud.
Ask often for each other's sake
That God give you courage for the stake
Of fire that will burn in your souls;
What is instilled within, embers, hot coals
Of his burning love that sustains you both.
This is my prayer for you, my word, my troth.

                                         Words Must Do... (c) Luke Bennette, November 2012

Wednesday, November 7, 2012

Beyond the Sign

Wherefore art thou O Liberty?
Where among the shining sea
Of coast-lands and mountainous range,
Of Prairies and of plains? What change
Has occurred to make thee invert?
Or has illusion merely hurt
The name of reality
By changing what we now do see
As that which constitutes our liberty?
Wherefore art thou O land of the free?

Free you may be to vote your side,
With anger, and hatred, and foolish pride.
Liberation you will proclaim!
Then sides collide in a most profane
War of pestilence and plague,
A great smattering, like some rotten egg.
All in the name of love you will act,
For brother and sister, your pact
Will help every man! O foolish pride...
Why do you seek to take me for a ride?

Where were you when I was in prayer?
A smile on my face was there then...
Do you proclaim yourself a hate slayer?
O Liberty of men and women?
Do you understand yourself at all?
You who are proclaimed by many?
Or do you rise and fall
As the desire's of men for honey?
When honey is all gone then bitterness come...
My liberty will be nothing but conundrum.

Do I protest a particular sight
Among the sea of people that I see?
Not at all, though I fall from this height
In order that I may allow them to be.
Yet if they should come to me bearing gifts,
I'll deny them, for an angel sifts
For wheat like a miner sifts for gold;
I do not want their gifts, I will make bold
With what I have remaining at my side...
My faith is my liberty, my pride.

Wherefore art thou O fair Liberty?
You are no more as you once were.
For even from sea to shining sea
Displaces the water's that were once sure.
So I'll not fuss at the sight of change,
Even if change isn't change at all.
I'll still walk the heights and the range
Of American soil in the fall.
And if you should see me, I'll wish thee well...
My friend, and twice my friend is my foe!
I'll invite thee to speak to me, to tell
What sort of Liberty is in line with your toe.
And if you should strike me, well, very well!
I'm nothing you see, I did everything sell
When I went into service for my Lord and King...
Withholding nothing, not even my ring.

O Liberty, I thank you.
For you are what makes me true.
I see your beauty and I align
As best I can to your sign.
I do not cling to thee though,
Since you are not the end.
But rather I brace my bow...
To go around you my friend.
I end my journey at God's side,
That is my hope, my foolish pride?
But whether foolish or not one must admit...
Everyone follows the name of Liberty
They do not allow themselves to sit.
And whatever Liberty guides this sea
Is one that will eventually be
Gone, gone, no more, we'll be free...
Since change is the sign of eternity.

                 Beyond the Sign, (c) Luke Bennette, November 2012

Tuesday, November 6, 2012

Play, Play, Play...

Play on I say! That whatever play may
Serve your purpose or your fancy today
Will at least give you joy; which is to say
That it should and it must if it is true
To it's origin within me and you!
You see friend, play in it's seriousness slew
Those skeptics, doubters, and all nay sawyers!
Put to work men of action. Now lawyers
Do seek to define with exact censures
The meaning of the word play in our lives;
Yet they, by their words and in their fair jibes
About how play is nothing but bee hives
While the true value is hidden within
Fail to realize their folly, their sin.
That in their statements they do seek to win,
And so are at play with words and phrases,
Just as a child who walks through hedge mazes,
As a teenager who goes through phases.
So play on they say! It's of no concern
To we who act in reality! Burn
Your lives away with meaning drift! Turn
From what's good and worth living in this world.
Yet they by their actions are the herald
Of what it means to play on. For their sword
Is their tongue, just as a boy's is plastic,
Their comb is law, which is so elastic
That it is part of the game to make stick
The most unreasonable judgement's. So
I ask you now, don't play with me! Show
Me what you mean, guarantee me to know
What it is that is play? Reality?
Illusion? Or some high born fantasy?
Never mind! Play on! Sail the rolling sea
Of confusion well ordered by man's play,
The many forms, or the norms, of the day.
I will discover my answer in May...
When I've unraveled the mysterious play.

                     Play, Play, Play, (c) Luke Bennette

Sunday, November 4, 2012

Answers Without Questions

I cannot be true to the person, I
Cannot be. In essence your frame cannot
Be understood by rhymes, words alone. Be
You some sort of vegetable? Are you
A strange Bunny? or a Bonny lass? A
Man cannot understand! what is woman?
True to my wit I have written this, true
To my promise to write out poems to
Those whose age goes up a year; and to those
Who are to celebrate with such friends who
Are dear to their hearts I will write bizarre
Poetry, or songs. What is poetry
That it should make such an impression, that
It should be so profound to the soul? It
Has but a rhythm and a jingle, has
No more meaning than is given it, no
Purpose other than to be read, to pose
In the place of the real deal, essence in
False advertising for that of which false
Speech is made for the sake of comfort! Speech,
All speeches, makes for a dull time, and all
Our hearts do long to escape from the hour
Spent in the company of one who spent
Entire years trying to speak true. I tire
Of speaking about a thing. For what of
Such a fine person that I address, such
A picture of love in a fair dress, a
Light in her eyes as she see's with the light
From God and of God that illumines from
The Depths of time itself all we see, the
Ever present mysterious shiver
Made so clear in the meeting of eyes, made
Apparent to me in this person sent
With the purpose of simply being with
What we know is our own being from God, what
Can be said by us? What said by us can
Fully articulate this fair beauty?

For though a standard may be said to be
What allows us to judge what we see,
This much I know to be very true;
That God is present in me, and in you.
Then happy heart, know of my prayers
When in time you hear the taunts of nay sayer's.
And offer a prayer for me as well...
Lest I should forgo heaven, and end in hell.
I bid you farewell now my old friend...
Until we meet, at some, at the end.
Or is it the beginning?

Answers Without Questions, (c) Luke Bennette, November 2012

Thursday, November 1, 2012

One Man to Another

Where will the worker of steady hand
Find work enough to fill his mind?
Where shall the husband find bread to stand,
If not from his wife in love's kind
Embrace...made bitter sweet by slow times
Melodious roll, by this endless rhyme?

So should the worker steady himself
If he has no one steady to love him?
Shall a husband employ all his wealth
Upon others if full to the brim
Is his barn with the spoils of his crop?
He should, lest his heart should die, and he drop.

I don't know how to say it, or why it
Should matter at all that I say at all
How very happy I am for you. Wit
Has no rhyme worthy of a union
Between the working man and his woman.
On such a day as this season of Fall
I wish you well; today, and the long haul
That you have ahead of you in marriage.
And latter, when pushing baby carriage
Perhaps you'll look into the eyes of she
Who stole not your heart but countered its pull
With a mutual giving, one soul to soul...

Whatever the times bring to you, do know
That the body pines for a true show
Of what truth makes known in the bitterness
Of life's military march. Distress
Will be a pillar of life upheld by
The steady heart of the one who works long
Hours, in days when he'd rather not.
And the lovely song, or beauteous sigh
Made by lovers becomes a stronger song
When they work together rather than rot.

So if you wish for the glue that's needed,
The cohesive that bonds two together,
Go to Christ in prayer, not conceited
But with contrite heart, a love that is sure.
Know that the love you bear him will cement
The steady heart into a steadfast trust,
And as surely as the floor will not dent,
Nor the bar betwixt your love will not rust,
So too may you count upon the work of
Your hand, and hers that stands beside you,
To draw you closer together in love
To God; you both, to each other, will be true.

              One Man to Another, (c) Luke Bennette, November 2012

Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Early Morning Fishing

Curiously the light dims in the shade,
Then picks up again when in the sunlight.
Perhaps this curiosity is made
Foolish in light of the dim witted sight
That seems to obscure my heart and my soul...
This vulnerability. Great shoals
Have been caught by a fisherman's proud net,
Or is it the fishermen? Taken in
By the ease with which he has won his bet
With men on the shore? Do these sad fish win
Him anything, or do they merely add
To his detriment, to his folly? Had
He made his prayer to God on high, he
Might have earned more than fish that day he caught
So many shoals by the net he wove. See
The fisherman is a man that has bought
Into his own power and might, when light
Is pouring down upon the waters. Sight
Is hardly a problem by the day when
You fish in a crowded sea. Devotion
To the task is easy, and hardly won
Is the shoal when another comes by. Shun
The light of day though by the proud heart born
And you will see that light obscured by the torn
Ligaments of the heart shall lead to pain,
Suffering, uncertainty, and a rain
Shall cover the waters with many waves;
Preventing the fisherman from catching
What he thought was so easy to catch. But
I do not see that in you, no proud fish
Do I discover in your countenance.
Rather, by what you do I see that what
Is lacking in other men is knowledge. Wish
Upon a star is the common phrase; dance
With the stars another! They all seek to
Escape their shoals of community. Step
Out of the shade and into the light, see
That you are a fish in the fisherman's
Net of trials and tribulation. The sea
Is the darkness, yet the air fish do shun...
To think that all men shun the fisherman!
Called out of darkness, and into the light,
You become one of his helpers, a sight
That draws others up in the net of God...
Never forget though, to God be the laud!

What does all this mean? I can hardly say.
Tis what I've observed in you, and I pray
That I've observed rightly, not wrongly. May
I be so bold as to write these words? Yea,
And many more besides these have I wrote.
I mean you no offense; I am no goat.
Or at least I hope that this is the case...
And that in heaven God has for me a place...
But that all aside, will you pray for me?
You in whom God's holiness I do see?
In early hours of the morn before
The Blessed Sacrament, where you adorned
The Lord with your gaze and your prayer, made
Good of your love to him, in these hours I
Did see the fish enter the net; all free
From earthly anxieties. Such repose
Has me wondering whether heaven knows
Of your sacrifice, your courageous heart!
If not, then soon; steadfastness is a start.

Then pray for me, and I'll pray for you.
To one another, let us be true.
Then together we may rise in the net,
That struggle be naught, that our minds be set
To taste and receive the chalice of air;
For fish out of water don't often fair
Well without the supernatural love
From God in heaven, from God who's above.
This is my prayer for you in the morn,
As we gaze in wonderment at the host
Of all things; his body we do adorn
When we tell him that we love him the most.

              Early Morning Fishing, (c) Luke Bennette, October 2012

This Ill Begotten Prayer

I wake each morning with a weight on my
Chest, a feeling of confusion--for which I'm
Blest. I give a heave and a ho; I sigh
While stretching hands over arms. I am fine
Says the head to the heart as I swing both
Legs from the bed down onto the floor. Growth
From yesterday; for my body did pine
And groan in endless grief for being made
To change my life for others, and unstaid
In it's ways by my zeal and great fervor
It now plods along with a great shiver
After my feelings and emotions. High
In the sky do I feel in this moment,
I smile as I pray devotions. Yet dry
Will the heart become in time; when men vent
Their pains and sorrows, they beg to God
To take away their misery. Poor sod
Am I, I am like them; I cannot walk
Upon the seine. Yet walk I will along,
Pulling my affections to an old song.
In conversation, this dialogue, talk
With God and neighbor, trying not to balk
At the pains and the suffering I feel...
Hoping for time alone, that prayer and zeal
May heal me in the presence of my King...
To kneel before him, to kiss His hand, wring
Out my heart before him, in order to
Please him! My savior, my Lord, is a true
Healer that unites my body, my soul;
He consoles, helps me relinquish control
Of all my senses, thoughts, my faculties,
He calms the raging wind and roaring seas
That bedevil me throughout the hot day,
That I may work in his vineyard, and may
Look upon him in the eyes of all men;
To see his beauty in all of women;
To see his peace in the smile of a child.
I sleep again! So as I lift my legs
After a long day of work, my heart begs,
My mind and soul garner for favor; please
Lord, I ask of you, while on my knees
To grant that in sleep I should die for you!
To love my Lord, my God, and to be true
Even within the folds of my dreams...
And to take when I wake whatever heart gleans
From your presence within me as I slept...
This I pray Lord, I have spoken and wept
That you should hear me, this unworthy soul,
Whose thanks is enough to keep me full.

Perhaps such a poem, such a song is dry...
It lacks perspective; to emotional
Is it's content, affective in nature.
It is no more than the breath; tis a sigh!
No more than a dry lump of blackened coal...
Yet all words are dull in comparison
To the actual thing they refer to.
And each hope that is spoken in this poem
Is one that in reality is won
By a steady heart of great devotion.
So carry on, you who read this ditty,
This poor laid verse made in the smitty
Of a mediocre mind from the ville
Of Steuben: do not take in a word, ill
Begotten is this verse when you compare
It to the words made wholesome by all fare
Saints and mystics from long ago, now gone.
Fare you well now, I must go. From anon
I wish you well, that all your days are of
Peace. May the blessing of the heavenly dove
Rest upon you in this year of God's faith;
Restoring your hope in all of God's ways,
Filling in what is lacking. No mere wraith
Are you, but a man of God. It all pays
To fight the good fight, to wake every morn.
If only to sleep again, rest from scorn.

                  This Ill Begotten Prayer, (c) Luke Bennette, October 2012

The Ocean's Sigh

I saw a storm from far off billowy
Cape Cod; what a cod am I to have staid
When I should have run from the rising sea!
But trusting the sea's gentle replies made
Soft from the wonder I beheld in my
Eyes, I became despondent to the signs.
Then a cold wind blew down my spine, a sigh
Did escape my lips, my body pines
Of confusion did announce to my soul,
That fast approaching, and out of control,
A raging beast from wondrous clouds bred,
That upon my wonder had it's fill, it's
Belly from the time elapsed was so fed
By my gaze that I had not realized
What it was until to late! Now water
Drenches my socks, flesh, and bone; so despised
By the storms relentless strike on the shore
Was I in that moment, cut off from land,
No one nearby to lend a helping hand.

Yet in the storm was a calm, in my heart...
Somehow the billowing winds did not start
Within me a chain of anxieties...
Did not strip me of my senses. I freeze
At the touch of cold, and my body winces
From the onslaught of the windy currents
Of air that stream past my tawny drenched hair...
Yet inside there is a glow of fire,
A hunger, a new born desire...
I cannot understand it, like a dream...
That is when the wave comes, and I scream!

Wake up! Wake up! my head cries out to my
Heart so fast asleep in this room of dull
Wooden furniture and dust ridden frames!
Wake up! Wake up! Before this tide, this sigh
Of the ocean, swallows your person whole!
Wake up! Wake up! At you the ocean aims!

But I did not wake up, not at first, no...
Rather I felt in my heart what I owed.
You'll think it strange for me to say this, friend...
But I think that I was looking on my end.
And this I wanted to accept freely,
To accept it as a gift from my God.
Not caring about the storms, or the sea,
Nor the windy currents that did applaud.
Thus standing there as the wave did strike,
I heard a voice, in my heart if you like...
"I thirst for souls that are honest and true...
                 I thirst for souls, I thirst for you.
I thirst for souls that will accept my love...
I thirst for souls, will you accept my glove?
                And the hand that gives it frame?
Not the love of the world, but of my name?
Not of vocation particular,
But a love of me in the midst of sure
Death from the hand of your foes, even friends,
In the midst of life, wherein my love wends.
Will you except it? Will you endure it?
My love for you is greater than a wit
               Of acceptance you'd gain from men;
Is greater than you know, O, dear woman."

And hearing it thus, in that instant,
I did awake, this stirring infant,
I answered in haste, "yes! I will love!
I accept the hand within your glove!"

Later in life I discovered the hand
Was one of suffering a martyrs death.
Yet I know that perfection waits, a band
Of perfection, the greatest epitaph!
And so I go on, never worrying,
My anxiety rises and falls; sing
I a tune I learned long ago when young...
When I to my God did cling. I had clung
So long at the hand of my lord that I
Could not let go of it, till I should die.
And though I know not the martyrs death waits...
I know that he doth for me, at the pearly gates.

                    The Ocean's Sigh, (c) Luke Bennette, October 2012

Monday, October 29, 2012

Filming Ya

Light that parts the sky is but a mile
Long ray, or more, that shifts apart the clouds
As though a man walking through the still crowd.
And similarly is a film that makes
It's way through the shutters of man's sleepy
Mind; illuminates, within, a great sea
Of thought yet unknown, unshaped; where no care
Is to be had by the one who holds it,
For they do merely watch, do merely sit.
So is a ray of light meant to open
The mind to new heights as a flame of thought
That kindles the heart into a red coal
Of action; so is the film to the soul
A jab, a thrust, a stab at mankind's way;
For it seeks to awake the giant in
Side the human psyche, to root out sin
And edify the virtues of us all,
To bring about a change in all our hearts,
This is the virtue of the film, it's call.

                   Filming Ya, (c) Luke Bennette, October 2012

Chain Letter

Wherefore art thou going, O muse of men?
When first I saw you shatters of glass met
The floor upon which you trod by the seine,
Did fly out of their panes, their wooden frames,
Onto the stage where our play was then set.
Do you remember it at all? The words
Spoken were all but few in being, but herds
Of men did seek to glimpse into the heart
Of this heavenly creature that thou art;
What Sinatra thought no shame to call a dame,
A compliment to the springtime flowers
Is your presence among us all, towers
Do falter in their pride when they see you
Passing by. And why do I say these things,
These compliments do I give to you? for
What reasons? To remind you of the rings
Of life that gravitate towards such a one
That resembles Christs bride, and yet outdone
Is my speech in reality; but more
Could I say figuratively of the eyes
That teach me the love in your soul, such gems
That do alight when the sight of God does pull
Them into a fervent gaze of desire
That seeks to draw others into the fire
As would anyone who longs to be full
After a long fast on a cold wintry day...
So remain in Christ, and remain in may
When all else appears to be in decay,
Set against your soul's delight, seeks to stay
Your heart against the wishes of your mind;
Rest in Christ, and others of the same kind
Will follow you to him, no matter your
Occupation, profession, or the door
That you take in this life here on this earth...
For in prayer, in fasting, or in birth
There are ways to glorify God on high!
Even as the glass did fly from the panes
Of windows in order to espy flames
Of glory within your soul so too can
You be drawn to God in your every day
Life, and draw with your gaze the hearts of man.

Chain Letter, (c) Luke Bennette, October 2012

Saturday, October 27, 2012

Le Page

They say that he's a little odd, but smooth
Enough that they just not without uncouth
Behavior sent his way; he makes all frowns
Turn upside down with a quirk or two, towns
He has conquered with but one smirk between
His friend that could not be outdone. I glean
In him a determined gaze beneath such
A subtle mask of comical attire.
His expressions are a maze, a small touch
Of history, a mystery of fire.
What he longs for, what he's after, no one
Really knows at all except his dear friends.
Yet since everyone is his friend all fun
Is his action; his behavior mends
Even the hardest hearts when on the stage,
This comedy that walks among us, page
Of Knight from the Western coast, from the bay
Of shimmering seas; though he sits today
On the other side of the States. So please
Note that he is not what he seems at all,
That he is human, may in due time fall,
Will need the comic hand extended him
He had once extended to you at whim.
Now raise your glasses one and all for he
Who's as jolly a good fellow that be
What some might call the dandiest bee's knees,
Is for all intents and purposes one
Who's optimism cannot be outdone.

Le Page, (c) Luke Bennette, October 2012

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

The Storm of Nihilism

The Storm of Nihilism

The Rose that blooms is beyond all its peers,
Overcoming the masses, and their fears.
Yet its sense and its pride is majestic
So that not one may have respect for it.

One drop of rain is followed by many,
And soon a drop becomes engulfing sea.
One drop thinks itself the one exception,
That leads to the flood, annihilation.
A hurricane is born of pride and heat
And it seems to be of the finest wheat.
The mass of precipitation follows
The one drop of rain with many bellows
That smacks the sea, which raises so much chaff
That it should have caused one many a laugh
To see his exception taken with such
An exceptionally large crowd; as much
Is the one man exception to the rules
Than is another man allowed have duels.

But the sea is now foaming with bitter
Waves at the sight of societies flaws,
Preparing for the overthrow of laws,
Refuses to back down, be a quitter.

A cloud of misfortune looms from one drop,
A furious wind that will never stop
If it remains unchecked by solid land;
For it rages too and fro, is unmanned
By any hand that knew the one drops course,
And the wheel has been taken by a coarse
Collage of many disjointed women
And men who do think themselves a real ten!

Now the rose thinks itself the exception,
And the drop of rain its own reflection
In the deep admires as it comes crashing
Down into the raging sea. But to bring
The point to a stuttering close, winter
Shall chaff the rose as surely as a fur
Coat does protect the body in the cold,
And the hurricane shall make land fall old;
For it’s weariness of being abroad
Has caused it much pain and now it must nod
As the rocks weather the stormy tempest.
But like the rose, with no warmth to sustain
Its foolish flaw, seen in the mass refrain,
So too does the hurricane end its days.
And becomes the stuff of legend and plays.

                 (c) Luke Bennette, October 2012

Monday, October 22, 2012

The Sad Day Friend

Forgive me my friend if I do presume
To act upon my observations; you
Were crying in the corner. Such a bloom
As yourself, all pomp with red fire, now blue
From too much weeping, has made this fellow,
My poor person of frail frame, so concerned
For you that I hardly know a mellow
Word to offer to you in cheer. You burn
With inner pain perhaps that you should shake
With all your being? O, tis not the sort of
Behavior that fits to such a maid! Take
Some comfort from me, dry your tears! Is love
So terrible that you should cry a stream
Of pity for yourself? Do take my hand
And I shall lead you into the light where
You may observe that night has gone. Do stand,
Lest from sitting there you turn to stone. Fair
Maidens with hair that curls into a fray
Resembling so many tongues of fire
Should not be put out by a sunless day!
Look beyond the clouds where I do point. File
All your thoughts beyond that wispy defense
Of grey moisture and see that these foolish
Raiment's of the sky do pity thee; dense
As they are a ray of light now shines! Hush
Your stuttering fears that love is all done;
For such a fear has never been true in
All the history of mankind. There! One
Can now observe in you all those has beens
Departing from your melancholy heart
For some dreadful place within the cold grasp
Of winter's chill. Your looks radiate part
Sun and moon as you do regain your strength,
Do pierce the onlooker with sighs of bliss;
As needles do pierce the skin. No longshanks
Could inspire such a one as you to sigh
As you do. What is the name of this man
Whose thought revives your soul? Has he left you
That you did find yourself to be a fan
Of misery and sorrow? Is he true?
Yet now I see my question is in vain!
For if you look behind upon the hill
Of this simple plain where we do stand, feign
Not to ignore the image that does fill
Both our sights with the sound of a man's voice
Calling out to us from where he is now!
And as you run to this man what little choice
Have I but to fade into the sky? Bow
My way out of this scene until the time
Is ripe enough that I should make a rhyme
About some other woe that has been healed;
Of some other love that has been so sealed
Betwixt lovers as with a kiss? My friend,
Remember I'll be here always to cheer
Your heart on those days when you do so fear
That your love may never return to you.
Remember, I'll be here; he will be true...
Now I exit; the light is my cue...

              The Sad Day Friend, (c) Luke Bennette, October 2012

Sunday, October 21, 2012

Mon Amie qui avait une belle sourie...

Sitting in silence we oft do forget
That the Spirit of God, tis a safe bet,
Is within us, without worry or care;
Supplies us with an unlimited fare
Of peace in our hearts till the end of day,
Of joy for the soul--as the month of may
After a cloudy streaked sky in winter
That has done nothing but give us shiver
After shiver when we walked outside. And
Having sat there in silence we smile, hand
Over hand, our lips draw back in a grin
That reveals contentedness; all that's been
Flees at the thought of his presence. Tis we
Who have been graced within, our souls do see
No misery at all, do somersaults
Within it's protection, safe from assault
By the enemies hand; we are free to
Give our all quite happily! In a true
Spirit of rest and peace we open our
Eyes in order to look upon neighbor
With new perspective and revere; we know
That the Spirit is waiting upon woe
After woe in these troubled souls who keep
Inside of them a trove of pains that steep
Their heart's all black and grim with frightful pain!
We through the Spirit a gentle refrain
Begin to utter. This poor weary chap
We help to forgo his world of mishap
Through cheerful dialogue, through vibrant speech;
Within his heart the Spirit might have reach
When we have softened it by Spirit's gift,
This power to soothe, bolster, and uplift!
In time the troubles within this chap flow
In rivers of tears; the sight of this show
Of fears leaving the mind and body make
Anyone of rage and hate think twice, stake
Their opinion outside of themselves, leave
Their quarrels for healing. They do believe
At seeing the results of your discourse
With this sad perturbed chap they once knew Morse
Code, an invisible sign, a renewed
Spirit that has been now so much imbued
With peace enough to stand still in his seat;
And the proof of this, the proof of this feat,
Are his hand in hand, and the smile on his
Face that suggest a new-found way of bliss.

You who do read, consider well
What I have spoken, what I tell,
As being reflective of you;
A true friend, who art ever true.
Though at times you may be at odds
Within you soul, when your mind trods
Slowly, in pain from cloudy days
When the sun shines not in it's rays,
Consider that you oft are, for
Those that listen to you, a door
Of sunshine and a ray of hope;
Of optimism. We do cope
Better in the weather of gloom
When we hear you, let go the doom
That holds our hearts in frightful chains.
We weather the storm, the cold rains
Because we have peace in our heart
Which you did implant there, did start
By your words and your actions of
Optimism; makings of love.

Dear friend, do know that we forget
Not the times when we did so fret
In pain and turmoil of the soul;
When you did soothe us, make us whole
By your discourse calm presence.
To us you are a gift, presents
Unwrapped on such a cloudy day
That we do beg for but one ray
Of sunshine in our lives, just one!
You the brightest ray of sunshine have outdone.

                    Mon Amie qui avait une belle sourie, (c) Luke Bennette, October, 2012

Saturday, October 20, 2012

On Noise and Silence

Reverted forms that plague me,
They begin to gnaw away.
Upon my mind they are, flee
I into the light of day!

Noise creates a perturbed soul,
Plays upon the mind's sad state.
Yet the silence takes its toll
Upon this poor sad reprobate!

Upon the verge are my feet,
Standing on the edge of time.
Temporal things seek to beat
Draw me back with meter and rhyme.

They draw closer, their dull chants
Become a sort of mad chill 
That feels like parading ants
Upon the spine, kills my will!

Inevitably my heart breaks,
It can no longer take the toll.
This musical chant sill rakes
My mind of solace, doth annul
Sanity as though it were such
That it could be divorced from
The soul as with a single touch.
Now joins them a deep filled drum...

Without is a sea, a stormy sea,
Within is chaos, eternity 
Leaping up to wrench away
Temporal powers of the day.
No peace, no peace at all...
I am so close now, I fall
Into this chasm, this abyss...
And find sweet joy, sweet bliss.

Not what I thought, not what it seemed.
I cannot tell, I could not have dreamed...

In the silence of my heart remains
What I have seen, like blood stains
Have these images created,
Upon my soul they've instigated
What can only be thought of as life;
freedom from noise and strife.

               On Noise and Silence, (c) Luke Bennette, October 2012

Friday, October 19, 2012

In the Quiet of the Noise

Wandering to and fro amongst the crowd
Of men and women gathered here I see
As through a screen, briefly, an old man; bowed
With age. And scanning once or twice the sea
Of faces with a glance I look again
To see this wizened hermit beside me.
Through the vast and noisy crowd he did wend
His way to my side. His face lit up, glee
Did pour forth from his wizened eyes of sheen;
Electric in nature could he have been
Were he not born of human frame or being.
But what is this that I am now speaking
Within my own house among my dear friends?
How have I become so enraptured by
This hermit in black garb? This thought offends
Me to my core as I look away. Why
As I search the floor for my friends I find
That they have all left my home in a kind
Of mess that never before have I known!
And as I look back to the cause of my
Distress I stutter with words of rage flown
Recently to my mind; I wrestle, fly
Higher than a kite on a windy day
Into a rage of confusion; like May
Appears to winters cold cruel hand does
This strange and decrepit old wizened man
To me! Yet as I search for words, or flaws
Within the folds of his ancient robes, ran
My mind into his; by way of our eyes
Did this occur. Once again I despise
All else in the world that is around me,
My tongue clings to the roof of my mouth. What
Is here before me I cannot tell, but
From the waves of his white hair to the holes
In the very bottom of his poor shoes,
From crooked glasses to his battered soles,
Radiates forth a peace unlike the noise
Which I did once partake in with the boys.
And though many a man may think himself
To be unfortunate to add to wealth
Another year of age to his treasure,
Well I believe they have not the measure
Of worth by which age is measured by. Such
Age is like the western men of old who
Did make a show of their skill with guns, touch
Their hands to their hat, all cool and slick. True
Warriors came as their huckleberries
And showed them to be but sad lit fairies
With illusions and tricks; but no real worth
Could be found in their bag of tricks when they
Were put up against those of aged birth,
Whose experience was a bright day's ray
In dark cloudy nights with deep brewing storms.
Such is this man in my thoughts, and the norms
By which I judged my life are suddenly
Thrown out of joint within this wobbling sea
Of youths experience. Now I desire
To burn with zeal, and to start a great fire!
Though I know not where this came from at all.
Suddenly I awake from the trance, fall
Upon the floor; realize my friends are
All around me, laughing at my fall, mar
They the experience I have received...
Yet I still have it, and have still believed.

                     In the Quiet of the Noise, (c) Luke Bennette, October 2012

Thursday, October 18, 2012

Madness or Realist?

Will you not gaze upon this vise of art
That holds within it's forceps the greater
Part of mankind in a trance like state? Art
Thou not man enough to gaze upon sure
Truth as it is depicted by this paint
Of blue and gold interlaced with white? What
Taint could be upon it that causes faint
Hearted persons to fall away and shut
Their eyes before the door? to such a sight
As this dear mother who holds in her arms
A child so serene, a child with such charms
That he cannot help but be loved? A blight
Be upon you if you cannot dare to
Look upon so kindly a face as this
That was painted by my namesake! What yew
Hearts have you that you be so strong to miss
The point of your strength and not understand
What beauty is in these lines portrayed! Hand,
Marvel at this exquisiteness you could
Not trace with all your skill! Eyes, consider
Well the name that this form reveals, and would
Seek to reveal further proof in the sure
Places of the heart the reality
Of what I do here and now rightly see!
Mind, fathom this portrait if you can! For
What we are gazing upon is longing
For greater clarity not in the store
Of man's grasp for words, ideals that do sing
Imperfection, truth hidden behind her
Kindly eyes that do point to the child there
Upon her breast where he does rest his  head!
Can you not gaze upon such a kindly
Face as this that did rise upon a cross
In the heart when her dearest Son did, free
Of all human weakness or constraint, cross
The threshold of death for our very sake's?
Then if you cannot gaze what be you? New
Ideals that hold your swaying gaze, that mark
Out what I speak to be but a sham, shew
But the inconstant errors that are stark
With constant voices to bid them live; but
Such voices do die, and their ideals with
Them do find a grave. They rise in a shut
mind, one that needs fresh air but finds a whiff
Of the past in the graveyard of our own
Collective intellect and become sure
Of what was already proven false. Shown
Such things can you ever this picture
For what it truly is? Perhaps, but not
I, no, I shall not be the one to break
This trance that holds you to the fiery stake...
Shall I not then constrain you as you go
Lest you poison some other mind that know
Not the truth of this madness you do bear?
Nay, for in sooth I should succumb to its
Snare as well, and so my words would bits
Of truth but not all it's promise or grace.
I am then resolved to beg of God for
The grace he has given me to be sent
Into your heart fast as an arrow bent
For the kill of some mad man's life. No more
Can I do but be present to your sight
As an ever present reminder of
Your rejection, your obstinate delight
In refusing life, in refusing love!
So shall I entrust you to God, heaven's
Dove made present in our hearts and our souls.
Then perhaps you'll see, it is perhaps then
That you will surrender your eyes, control
Of your senses which are poorly used to
God who directs them in ways not abused
But in loving harmony with our frame!
Then the image of this picture you will name.

                   Madness or Realist? (c) Luke Bennette, October 2012

Monday, October 15, 2012

Caught in Traffic

Paint a dash of red upon cherry lips
While you fasten the waist upon your hips;
Soaring buttress no cathedral has seen
As does become your frame, this lean cousine!
Slip into this slimming gown; do refrain
From eating tonight in town, lest the pain
Become apparent in this tight made dress
That forces your body to so confess
It's shape as that of a woman's frame. So
May you retain your shape, and so the show
May go as planned. Pick up your Gucci purse;
It's black reminds you of your father's hearse
Yet you still carry it on your shoulder?
Perhaps your heart has grown, has grown colder.
Now towers place upon your tender feet
In order that they rise above the sleet
That's pouring down outside. Were you ever
Considering being a bride? Clever
Form though you may be in your mind of wiles
You will falter in time to man's guile's.
Wrap around your arms a shawl of silk; cling
To it well in the cold, lest your skin sing
Out it's discomfort from the frosty bite
That clings to your skin in the dead of night.
Now go to the door, where a young man waits
In order to find out from you the rates
Which you would use in order to sell your
Goods now shown. In the frame of hell, this door
You wait to take his arm; overpower
His senses, to his alarm! And why sure
Footed woman do you so desire
To place within this man a burning fire
Without first proving to yourself his worth?
Or could you care less of his noble birth?
Do you care for your own for that matter?
Are you as mad as that sad mad hatter?
Whatever the reason you're gone with him;
And he within your presence doth now swim.
Until you return to the door of hell;
Lure him in in order to whisper, tell
Him a secret that will tickle his ears
With a beauty turned wild with worldly needs...
Your body doth hunger, with you it pleads
To be free from this game, this trap of pain,
To end this endless night of mad refrain!
But even as he enters, you the door
Close without pausing; do not so abhor
The action that is becoming concrete...
The door shuts tight without missing a beat...

                        Caught in Traffic, (c) Luke Bennette, October 2012

Morning Herald

Cue the music of the light,
Dawns first ray becomes a fight
To overcome the stark lit world.
The hues of the golden herald
Do trumpet back with waves of sound
What is lacking, reveals what is found.

A blast of adoration, in dismay
Is the darkness! Set at bay
Is nothingness, and all its works.
For naught is it accounted, it's perks
But a vanishing smoke, a mist
That garners with it not a gist
Of anything that holds a form...
So evil is in fact lacking the norm.

Erroneous is the heart that's cold;
Transfixed by light it is made bold.
And music becomes the mind of pain
By sweeping back with gentle refrain
The curtains of illusory might
That held the soul, to it's delight.

Now grimaces the hand of naught
As though it would our hearts blot
With all the power it has left
Before it doth become bereft
Of any and all of it's lacking shape!
Here comes the sun, it strikes the nape
Of his back and he vanishes!
For the music of light banishes
All that does not exist, reveals what is good...
Now you too must reveal, as you should,
The better part of your day;
Lest you should vanish in the same way.

Look left and right upon creation,
Turn away from hells desecration!
What's good is not what's evil;
Like a bass is not what's treble.
Confuse them not, nor barter together
What is so separate, opposite; weather
The storm of your inclination.
The good of your individuation
Is measured only by the good that makes
Your eyes to see it; the good that slakes
All thirst from our throats now parched.
The herald storms like morning larks!

For what evil you do is nothing,
Returns from whence it was when spring
Had yet to form you within time;
Before the door of advent's rhyme
Did make the gift in which you walk,
In which you do breathe and talk!
Yet little have you to do with mist,
And more have you than mere gist
Which vanishes from the sun lit ray
Of mornings herald; for it keeps at bay
Only that which turns from it's task,
That which does in darkness bask,
Strays far away as lightening,
Doth flare and die in a bright string.

Now in the dwindling time I faint,
More understanding I cannot paint.
I must and shall depart this song...
But hope that you will sing along
The morning heralds blissful tune...
Or else I shall be proved a lune
To sing this song all by myself;
Perhaps to me it is such great wealth
That I merely wish to share
What did for me overcome the snare
Of individuality alone.
I do wish to atone
For times when I was less than right.
And glory in the end of misty night!
And what glory is there when you're alone?
T'were better that one be made of stone
Than to live forever in a nightingale
Where storms do brew forever a tale
Of dark, wind, unwholesome life
That doth brew for us only strife.

The morning herald's ray of light
Has come; so bid adieu to the night.

                 Morning Herald, (c) Luke Bennette, October 2012

Sailing Eternity

Honest? Sincere?
Captain, never fear!
The waves do uphold
Our will to be bold;
And is but good cheer
To we who do near
The land there beyond!
Between us be this pond
Of a sea and ocean;
Lets get to it, no mopin
Around the deck at all!
Lest the wind do us call
To the depths of the sea,
Translate us to eternity.
So when you gaze
Into the abyss a daze
Does become your face;
And leaves without a trace
Upon you the mark
Of a man gone sark
Raving mad with pain!
And that pain, a refrain,
Of suffering inside
Bids you let go your pride!
Accept your fate in this storm!
Fight on! Be it the norm
That many do live on land?
Well we be at sea! Understand?
So do not wish for
A comforting door!
Seek to restore
Your courage! Abhor
That fear that's created
Inside of your heart! Abated
Not has the storm yet;
But if we fight on I do bet
That we'll come to land again
To see hour loves. When
That sun rises we'll at ease
Be in our hearts;
Truly, greater starts
Are never found except
Within the storm! Bereft
Be you and I of hope
If we cannot fasten this rope!
Now take to the sails, awake!
This storm begins to slake
Our thirst for adventure!
Do in your time be sure
Of one thing, one alone.
By the end, through to the bone
We'll be drenched,
Our stomachs clenched,
Our brows will be furrowed
And our bellies hollowed!
But at the end we'll be
At the horizon of the sea;
Where sunlit eternity
Shows us our reward...
The land where we did board.

So go along me lad
Through life; not bad
At all is the life at sea.
A Catholic's life is free
And rough as water
That's brought to barter
For quenching our thirst;
It must be earned
Lest we be accursed!
Have we not yearned
For this my fellow? my friend?
Then sail with me to the end!
Now sing a tune with me,
And we'll pull out into eternity.

Sailing Eternity, (c) Luke Bennette, October 2012

The Dwindling Hour

Quite muted may be
The waves of the sea
Compared to the sway
Of the day lit ray.
And yet how far behind
Be the day's ray in mind
When set against the night
Wherein is set the fight;
For behind is anything
That does not at present bring
Any sweet relief
To the weary thief.
Long be his run,
The night be outdone
Upon a wintery shade
That did the earth bade
More time than the day
For those traveling away;
For thieves do alight
In the darkness of night.
Yet the silence of this
Journey is great bliss.
For it opens the mind
So that in it one may find
All that was once lost
Without the weary cost
Of attempting retreat,
In this world of defeat,
In this world of noise,
In this world of boys
And girls gone mad;
Where good is in fact, bad.
Here in the dark one see's
That the light is abused;
Understands the bee's knees
Is just a cloak for items used.

                The Dwindling Hour, (c) Luke Bennette, October 2012

Saturday, October 13, 2012

Before the Trial

A poem of beauty and love I would write 
To one with whom in times gone by my spite
Did cause great anguish, pain and misery...
Yet waring within my poem is a fee
Of guilt that's mixed with a brothers desire
To warn fair sister to contain the fire;
Lest such a fire consume her heart and soul.
I do not call her to surrender whole
Herself to the wages of sin, but want
To give her hope; lest she crush me in taunt
About my own inexperienced ways,
How she did follow for most of her days
A life far greater than anything done
By her whimsy brother. And she would shun
Me if I did state the facts to her face,
Our relationship would be without trace
Were I to complain, to commiserate
With others about how much I do hate
To see this golden gem, sister of mine,
To have wasted her potential, her shine!
But fool I am, to have thought such hard things,
Frowns, lines and wrinkles such deep thinking brings!
And I've wasted time trying to correct
A person that I've never shown respect.

Now my guilt set aside, or confronted,
Stupidity revealed, my ego blunted,
I now can say, with some pride I might add,
That my sister's way has not ended bad.
Has grown like a flower, withered by frost,
Only to be healed; and though great a cost
We who look on would have done it again,
Would have borne with her the pain of it when
Through mire and marsh she did make her bent way,
Through betrayal, and hurt, the darkened day.
I know that this flower still does survive...
Is growing still, is very much alive.
And I the gardener do work to change
My attitudes. Though my ideas with age
Have not changed at all with respect to sin,
I have realized that in order to win
Against the weed that threatens the flower
To humble myself, as a rain shower
Blanket the shoot of life with what it needs;
Rather than grunting and griping of weeds
That shunt about my flowering treasure...
I've learned that sacrifice is the measure
By which I may accomplish all my goals...
For mares do become horses from small foals. 

Whatever the case is, whatever choice
That this flower makes, whatever she doth voice
To be her desire, her decision,
I will remain adviser, will not shun
Her when with weeds she parlays and doth speak,
But will remain in the foreground, all meek
Learning from her lead how to approach such
As never see sunlight, who rarely touch 
What I believe is good, and wholesome to;
So I have learned from my sister a true
Skill, to be forgiving of others who
Do cause me great duress, who are untrue.

If my words do offend, know that I jest
On nothing at all; and may you be blest
To have heard what I have to say in this...
May it bring you joy, happiness, and bliss.
I do not admonish in order to hurt,
But as your brother, to warn you! A flirt
Turns to passion when passion is a breeze...
A breeze comes and goes whenever it please.
But love remains in the heart that's given
To a devotion, steadfastness! Give in
Charity and you will never regret
What you do in life. Though turmoil beset
Your person at every turn and crossing
You will find that love is much like flossing;
It must be kept up, must be regular.
Lest you should in time grow quite unsure
Of the cleanliness of your of your heart and soul...
So as you would brush your teeth, such a goal
As giving your heart charities wreath makes
Life worth living, even when the stakes
Are high enough to choke the soul. Trial
Is the means we know that life is worth while.

                         Before the Trial, (c) Luke Bennette, October 2012

Tuesday, October 9, 2012

Big Sister

Juggler I name thee,
My one true defeat.
O, that I could be free,
Yet that were not meat
Enough to keep me full;
For I've lived by you,
And in part been made whole
By knowing you in part.
So I know you are true...
Not a juggler, not at heart.

You juggle this, and that as well;
Attempting to steer clear of hell
As best you can with what life gives.
Where others do falter in strife lives
The grandeur of your success!
For you juggle each thing, bless
The ground with your presence...
Elitist perhaps? Better than peasants!
But in all this attire of mind
You still are very kind
To both those that juggle,
And those jugglers.
Might I suggest a bugle
To ward off burglars?

Yet all kidding aside,
Which is hard, as pride
That is thrown by the wayside
Is kidding for we who do slide
Through life with a cup of gin
And a smile on our faces, win
Glory at the slightest touch
Of the hat from a stranger;
Or is this all a bit much?
Like a child born in a manger?
You've eyes of fire,
A mind that's steel,
Though juggler's do tire
You never keel.
You're spirit is level,
Off key at times, but hey...
You ward off the devil,
Keep his tenacity at bay
By your trust in God,
Whom we both do laud.

So am I worried as you grow old?
Not that I know, never been told
Has my heart that you'd be ill
From excessively giving your will
To optimism and to your king;
He did after all give you your ring.
But more than this, you gave your all...
Your responded to Grace, to the call.
You accepted love from on high...
In the form of three children nigh.

So if in doubts, or in straights...
Give a call up to those pearly gates.
Say, "I'm in need of another store
Of patience! This world doth bore
Me to tears from it's mediocrity!
And from it I am tempted to flee!"
And he'll respond from behind,
Because God and your king,
Well, they are of one mind.
From this poem, I hope you do sing.
Know my prayers are with you always...
Before they were, now, till the end of days.

Big Sister, (c) Luke Bennette, October 2012

Sunday, October 7, 2012

Many Things...

Treading sand that's heated by the sun
Causes a blandness treated by one
Who is traveling with you, by your side,
To curse and fume at you, his friend's hide!

Carousing the stars at night's frame
Hour of dread, what bars do so name
That time men fled when in their own home
In order to stay awake, to roam,
Causes a number of stares, so to speak;
Becomes the story of the week.

Driving faster than the speed of light
On a morning where there is no sight
Of anything, there is a misty fog,
Is like setting foot into a bog
And ignoring the squishy feeling;
Yet your fears such action is healing.

We often do crazy things in this world,
We are for our friends a divine herald
Of change in a world of stability,
And sometimes the opposite, you will see
When we take a stand in a world of flare
In order to live life as though we care.

And though it's not the same as these
That have come before, if you please,
Do listen to what I now have to say
To you who do walk in the night and the day.

It is strange to go to a place
Where a cross stares you in the face...
Yet for you it is stranger still to be
One who does not go at all, does flee
From the creator of the world at a pace
That is akin to a five K race.

And so you know the ways of the world around you,
And you know that the world has in fact found you.
How will you remain in your faith? Remain true
Unless you remain to the teachings true as glue?

What I have said is nothing new I'm sure,
Contraband is after all merely a blur
And you of all people should know these things;
For they aren't exactly diamond rings
Given out by men of honor,
Bound by men of the collar.
But you know enough to know what's good...
To follow your heart, as God knew you would.
So take a breath once more and breathe...
Another year has come and gone; I heave
A sigh of gratefulness and pray
That next year I may humbly say
I've done better than the year before...
Come closer to the pearly door.

Many Things... (c) Luke Bennette, October 2012

Saturday, October 6, 2012

The Hidden Light

Words be not enough,
Thoughts be broken.
Sighs are but bluffs,
And stares a mere token.
To speak to you is base,
For you I cannot face.
To think of you is false,
For I am but callous;
And you are far above
Whatever lies in me,
Hidden, mysterious love,
Endless as the sea.
And if I stare at you,
How can I remain?
For I haven't a clue
As to the refrain
That is sung to your name!
I cannot at all claim
To search your face with mine...
For you pierce me through thine.
O world reveal to me the King.
O words, be open to me and sing
Of the glorious reign of God,
For I, a poet, do merely bawd
At what I cannot know or understand...
And what is by me poorly planned.
O eyes do succumb to darkness now...
That in the dark I may in faith bow.
May increase of darkness increase my faith,
Lest in the dark I become a mere wraith.
May the darkness of life inspire hope
That I am not bound by the rope
Of my consolations and satisfactions;
Which when taken away are malefaction's
Waiting to be unleashed by tempers wrath,
Uncultivated virtue the aftermath.
So be to me my dear Jesus...
Everything, even my breath...
Not the breath that's smelly and strained,
But the breath of life, I do breathe pained
Now without you in my soul!
Enter in, and in you may I be whole.

                            The Hidden Light, (c) Luke Bennette, October 2012

Sunday, September 30, 2012

In Jest I Say

A nave of spades, a jack of clubs,
A prince of hearts, a diamond ruff
That overcomes all other studs;
His hair is shimmering black, rough
Are his hands in an attack! Quick
As lightning, and flashy too; such
Is his nature. But like a wick
That's burned down to long, his cold touch
May come on stronger than you'd think
Possible, for such a fine and
Jovial spirit, doth oft wink
To see if you can see his hand!
Slight of hand, trickster by his trade...
And quite clever; his tongue his blade.

On stage we know him as the Puck...
Yet this page is more; he's in luck
To be our dear friend, a fine man.
He always has a perfect tan.
While his bombastic humor may
Affront some fool whom he puts down,
We see him as wise, and today
We come, near and far, to the town
In order to wish him well! Jokes
Are made, and many do tell him
How very much they miss him; blokes
Do shake his hand, and on a whim
He doth look through the crowd gathered;
His smile says it all; we mattered.

So sing your songs, and play your tricks,
Pray to God, withstand them fool hicks
That would treat you like piles of dung...
Give them a run, and their pockets
Do treat with, until they are wrung
From all value; and when all bets
Are won in your favor thank God!
His name ever praise, ever laud.
Don't be a stranger you knave, don't
Forget your friends old Jack, and won't
You be sorry you sad old heart
If you don't act your shining part.
You are a light for others to
See, a light for God; now be true
To your calling, your part. Happy
Birthday to you; now go and free
Those that do need a smile, do hope
To be released from the shackles
That bind them, those foul modern ropes
That are wrapped around, manacles,
Their sad sorry minds. Melancholy
Grips a nation; go forth, set free
All these fools from their misery.

In Jest I say, (c) Luke Bennette, September 2012

Through the Cloud of Glory

I walk down the road, and on either side
Their I find that the toad has so allied
Himself with the merchants that line the streets
That poor peasants flock to their vending seats...

And you too should come, he says with a smile...
I am struck dumb, and shutter quite a while
As I ignore his wide, toad-like, face of doom,
That gapes open wide only for more room
That he may swallow me whole, without a trace
Dispose of me, as a shoal of fish; in that place
I found fear following behind me like a train...
Echoing it's croaking, monotonous, endless, refrain...

My glance is caught further down the road again...
Not merchants this time, but sure footed men
That do holler with voices of varying pitch!
They hoist the sails for a circus tent, which
Fascinates me so that I stop to look...
I read the colors as though a book...

A voice tells me to hurry along,
Lest I become one with the noise-some throng...
I recover my senses with a titter,
A flair of anger, a heavy hitter
At the home-plate...
I am in such a state...

Hurrying along I regain my composure...
The sounds begin to align to the moisture
In the air; which begins to strike the ground
With a composition of music never found
In any other place all throughout the earth...
For I walk through the land of my home, my birth...

And for a moment I am struck so that I am still...
I have escaped the noise of color,
And of merchants have had my fill...
But here I stay for the sound of my brother...
Echoing through eternities open portals,
Through memories found in we mortals...
And I gaze upon the ground in this forest den,
I remember him there, stuck in that wide fen
Across the way where we did play
In the sun, in the rain; we did every day
Become better friends, he and I...
Until the day he drowned, did die.

Then I am a quiver with fear...
Suddenly I feel him draw near;
An icy cold hand, but warm to the touch.
Such illusions of mind are over much
For the senses to take, they cannot
Stomach the reality of what is bought
By believing in such fantasies...
So they take what they see,
And twist and turn it to what they like;
Lest realities hand lash out and strike
Their face with the palm of its hand!
So I found myself, in that dreaded land...

Turn away! Don't look back!
The voice inside said to me...
Come hither, my sister!
Set me free! Said he...
But I knew now, too late,
What I was seeing...
And before my fate
Overcame my being
I wrenched myself away,
From that hand of ice...
From my home, my play...
From memories of nice
Happy thoughts wishful thinking...
I ran from there! What was I thinking?

Barren now are the roads.
Not a person walks them.
Not even those foul toads
That once tricked me
Into fettered slavery...
No, not a single color,
Not a single image...
No memories of brother...
Only a mere savage
Minstrel before my eyes;
Minstrels...them I do despise...

And as I walk along he plays a ditty,
Calling the throng, with a song quite witty.
Yet I could not stand his music at all!
I hated it, and in the dark I did call
To him, to him I did beg be silent now!
But he merely winked, and did bow
As if to accept an applause, an encore!
If I could get my paws on him, how sore
He would be! How very much he'd regret
If ever I caught him; for a touch of set
Anger was writhing through my veins...
I considered going back, old refrains
Were pecking away at my desires...
Little lamps in my mind, rather than fires...
In a maze my mind now wandered
To every place I have since sauntered...
And I wondered where I was going...
Wondered at the point of it all...
Wondered at the wind blowing...
I wondered at the quiet call...

Then suddenly I recalled myself
To my senses and shut my ears...
I could no longer hear the wealth
Of this minstrels ditty, no fears
Were set upon my heart any more,
And the anger took flight, the well
Of frustration became dry, the door
Was shut to mine enemy; I sell
All my treasuries of past loves
To the voice I hear. Gentle doves
Do gracefully lift me off my feet...
I fly over the minstrel; his defeat.

Now these doves do take me high,
Into the darkness, the clouds, where nigh
Invisibility is at work, is at hand!
The ground sinks beneath me, the land
Indiscernible to mine eye;
Confusion now reins, try
As I might to turn my intellect around
To where I had been. I am found
In a swirling mass of terror and pain,
I cannot stop the shivering refrain
That besets my heart, my soul!
I bunker down inside, control
My raging fear; like a woodsman
Desperately fighting the fire
I strike back with my desire
To be safe and sound from this dreaded wind!
The sound of which howls louder than sin...

A song begins to dawn in my heart...
Not from my own memory, in part
Perhaps have I given myself
To this great song of wealth...
Yet it seems that it comes from without
To be within my heart and soul, felt
I that it became one with me tonight...
And the raging winds no longer fright
But begin to sound out the melody...
As if I had received from the voice a key
To ceifer the raging winds of pain
As having spoken out in a refrain
Of the glory of God...
A never-ending laud...

Now emboldened by this understanding,
And surrendering myself, now commanding
That all of my energies be engaged
Into this cloud of glory, this saged
Love that beckons to me,
This loving voice, this sea
That pours into my being...
Can it be true? What I am seeing?
I see light unknown...
I see, as though shown...
I see, yet do I see?
Can this truly be?

I stretch out my hand...
My fears one last stand
Take hold of me before I reach
What I was reaching for, teach
Me to fear what is before me...
Teach this sight is all illusory...
Turn my sight back to the cloud...
Falling down very proud
I am that I realized my mistake...
My mistake...did I indeed make
With my foolish behaviors of mind
A mistake? I hope others may find
Me sound of reason when I return...
I hope I realize myself, lest I burn
With ensnarement from their reproach...
Already I can see on the ground a coach
That will take me back to my house and home...
The minstrel waves at me! He holds a comb
To for my frazzled hair, now such a maze
Of many tangles, a fiery blaze
Of lightening and maddened haze...
O, what strangeness! What a craze!
And to think I had almost fallen for it...
This light, this illusion, this religious fit!
Now the coach is off, and I am in...
I have regained myself, I do win
The game that has been set against me...
I have prevailed, can once again see.
We travel past my home and I sneer
At how once I did travel in fear
Across it's plains, this relic place...
I no longer see my brothers face...
We travel through the circus tent!
How beautiful it's colors! Unbent
Are it's poles reaching to the sky!
I feel strange again; I don't know why...

The minstrel plays a tune that I like...
A hand slaps me! My face does strike!
We enter the merchant lane once more...
The minstrel opens for me the door...
The smiling toad throws open wide
His arms, his smile; I am beside
Myself with fear to see his face!
My brother stands in disgrace
Next to his side, ashamed of me...
I do not think...I exit...then I flee!
I run from the road, I run from it all!
I run through the day, the night, I call
Out to the voice that once reigned in me...
I cry out at night in an endless sea...
I cower in fright at every noise that's made!
I cower in fright, for the game I have played
Has thrown me from heaven so dear...
Into a world of doubt, suspicion and fear.

The hunt is one, they come after me!
They say, come again! Pay the fee
For using the coach which returned you here!
You shall be enslaved, forever my dear!
Do not run into the night, this wilderness;
Come! With us you may find great bliss!
Your unfettered desires may become you yet...
I grantee you'll like it, I will even bet
That once you return with us you will say
I am better off in this place, better off this way!
Come, give yourself up to your lust...
We are your friends! We you can trust!
Accept your pride my dear little girl...
Accept us, we are your dear pearl...

Twisted, deformed, and mangled as I am...
I hear in their words a twist, a mere sham...
I hide in the first tree that I find...
I shall stay here till they go. I have a mind
To remain here forevermore...
I fear I have lost myself, a whore
In a wilderness of stupidity...
My price for doubt, no longer free.
My hair is all tangled, my dress ripped and torn...
I am besmirched, ugly, and forlorn...
My captives surround me on every side...
They smell me out, they sniff for my pride...
Wild wolves are they that now prowl the plain...
No longer glamorous; for to my shame
I had seen them in a different light...
Now I see them as they are at night.
Of monstrous shape, and color too...
I cringe at their eyes, my body drew
Back at the mere thought of their hands...
Groping in the darkness of these dreary lands...

In the shadow of this hollow, this gaping maw...
Where I hide for my sorrow, fearing what I saw...
I pour out my heart to the winds, I do cry...
I pour out my soul, my sins, lest I die...
I know not who will answer, only that I fear
To die without confessing, to be a mere
Of darkness in the presence of the light...
To succumb to this evil, this darkness, this night.
I beg forgiveness, from whom I know not!
I cannot recall who it was that had bought
My soul at a precious price...
I scratch at my hair now covered with lice...
I, mere wretch that I am...
Now contemplate, do dam
Myself in my thoughts, in this place...
I think of nothingness, to be without trace
Of form, without grace of life...
To be free from the pain, the strife
Of fear, the shallowness of air
That with the beasts I do share...

Thus to I raise up with croaking voice,
A voice devoid of water from my choice...
I ask one last time for help from above!
One last time do I profess in love
My hope to be delivered, to be rescued;
And I pick up the knife that is imbued
With bitterness and hateful crimes...
I hear somewhere, far off, the gentle chimes
Of a clock; in a city by the shore...
I had only thought it to be lore
That spoke of such a sound...
Suddenly I realize that I am found...
And the winds do answer me as I stare
Into vacancy, they do answer my prayer.
A spark within is set again to burn...
I suddenly remember, do yearn
To see again the sight of the cloud...
To open myself to his praises, and laud
Out in the dark of the night, without thinking,
The love in my heart! The darkness sinking
Into the dawning day begins to tremble...
The beasts on the field do now resemble
The figures they once were by day...
They retreat to the road! The dawning fray
Begins to gnaw away at their heels...
Bells do sound somewhere, their peels
Draw me from my hollow of grief.
I run over the meadows in relief...
I follow the sounds that I hear in the distance
I cast aside all fears, all resistance!

A tingle in my spine...
A voice calling mine
Own soul...
I am full,
Am radiant as the day!
I climb the hill before me...
And marvel at the quay
That hides near the sea...
Now beautiful is it...
I take a moment, I sit
And gaze at this city of God...
Where men and women do laud
In praise and thanksgiving the King
Of glory, their voices do ring
Out in psalms of joy!
In communion they employ
Each other; and the cloud draws nigh...
I recognize it, this cloud, and I sight
With deep relief...
Letting go of grief...
All my fears allayed...
My suffering stayed...
I recognize now how to love...
In communion does the gentle dove
Come more readily to dwell with man...
I was foolish alone, following mine own plan
With brazen arrogance!
A deadly song, a dance
That led me where none could confirm
The love in my heart; a miserable worm
Was I all alone, so abused;
So very much was I used
Up in my struggle that I doubted it all...
And from the cloud did I then fall...

As I walk down to they who do fill the square
I breathe in the freshness of ocean air...
I turn and speak a word to you...
Remain in love, be ever true
To the one who has set you free
From darkness; who doth eternally
Give you the grace to draw nearer still...
Who will in time give you your fill
Of life, shall fill you with bliss!
If you struggle so as not to miss
The boat that crosses the ocean blue...
You'll receive more than you ever knew.

                   Through the Cloud of Glory, (c) Luke Bennette, September 2012