Monday, April 30, 2012

Strange Love

Time is a valuable thing, though I
Often think in the vales of my dream that
It's benefits often fail to give thy
Love back to me in its fullness. The hat
Worn by time is riff raff and clearly sewn
At the edge by an unskilled hand, as though
Counter to what is meant to be soon known;
That which is only known by tunnels you
Dug in the depths of time: when the seed sown
In our love took form in the sunset hue
Of a summer day. Yet value cannot
Stop time's un-threading decay, what is bought
In time must stay in time, worn by time so
That in time it may wear thin and wear out!

Then in the fullness of time, my time, though
I cannot overcome it's thread, nor route
It's powers, I must be content to brew
The contents of my cup with what I have!
To give myself over to your lave,
That together we may sooth lovingly,
While time still permits, what in time we see.
Let us then take the value of our time
To be a gift to us, and the future
Gift to the product of our love made rhymes;
Then in the depths of time where you dug my
Beating heart out, and planted there your own,
May we both nourish each other. I thy
Love will promise to keep in the time shown. 

                                                      Strange Love, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

The Emissary

Tis not that you bite your nails that causes you 
To post, but that you'd go half mad before 
The boast of Winter's blighting hand made true 
Coast-land's a mere of ice, a waste of hoar
Frost and snow. Therefore you must know that mere 
Madness is not the answer to your grief, 
But a desire to share you mad belief. 
Desire combined with maddening guilt is 
That which causes the flower to wilt. This
Were the end of the intellects design, but 
Hidden in the shoot is a seedling! What
Spring that grows up, an eagle that takes wing 
From his nest in the sky! So youthful being
Is depicted as spry. Understand then, 
You may not like it, but as a snakes Hiss,
Needed to warn the innocent small prey
That crawls the forest floor and could not pray 
For lack of intelligence, the madness 
That itches our mind is necessary; 
For we are all wisdom's emissary.

                                     The Emissary, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

The Song and the DIsh

I have a song that I have not finished,
For every time I make a rhyme I can
Sense another coming close to my dish:
Feel tense as they pass my plate of food. Man
Is a strange creature that he should make such
Fuss over poor food. Yet when you are as
I have been, poor in nourishment, you may touch
Upon the greatest trove of knowledge. Has
A man ever given up what he most
Desired in a fight? or put out lite
And easy from a boxing ring to toast
Some other, all since he was full of fright?
These things are incomprehensible for
Men who must complete the song of life's chore.

                                               The Song and the Dish, (c) Luke Bennette April 2012

The Hooded Hope

Employe your thoughts that you may in time think,
For once you depart in that tiny blink,
That window of time that returns yourself
To the outer rim where eternal health
May be found there will be no second chance.
Engage while you can your reason, advance
The case still in court by which you shall be
Judged; judges remain, and dubiously
Consider the man that speaks but acts not.
Retract, therefore, your vote, and be not bought 
By the price that you must pay for the good;
Good things are not bought from necessary
Evil's, and the health of eternity
For some is bound in the hopes of falsehood.

                                          The Hooded Hope, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

Society's Point

O, to be troubled in the normal vein
Of trouble. That standard by which men, and
Women, do gossip from day to day, sane
And healthy, are made fools in their own land;
For who may procure this normality,
What is its price, it's fee? how can we make
It more accessible? The great blue sea,
Though it is vast and deep, has no such thing
As normality for it's masses; how
Then can men and women in comfort bring
To the table the subject of a prow
By which all may steer their own happiness
If the prow in question is but a fake?
Yet by it we judge, and the point we miss....

                                          Society's Point, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

What it all means

The mind of a mother is the mind made
Wholesome by tender sounds, and gentle noise;
Yet maddening cries causes one to loose poise,
Wish love never were: to be an old maid.

Yet most endure to harsh sorrows that come
With loves tender passion, they do not run
When the baby is heralded by sun
Light and the thought of what they will become.

But still thoughts are black thoughts, and those that do
Remain as they once were cannot achieve
Love's labors made whole in realities
Greatest labor, the labor of woman.

For many are taken, addictions brew
Within their bodies still, though they believe
That they can overcome the dreaded tease
Which would separate them from man, husband.

Thus man is estranged from love, and defeat
Is not far behind; a mere minute's beat,
A tick of the clock. So by action's sum
Is man removed from what he once had won.

And woman in place of a love she once
Had must not resort to face the wide world;
In disgrace, made bitter by man's pride, hold
Onto dignity at the point of lance.

Yet hope remains while the company true
Of heart may hold together and let go
Of old pains and brews that rocked to and fro
Man and woman both; else for death they sue.

Such is the coin of loves labors, given
Over at times to the throws and eddies
Of the moon that pulls them into smithies
Of strife and scorn, though once love was smitten.

To escape it's pull man must be father
To his son and husband to his wife. Must
Change his heart that it may not in time rust
As the second hand car he did garner.

In time wounds mend, addictions grow cold, and
All is well again; though never the same
As when in time man and woman could tame
The whole world to their grasp, the wide harsh land.

So cries made shrill that pierce the nights dark ray,
That bring chaos and disorder to day,
Must be warded off until child may be
Of age to walk and talk with you and me.

It's plain as the plainest of plains in sight
That the dust bowl is made from lack of rain,
And old maids are wished for when men do gain
Without hard work the benefits of light.

And true, it is known, that women have shown
To men that all is not as it seems; hen's
Do fight one another for the right men,
Never change with the wind, though they are blown.

Though both of these thoughts can be said of each,
And vice versa may be used so to teach,
The end point is this, I hope you agree,
That the cries of children call them to be.

                                         What it all means, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

Team Player

The steady stream of wishes and prayers
Make a man seek out each of his players.
For a man without a team is alone
In an endless sea; a dog without bone
To pick in the dead of night when awake,
Unable to sleep or even to take
Leave of his senses. Bereft of such things
A man must seek out what team work's touch brings.
He must act as a man of the great whole
That is the world, and avoid the small hole
That spirals downward forever into
The trials and errors of live we brew;
For a man awake must pray to his team
Of angels and saints; this, his waking dream.

                                           Team Player, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

Sunday, April 29, 2012

Occupy This

Avalanche all over high street's big cats!
Dampen, if you can, with many large vats
Still holding  ice cold water to their brim
Within confines deep as the mountain him
Who's never once tasted the mountain's roar!
By such actions may you even the score
Between men and men, slaves and masters;
So that when fallen low by avalanche's
Weight these men may not return to ranches
Within the west, where all is warm and sweet:
Make them taste the cold in the most high street!
Yet when all is ready retreat to your
Own home, fly to safety as is our lore:
While they taste cold below cling to rafters...

                                    Occupy This, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

Saturday, April 28, 2012

The Great Expanse

Racing along on this vast brick-less track
That extends from here to there in a wrack
Of potholes, with other bumps and bruises
Lining the way, I conjure excuses
In the bowels of my mind; so as to
Avoid any reprimand on my way home. Who
Would have thought that this endless expanse,
This never ending line of cars, advance
Of civilization in the great wild
Nothingness, would get you and me so riled
With frustration! Yet still we drive, our minds
Bent on our destination: keep the blinds
Of our eyes from shutting out the great light
From Sunset; charging along into night....

Blast the speakers and wake the dead, for else
You shall surely fall to sleep and join them
As you careen through the space of hell's light,
That fleeting party of weightless boys, men,
Girls, and women all; who travel on by
Night to return to the place they belong.
So play the night away, and if the sky
Is dry enough open the windows; wrong
Is it to keep in place that which stops fast
Where whats inside fails to comply to laws
Firmly fixed in place from the dawn of time.
Is it worth avoiding the clocks old chime?
And wherefore should you travel at this pace
That even hounds could not match why this race?

Extend your hand through the air that speeds by
And ask yourself again the question of
Why: leave all thoughts of when and where, be spry
As a tree that takes in water thereof
Solving the need for sustenance; though much
Of the outcome will depend on your hopes.
Now ask yourself why you would move so fast,
Would careen a space as wide and as vast
As the world it round, yet only three touches
Of the hour hand, a knot on a rope
That takes up but a portion of the lot:
Ask yourself what it is that you have bought.
So in knowledge may you find your reward
For cheating death in Chevy Truck or Ford.... 

                                            The Great Expanse, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

Wednesday, April 25, 2012


Forty times three is the length to thee, and
Many more besides have you flown. Now by
Air must I travel, you to espy, land;
Must I also unravel to you, try
As fools do, explain what friendship does?
To explain that which is, and what it was?
I shall try, must endeavor. Clever, why,
Oh why is it cleverly hid inside
A vast laid out history! With a sigh
And a huff, and a towering puff, pride
Must give way to vulnerability;
That oft comes across as Gentility.
Know then that friendship is but constancy,
That holds together friends, quite merrily.

                                           Constancy, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

Loud Mouthed Feathers

Grumble about thou miserable fiend!
I'll soon see myself rid of your lousy
Carcass and smelly ass that has not been
Cleaned since last winter's icy snows did free
All noses from the cataracts of thine
All to large, unkempt, foul, crass, loathsome hole!
I have oft thought of becoming a mole
In light of mine assignment to your, fine,
Impeccable, distinguished, loud mouth hide!
Yet why should I grumble at the grumbler
Of grubby grubs git? I should search the wide
World for him when he is gone and mumble
To myself of the horrendous whether;
Perhaps I have found my bird of feather?

                                              Loud Mouthed Feathers, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

The Teacher's Dream

Hidden in the mind gone dim, unawares,
Is a present for a pupil of mine.
But hiding here I swim within the cares
Of worry, of doubt, and I smell the pine
Trees that do dot the landscape about my
Troubled head of darkness and gloomy being.
My glasses skewed have become so awry,
But as I walk through the valley I sing!
A song from long ago in my childhood,
Where I have often gone to gain reprieve
From the worldly woes; If only I could
Wake from my colorful dreams and believe
In true won gifts, touch, smell, sound, sight, and taste.
For dreams are of truth but a foretaste.

                                              The Teacher's Dream, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

Brows of Love

What is love but a breathe of wind that took
Shape and form upon your bushy black brim?
A cluster of hair upon your face that
Causes me to laugh, and my heart to race.
Whats more to love than, not one, but two of
These, so that I may in my heart laugh as
Long as I please. O would that your pleasing
Face were never gone from my sight, but that
Is not to be no matter how I might
Implore the great's that do uphold this house.
They are deaf to my prayers, or do not
Listen. And looking still I see your face
Glisten with the splendor of man, the lips
Of a God; your picture now does not quite
Resemble the hot lightning rod that first
I met many years ago. Yet looking
Still above your eyes I laugh, and I know...

                                      Brow's of Love, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

A Father's Sight

Colors whisk by like autumn leaves, do fall
Through the cracks of mine eyes made dim by sun's
Yellow stained light; yet here I still see
Before my frame one who is like to win
All things in my name, and more besides.
While the land falls into the sea nearby
I take little notice; for I espy
With one colorless eye the boy. So tall
Now is his frame! Many years has he won!
I see that many frames of victory
Now line the walls of our house. Small and thin
Appears the frail man who stands by the tides
That recede into the endless blue sea.
In memory sight is restored to me...

                                             A Father's Sight, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

Profits of War

Open your cupboard, your cabinet too,
That which  holds something of value to you!
Empty the wine skins and drain the barrels,
But take with us oil from hard caught wales!
Remove it all that we may retire,
Then take the lamp, and with it, set on fire
The house, the home, and with it the barn too!
Yet take from the stables the mares though few;
Spare not a single treasure you find here!
Lest our chore not go to her head, and rear
Up, as a child, the idea that we cared:
Take then all her things, as she when we fared
Against the bitter cold and winter's chill:
When she left us for dead in rotten hill...

Remember as though through watery grave
When we asleep you slipped, an errant knave,
Right past our watchmen chasing dreams from hurt;
And coming back you stabbed him. For your work
Could not be satisfied in thievery,
Though you stole all, gold and Brievery
You took alike as spoils from weary hands
That slept and dreamed of home in far off lands.
So look into the mirror and see where
Your fortunes have led you to be; horror
Fill you to think of the crimes that share
With those that do profit from men of war.
Look into this book which you stole from me,
Where Peter did strike pain and misery... 

                                                Profits of War, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012


Violet rays of night, blossoming starlight,
Creates the greatest of pleasures for me!
Renews my aching heart and sets it right,
Knowing that you'll be back for lemon tea.
As odd as numbers outside primacy
Would your absence from lemon teatime be;
A world where love struck fools that can still see,
Which is nonsense, if you fly not to me.
Yet seeing now within the clouds a hue
Of gold, I see sun set hounds guiding your
Lovely car to me; that which did imbue
My heart with cupids flight that I may soar!
Thus stand I firm in times unchanged to wait
Upon your fair formed grace, though it is late.

                                                Sunset, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

Westward March

Emblems blaze across the sky's unfurled dome;
You stand still there, your doom nigh, all alone.
Westward heaves the sunlit day, a funeral
Unattended by mortals here below;
For deep in the woods of Ni lie feral
Beasts that wait on strings. Rays of daylight thrown
Still mix with the murkiest of shadows
And cause the moonlit howl to cease: hallows
To sit anxiously for the great chase thy
Doomed form shall offer, unable to fly.
When night in all it's terror is unleashed
Then run through darkened valley to escape;
Yet still I beg thee err the light has ceased
To stay with me another day, and wait.

                                                 Westward March, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012


The pen may cease its morning rise
When men have ended untold days,
Till then in sleep their hallowed cries
Do split the night within their plays.

O shake the wind that doth shake you,
Let it not your mind overcome!
O Shakespeare, now with gentle brew
We toast to your life now far done!

But still in hearts and minds now spent
From long overdue nights un-slept
Lies many a man, pilgrim tent,
Wherefore they go their hearts to rent!

O greatest of greats, thou pilgrim
Who did in our hearts write beauties,
O  still we may our part thus win,
In fair Maiden hands set rubies.

The ink now dry from tear stains damp
And uncontrollable weakness,
Now turns to be strength, the great ramp
For the towers wrapped in bleakness.

O strangest of words let with ease
Into the raging stream of men,
O mystery that yet unseen
May still overcome dreaded fen!

Words with bright shining gleam and sheen
A thousand times thirty he knew,
And all that is, has ever has been
He took as his study to do.

O torch of light within the bleak
And troubled world of England's flame,
O mask of love and grain of wheat,
He Who wrote by dim lit wicks wane.

What now becomes four hundred years
After glorious deed's done then,
We shadows still attempt to fill
The many fair works of your pen.

O listener of winds and songs
Who made a business of stories,
O bringer of names, gentle frames,
Great characters with great worries.

Needless are not the deeds of those
Whom you did write upon the white.
For whiter pages do still row
In the style of the poets blight.

O master of verse, gently speak
Wherever gone, where now you roam!
O man in league with the great weak
That find history their own home!

Yet in the silence now I hold
And offer up a verse or two.
Dear fellow poet, who art bold,
Inspire me now, through and through!

O laughter most in tragedy,
A double standard you did take.
O laughter found in comedy,
On a circle stage without rake!

Where have gone, who did you redeem?
I haven't a single old clue!
But if you're gone forever, fiend
Save a place for us poets true!

O raging seas and tides of ink
Carry fast this dear and good chap,
O English channel do not sink
The man that sails homeward to nap!

For as old Lewis said of old,
When his veins did still become him,
Perchance the heaven we've been told
Shall remind us of good London!

O apprentice of the masters
That long were in their grey graves set,
O master who sits in rafters
While we do labor still and fret!

Now climb the heights with me dear friends
When you're good and ready to come.
For when you do as God intends
You'll find poetry and then some!

O Shake the winds that shake your sail,
And beat them out as drum's deep beat.
O write the words within your pail
Contribute to the greatest feat!

                                   Shakespeare, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

Monday, April 23, 2012

Water, Earth, and Sky

Look deep into the well of the page's light
For there lie greater things still inside It's
Voluminous length that cannot be bit
By the intellect; not even heads white
With the crown of a brimming dam, a sage:
Whose mind may well overflow with the strain
Of keeping back raging torrents of pain
That come with memories bittersweet rage!
Yet see now where the words do run with ink
That has been sung from the poets deep bane,
Those things that did drive him quite far, insane
With the joy of love, and sorrowing chinks;
Regret of your book may be so likened
To the tear strewn path. For you were frightened...

                                               Water Stains, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

Like a window in the sky are your eyes
To my dwindling form; for you fly high
aloft in a sea of gold and crimson
While I do bask in the sunlight's below.
Fairer still is light beneath the skies chill
And frost than the treasured light of often
Lost wayfarers in a sea of trouble;
For sure as clouds are they soon turn to woe!
While I stand beneath the rains that do fall
Upon my head, that make needless the dew
Of the morn that glints in fair mornings light,
You must toss and turn in your great air show!
Forked lightening seen from the ground's easy
Shade reminds me that you must be weary... 

                                                Ground and Sky, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

Lightening is but a fork of the sky,
But to me it is a cause for alarm!
I often wonder, and often wonder
Why God does make that which can also harm?
For as a toy in the bathtub, in hands
No larger than two inches wide, a babe
May play with his boat; but here I find bands
And Sheets of ice do pelt me in charades!
Would that the hand of God may come sooner
Than anticipated, for water does
Rise faster than a fair made white schooner
May come to my aid and save from what was.
Thus portents do always foreshadow this;
What a man fears, or fears no reminisce...

                                                    Portents of the deep, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012     


A piece of string lay between me,
And what I wanted, my lovely fee!
Of golden sheen and pearls hue,
What I wanted, what was my due!

But stepped I too far across that beam
Of light that did stand in-between
My feet and my quarry, not so near,
And shall never possess it, I gravely fear!

What harrowing sounds, do now, come forth!
From walls unbound by beams report;
And I cannot between them lie,
These walls of sound, do me espy.

Forth like hounds, these evil winds
Do sniff me out, and all of my sins,
They Howl and Growl about the place
Until they find me face to face.

Now where to go, oh where to hide?
Shall I suspend my foolish pride?
Can I retreat while still yonder lays
The golden wheat of brightest rays?

But thoughts begin to draw on nigh,
The phantoms of wind, begin to fly,
Straight at me, with unfurled haste,
Will not turn back, not go to waste!

As the furies of Greece of long ago
That were in stories often told,
They chase me down until in woe
I fall to my knees and do make bold...

An old prayer begins to soften
Upon my lips, where I do often
Fly from lashing whips, the coffin
Before me is seen, and I'm a hoppin!

With gentle words, now full of shame,
I sing out a song and bless the name
Of one who is greater than I, in fame,
Who has not worries, not a spot of blame!

Then through the halls comes delight,
A blessed green filled merry sprite!
He chases down the wind of woe
Causes them to run and stub their toe!

Shouts out in a merry voice of glee
Get back! Not a one may touch this fee
His fate is bound with my God and king,
So now be gone you fowl of wing! 

Then looking down upon my form
He laughs out loud, his merry norm!
For he who chases the evil prince
Has no fear, and cannot wince!

Cries speak no more of darkened deeds,
Arise young squire, fulfill your needs,
There lays the pearl of greatest price,
No need to run, this is no heist!

Then with a crackle of glee, he flies,
I watch he merry light till it dies,
Then looking back unto the thing
I find what causes me to sing!

For some do love the girls untold
And with their love they do make bold,
They act in such frivolity,
And marry then with gaiety!

Those who do grow old and wise
With children does their wisdom lie,
For they who bear none to behold
In their image, they are cold.

Yet happy is the man and wife
Who lay to rest their ancient strife,
Do bear their children, prolong their life,
And so avoid divorcement's knife!

But I who once or twice have had
The pleasure of teaching gentle lads,
And pretty girls of bonny lass,
Must now say, that I must pass!

Upon the bed of marriage I
Cannot be found to pass, must die
Unto myself, my body break!
Of finest wheat will I partake!

So reaching down with broken hands
I hear the sound from far of lands,
A promise old does flow from there
And takes my soul at unawares!

Speaks the voice of greatest deeds
Of man that treats the many needs
Of the poor and weary the faint at heart,
The bravest knight, a priest thou art!

And touching there that golden sheaf
Of finest wheat, that golden leaf
From tree's that never in winter fade,
That glow through time as they were bade!

Find strength says he that speaks the Word,
So sweet the sound, as yet unheard
By weary ears that I do hold,
As many waters flow, untold!

Then speaking in that holy place
I genuflect, cover my face,
I say in words of sorrow fell,
Oh Save me Lord from blackest hell!

For I am but a man inside,
Have been throughout the land most wide
An unkind spirit of ill intent,
My soul and mind and heart are bent!

For surely they who do love him
Are better than I who cannot win,
Am but a lowly form of flesh,
Am called but Tom, Tom of Tesh.

And being so I cannot hope
To with my lord's promise elope,
Am bound by stinging heat and rope,
And I can barely in it cope!

Then hearing fast and feelingly
Upon the wind comes a voice of glee,
But tainted is his evil song
And I for one must move along.

Lest staying here I be devoured
By lion's roar, by evil scoured,
I see before mine eyes his shape,
That forms inside, my soul to rape!

Yet sitting there within the cold
Of halls and walls of marbled stone,
I feel Gods grasp and mercies hold,
He speaks to me, you are not alone!

Cries out in strength have no fear!
For I am in need of your works;
Understand to me you are dear,
This job though has little perks.

Of worldly fare there will be none,
And gifts of gold will be but sparse,
I cannot offer to you much fun,
And many languages you must parse!

But if you hold fast to my cloak
Of mercies that by you awoke,
I'll clothe you and your broken hand!
That for my glory you may command.

So standing there with evil's taste
Upon the air, Oh must unchaste!
And raiment of God's glory bound
Upon my head, a thorny crown.

I lift up broken hands then I
Do cry out loud, let evil fly!
For here does the lord abide!
Fly forth thou prince! Far and wide!

But smirking with loathsome sneer,
Does Satan laugh, he fills with fear
My heart, begins to skip a beat
Still holding fast the finest wheat.

Then drawing near in wreathes of flame
He utters out his fearful name,
Cries havoc to my foolish task!
God's loving mercy but a mask!

For underneath those robes of love
Lies blackest deeds, woven of
Hideous night that children frights
That lay in bedrooms, barrow wights!

Drawing forth a cloven soul
Blackest soot of blackest coal,
He speaks of what I comprehend
To be the path that all will wend.

Of sorrow and of deadly peril
Is that which he does so unveil,
Where naught a soul may pause to drink,
Must tread along, and cannot think.

Then drawing close at his behest,
You are mine! You must confess!
By your actions in the past
You shall not in God's glory last!

Thus was I in priestly garb
Unsettled as though a wired barb,
Arrows set with ghastly beam
Of metal streak did in me gleam.

For in my heart pierced open wide
Was seen my soul, I can't abide
To speak of what did happen next!
Lest you should grieve and be perplexed.

Still in this world of ice and cold,
Dominions thrice, demons fold,
There came as though from a stream,
Such thoughts of hope, as rivers team.

As fish that do swim against the current
To find their love, against the torrent
Do give their best and give their all,
To overcome the blackest falls!

Then even there was I aware,
For evil hands I did not care,
I overcame then once for all
The sins now past, what made me fall!

I called out once more, not in vein!
Delightful words from me did stain
That dreaded hand of evil's might
Retracted from the words of light!

Then from the depths of wisdom I
Called forth, as though from the sky,
The blessings of almighty three,
Each One were One, yet unity!

And last of all for her defense
Did I seek, as though a fence,
To shelter me from evil tides
And she did I seek by my side.

A host of merry sprites all came,
They hearkened to my calling game,
Not servants of mine, all untamed,
My God I did not there profane. 

For I who have the strength of He
That gives life for life that it may be,
Cannot with words or actions do
As Kings and Queens command of you.

A servant is he who holds the sheaf,
The gift of finest gold and wheat.
And now my tale is almost done,
The forces of God have almost won.

They drive the Blagard from my sight!
He falls in stature and in height,
He fades into the floor untouched,
Stares back and me, You better hush!

For I'll be back with more than this,
In the night I'll give blackened kiss,
Haunt your dreams and all affairs
I'll see you drown, with nonwhite hairs! 

Then from the floor is not a sound,
The merry sprites wind up and down,
They sing a song of glory be,
And off they go to the gleaming sea!

But though at hand does fear still lie
Within my heart, causes me to cry,
Will I be ever free from he
Who calls me out on sin's old fee?

Or shall I walk from shore to shore
And fade in trust forevermore?
Can I give my heart without
The Saint in me putting up a bout?

So here we see the struggle seen
By what is yet to come, and what has been.
We understand that Saints but push
Until the end through every bush!

Now I who have been justified
Now do the tides of glory ride
And through the doors I hold aloft
As gold in hay found in a loft,

That gentle gleaming wheat, that grain
That first did seem to me pure gold,
Now give I it to all insane
That all who slave may not be sold.

In peace of heart may they all rest,
To end their days, finish their quest,
This then is my life, the best,
Where sunlight rises in the west.

Though farther I may still yet go,
I shall wind down my story slow,
In peace I leave you hearing this,
May you be free of Evil's hiss.

Speak oft of God, his Glory be
Found there in you, and Holy See,
May love and peace abound in thee,
Go forth in love, be now free.

                                        Ongoing.... (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

Sunday, April 22, 2012

The Ballad of Little Boy Blue....

When boys behave as though they know best,
And fuss about on the silliest quests
With the biggest, meanest, the very best
Uncle in town who shouts "Give it a rest!"
You know that duels will be fought, bitter tears
Will be spent upon the dusty moldy tiers
Of the town theater's abandoned seats;
If only they were full, boy, what a treat!
They'd see Uncle Duke take on little boy
Blue with naught more than his bare hands! Yet boy's
Will be boys, and this one had a mean streak
That lasted four years, a month, and a week,
Five days, a quarter of an hour, and!
One minute past the golden flower's stand...

But little boy blue didn't go without
A fight or two with that Grand Uncle Duke!
First he ran and he hid in the dark route
Underneath the stairs, then made up a fluke
From a noisy toy he hid in his place;
That caused Uncle Duke some funny disgrace.
Then he climbed the red crystal chandelier
Of the Seven Seas Theater, quite queer
Was his climb, a bit awkward if you know;
About as slow going as toddlers go.
But waiting at the top, Uncle Dukes shoe,
Which was polished as could be, very true.
Then little boy Blue knew that he was beat,
Yet he could help fighting his defeat...

Uncle Duke said with his deep manly voice,
"Give it up little Boy Blue! It's your choice!
You come quietly or go down swinging,
Yet whatever you decide to do now
Understand that in doing it I'll show
You Indian Red Blood Suckers just  how
Mean I can get, and how big I am! So,
It's you're choice. You've been warned. Will you come down?"
But little Boy Blue had other hopes, dreams
That didn't involve the Sheriffs small crib;
For his prison so resembled a child's
Room that men tried to stay away him
Lest they should end up in that man man's wild
Saloon of kids toys and boy's rummy gin!

So little Boy Blue spit on Uncle Dukes
Fair polished shiny boots with a loogy
The size of old Massachusetts! The cuke
Then drooped like a great old bat, a spooky
Ghost out of some old tale; And then he did
Coast right on down the line all the way to
The flight of stairs that was half way down! Slid
The mile long banister that went around
The theater all the way to the to the ground
Floor. There he looked up and tipped his black hat
To the sheriff, Uncle Duke of Black Cat
Creeks and the like, the name of that fair town,
Then he shouted up, "See ya farmer brown!"
He didn't count on a gun in the back... 

There at the bottom of the theater
Was "Mamma Deputy" with black tazz, her
Devil of the sand dunes that was all blur
Of lightening. Was he a dog? Not sure!
But standing there Mamma darned said to Boy
Blue, "Get your hands up you're going to bed!"
Then little Boy Blue thought his game was up,
But once again he decided to fight
Until he had no choice, was in chains; what
His plan was even he didn't know: tight
Gangsters of three years old never think twice
When it comes to being naughty or nice.
So he looked at Mamma Deputy, right
In the eyes; despite his very small height...

"Mamma Deputy" said little boy blue,
I can't say I wasn't thinking of you
All those four years, that month, and a week, that
I was running around with tongue and cheek.
I can't take it back, and wont now for sure,
I'm the blackest toddler there ever were!
But if you'd give me just one more new start,
I promise you Mamma Deputy! I
Will be the best boy I can be, will die
To make it all up to you, from my heart!
And even then Mamma Deputy said,
How do you manage to get at my head?
She lowered her gun with a smile instead;
But little Boy Blues smile turned to thick dread...

For though he'd dealt with the gun in the front
Another gun dug into his fair rump!
As he yelped in pain, as only a runt
Of a toddler can, he turned his small frump
To see Uncle Duke bearing down on him,
With a twinkle in his eyes; he would win
This fight if it killed him! Then little Boy
Blue went down on his knees, cried to Mamma
Deputy, "Mamma Deputy Please! Roy
Old Bandit had a better trial! Ba
The Laggard even stayed out a while till
He was caught being a dumb toddler pill!
Save me from the Uncle Dukes big bad wrath!
You don't, won't, want to see the aftermath... 

But the spell on Mamma Deputy did
Not have the effect he wanted it to;
He was hoping that he could get some two
Times twenty saves from Mamma's gentle lid.
Yet Mamma Deputy looked to Uncle
Duke and she said "Off to bed silly kid!"
So Uncle Duke grabbed silver manacles
That cuffed right around little Boy Blues numb
Shocked hands! He couldn't even suck his thumb!
Now he resorted to calling Duke dumb
And Mamma Deputy a double bum!
Then led out by Uncle Duke to the sun
He blew out and popped his blue bubble gum
In the face of Mamma Deputy! Dumb...

For Mamma's anger had only just cooled
To the point where she could have only fooled
The stupidest of men and women; those
That cannot even read a book that's writ
With pictures and colors from barmen spit!
Yet Uncle Duke knew, with a chuckle or
Two, that she was about to explode! Bore
A hole in his head, this three year old hide!
That she'd take him down to size, tear his pride!
So she called out to Duke with a whistle,
Then grabbed out of her pack an old thistle
That glowed in the light of the sun, told woes
To the man, or toddler, in his bum side!
Did she take that thistle to his rump wide? 

Just as she begin to swing with a grace
That could only be appreciated
From the farthest bands of black outer space!
Uncle Duke stepped in between Blue's head;
And that's why little Boy Blue is not dead.
Though he did get all afraid of Mamma
Deputy, so that you could hear a faint
Toot: could smell a foul stench that did paint
The farthest islands of the Bahamas
With unpleasant fumes. Toddlers were diapers,
Though gangster toddlers have fancy wipers.
Then Uncle Duke said to Mamma, the fair
Deputy, "Don't give in! He wants you to
Forget yourself, civic duty to tear!...

So Mamma Deputy let Boy Blue go
To the crib of Uncle Duke, where no show
Of good faith could save him from Dukes great big
Wrath: should he act like a stuck up pink pig!
Well she walked away from the scene in time,
Though little Boy Blue continued to whine
All the way down to the Sheriff's old crib!
He began to drool and did need a bib
Before the trip was over; "What a mess
Now to clean up!" Uncle Duke did confess.
But when all was said and done and Boy Blue
Was locked safely away, Uncle Duke sat
Back and kept sad thoughts at bay; though sad truth
Be told they involved Blue father, Mad Hat!...

                                The Ballad of Little Boy Blue, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

The Blades Marks

O the longings that we feel when near each
Other; that we could only with one reach
Clasp the other. O could such a touch teach
Me the ways of your mind! I do beseech
You in the fullness of time, do make known
To me the strength of your soul by the Roan
You do ride; for great steeds have through me flown
To speak of thee, of the cleft in thy chin:
Of the mark He made. Blades so very thin
Did chisel your body and frame and win
Over my affection. From the first I
Did see you I said I should rather die
Than to love another who would give less
Than his every breath to hear love confessed!

                                                 The Blades Marks, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012


If hurt and sorrow do blend in the day,
Without any reason or cause, I say
That the best way to discover their ray's
Beginning is to sit down and then pray.
For if you cannot commune with the heart
You shall be stuck and know not the start; so
Understand, my plan is your benefit!
Listen to my wisdom to hear of it.
First listen to the currents of the brook
That is in your heart, do go take a look;
And when you have returned come back to me
That you may report all that you have seen. Be
attentive to the sound it makes, unseen
The problem is, yet great as deepest lakes!

Now having joined my wisdom to your thought,
Keen me in to the sound unseen as ought
Men and women who discern their ways;
This is understanding, two know the ways
Better than one! Yet neither shall know in
Time the hidden meaning held in hearts bin
If held back by the one who's brook it is.
A doctor requires his patient's great trust,
If he is to help him, the patient must
Give over the secret of the brook's sound,
That the problem may be heard and then found.
So now with Knowledge may we continue
Our journey of understanding deep blue
Currents of wisdom; secrets of the wiz.

Now hearing the sound of the gentle brook,
Which you imparted me when you did look
Upon it's slothful sound, I have within
This little brook found the problem! The brim
Where it enters into the stream is caught
By the weight of a trap you did wrought in
The past mistakes and follies of the night;
Things done without consent, without love's light.
So my counsel to you is this, unblock
The hole; that it may whisper like a sock
That is deemed Holy, no more! Recognize
That the dreaded fen of brook feeds the flies
If it goes at the speed of a snail. Weeds
Spread thick upon the ridge of your brook.
Will you my counsel take? Most fearsome rook?

Your impious brow begins to quake, such
A look I have not seek since earth-shakes touch
Last spring, in May; when all of leaves did
Fall from the trees, the mud from the hills slid.
Such a sight suggests you will not heed my
Warning: anger kindled in the red sky
Of your Soul tells me to take my leave;
Lest my body you shall with your sword cleave.
Yet I cannot leave you in this dread state,
Can you not let go of the hate, your spate?
You may have been in pain long before now,
But why should you give in to be sin's sow?
When you did ask me for counsel I gave;
Now have piety, and be not a slave.

Raising your head high with sinister sneer
You begin to hide your hopes with such jeers
That never before have I heard in time;
Well, perhaps I have heard of them in rhymes.
Yet all of our work stands threatened in the
Storm of your unbridled rage; beckon Tulkas
To change your babbling brook to laughter!
Or as we here call him God. Hereafter
Know this at least; that I did try to save,
To secure, to release your soul: to pave
A yellow brick road in your wicked mind!
Now no spec of hope do I in you find...
But even as I turn to leave this place
I find fortuitous courage and grace. 

Though a man may shiver to think of his
Death, that it may come to him in the blink
Of an eye, he may find yet the great wiz
That made the storm has also made a chink
Within it; a norm among hurricanes
That do ravage the coast and Texas plains.
So now with the threat of death behind me
And the thought of defeat before me, I
Contemplate my life's works; as does the tree
Just before it falls to the ground in dry
Spells that sap from it all majestic being.
So do I consider as my life, and sing
Out a prayer to God, that fortitude
May be given to me as a prelude...

Preludes are but the moment, before storms
Do pass through in great wrath, as tornadoes
Swirling in the clouds are foretold by norms
Of shaded sky; the color of green. Woes
Are to come to those beneath it's beam
Of wind, dust the meal of he that's seen
In the onslaught of its great terror, ice
sleet and rain are but a few of the nice
Choices he has for drink! Yet even though
I am caught in an anvil of red fire
That gleams in the darkness of my present
Circumstance I cannot help myself, do
What I came to; to overcome the wire
That clogs your fen filled hearts brook was I sent!


                                                              Unfinished, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

The Swift Flowing Prayer

Speak the piece slowly, with ease, and love's grace:
These are the words you spoke to me early
In the morning light as we prayed; to face
My troubled past with a slothful, burly,
Cumbersome, grandma's snail like pace! Would that
You had all learned to speak in livelier
Norms than the lumberjack, who helps night bats
Not at all when he snores; for his snores were
Not enough to see by the sonar sight
Employed by those furry little mammals!
Yet I, like the babbling brook would light
My prayers with a sheet of foam! Strong hulls
Only could take the stream of my design!
For I pray with great need, you do but pine.

                                           The Swift Flowing Prayer, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

Love Reconciled

You question me with little advance so that
I cannot help but think this old trance is but
A distraction to the thing you blind bats
Are trying to accomplish! And yet what
Is that which compels woman to be
Bold with her sex with such fiery display,
Reveal, without warning, the charm of her
Body in all it's curves and whistles? Days
May come and go where I am tried, and were
I tried every day I should still be lame,
Upon my word! For rough men cannot tame
This brazen heard of feminine beauty
Turned stale; this blaze, this fiery cutey
That without shame does flaunt the booty of
Her treasure, pirates gold, in her sweet glove.
But still your questions are unanswered, and
I, unwilling to commit till I know
Full certain of your intentions at hand,
Do stutter uncontrollably; for shows
Such as you give are likely for the men
Of war that do sit for years in their woes,
And have not the time for woman's passion.
Yet as I question you in turn, you shy
Away as though I burned you in the sky
Of Love; that globe on ceilings, sparkling eye,
That does make light upon the floor of mine
Estate inside, no more holds me captive
As I stare into the depths of your face:
As I do look in vein for guilt faint trace.
Then turning too and fro you do sway, as
Branches caught in a storm, or a bay chalk
Full of baggy wrinkles upon the deep
Ocean blue; I see now in you what has
Been there all along: faintly glimpse its seat
Of power near your trembling heart that walks
Alone in the depths of night forever.
Now have I guessed the reason for woman's
Need to sell herself, body and soul, her
Bleeding heart abandoned by all the men;
An island of beauty, trapped in the fen. 
Thus, before I am even aware, my
Hand begins to extend in friendship, my
Heart extended with it in loving, my
Mind put forth to join your sorrow, and my
Soul sent out that you may borrow from me
Courage, compassion; love's forgiving fee.

So that is the start of a love betwixt
Both of our sorrowing hearts; we did mix
That night in the gladness of others joy.
You, your wiles, at first did think to sink
A fine fee from this man with golden sinks.
Yet I did of you seek out the truth, toy
As you did with my mind; so uncouth were 
Were your advances that I at first  did
Not think I should win your heart! Singing bird
Though you are when freedom allows it, hid
Deep within your heart you do house it. So
Come away with me my love, and live, last!
Let go of the sorrows and pains now past.
For love is not love where love never meets
The pains and the sorrows of sweethearts feats.

                                      Love Reconciled, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

Saturday, April 21, 2012


Tears still fresh upon my cheek,
I can hardly talk, can barely speak.
My mind is chalk full of memories,
That fill the mind with loving ease.
Hatred spews forth in loving care,
Though tears the source, unaware
Was I that in order to cry one had
But to give over his heart and be glad.
Yet the pains in the mind and heart
Do tend to weigh heavy, in part
Because of the pride that I do have
Causes me to wait until I am sad.
Then forth comes in torrents red,
A fount of water and a jet of blood;
A current that will leave me dead,
A portent to the dreaded flood.
For when touched as such I cannot
But take to the the streets, I am caught
In the throes of emotion, my words
Are scattered as African herds;
Have fallen from their form
That sweet and gentle norm;
As geese do fall out of their v
All because of a monstrosity
That they did in front of them see.
So cry because of reality.
So weep will I until the throes have passed,
Lest I get no other chance, time has passed.

                                                    Unimportant, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

In and Out

As I walked home from your sweet play I had
Many thoughts, all of them good, fairly clad;
As though best Sunday clothes on a fair lad
On girls blushing heart do cause such a fad.

Yet I could remember none when I sat
Down, at last, to put into words. My cat
Did purr when I walked up the steps, the rat
Did squeak when he saw me on the door mat.

The door did screech when it opened widely,
And the child did behave so smilingly!
The floor was a mess with all of his toys,
And as I passed by my wife said no noise!

The television was on; I fainted
To think of what thoughts it had painted
Within the minds of those that watched its gleam,
As though a swift running and gushing stream
Did pour through their minds as quick silver does!
Suddenly I realize that I was
On my way to put down into words fuzz
Ridden themes that your play procured for me!

But as I walk through the kitchen and see
The mud caked all over the place, boys fee
For playing outside in the rain, I call
Fiercely to Tommy; my son, very tall.

He comes in with a bit of a bow and says,
I'm sorry papa! Try to change you ways!
Says I in reply to this tacky kid,
Then with a slight bow he closes his lid.
Now I am horribly delayed in thought!
And run towards the office as first ought
To have done the moment I set foot in
This cavernous house, this great dusty bin!

Still more delays waited for me inside
My office; where my lively joy, my pride,
My sweet beauty of a computer sat!

Yet I could not find my spectacles, bats
Should have better sight than I would have had
If I had been born with glasses on, gad!
Then realizing that they are now lost,
I wonder about theft, how much they cost!
But it was not the case, they were not stolen;
For they were still in their case...but broken.
So it seems they were stolen for a bit
By some child of mine who had little wit.
Mourning for my loss I heaved a great sigh,
But then the thought of my themes back, try
To boot up my computer, oh what slack!
There to my frustrated designs a black
Screen did greet me; my intellect did pine
To see such an undeserved delay, vines
Of ropes to snare my exhausted brains hope!
Finally, with a shout and a roar so
Loud that it shook the office in its tow,
There was a face that smiled; a silly bow,
For how slowly it booted, as a root
That has no rain is not at all suited
To grow fast. Insane have I become through
This miserable delay! When at last
All is well and no delays can be heard
From this miserable computer, bird
Of croaking storms, I power up Micro
To see how it performs. Egads! Psycho!
A stupid update, the norms of easy
To use systems that fall apart; queasy
Do they make me: a bad stomach they give.

Now for the love of Pete let me now live
My dreams, no more delays! Let my thoughts streak
Forth from this dreaded maze; that is my head.
But pressed to write I have nothing instead....
This is unfair. I think I will to bed!

So have I by your play been given thoughts
That were at unawares tried by life; caught
In many comings and goings of life,
Lost forever in the well of great strife.

                                                             In and Out, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

The Cynic Critic

I am the fear that lies in  your head,
Causes you to turn about and dread!
I am the pain in your neck from fear,
For you dread to know that I am near!

For ill critics are never welcome,
They are praised for their ill work seldom.
And even when all is said and done
They do not smile and they have no fun.

For what am I that do sit behind
To stare at works of others, my mind
Overcome with such trivial things
As misplaced actions, no wedding rings!

I see only what I wish to see,
The hard cold fact of reality.
Stuck way up here in my fancy tree;
The mistakes of others is my fee.

Yet here I the sound of my heart beat,
And all at once you'll see me retreat.
For I run hither and thither, feet
All sore from another bland repeat!

So am I run down from my worries,
And ill at heart as cold snow flurries
That do catch upon the things already
Living; I make no longer steady.

Still I hear the sound of my heart's tick,
Of which I am tired, and very sick!
For it tells me that I have no life!
As trees have no nectar; I am rife!

With toil and dreary work I keep friends,
Forgetting the points, what plays intend.
For I do not anoint these plays good,
If I had reason to live I would.   

Therefore I am bound to this world's fate,
The end of all things is dreaded spate!
At least for this world of which is said
That when all's done it shall go off to bed.

Then hear the fate of a critic, judge
If you will this cynic, grimy sludge.
But still you would not gain this dread hedge,
For I shall use your ill words as a wedge!

Strain your head then in vain to see me,
For I am illusive, as when seas
Do make a racket, and noise is fierce;
May you my location never pierce. 

                                                    The Cynic Critic, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

Whom shall I praise?

Within this play a song was sung to me,
Or to the heart that did belong to me.
It spoke of adventure, of fame, and glee,
It spoke of the greatest of majesties!
Of capers and pirates of gentle dames,
Of business that led to men thrown from trains.
Of hatred fueled by great grudges from hell,
That left neither standing alive to tell.
Yet the song was noisy, the volume loud,
It sounded vein, arrogant, very proud;
Filled with deceit, with lies was it endowed.
And so for this reason I could not loud.
For when the curtain of red comes on down
It leaves either a smile, heartbreak, or frown.
                                                    Whom Shall I Praise? (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

Left Footed

Ancient wisdom from far beyond,
Help me wade starlight, deepest pond.
For stuck in space I have no wand
To sever from me this evil bond.

Caught in a heap just at the start
I find wisdom I could impart!
Don't walk to fast in heavy dark,
Lest you not last, slip, miss the mark.

Ancient wisdom from far beyond
Help me cross to reach yonder
Land of guided lilies and song.
For my way is delayed and wrong.

                                          Left Footed, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

Dentists Bane

Driving up the lane to their cursed lair,
I cannot help but shiver, unprepared.
As weasels slip into my home for tea
And make a mess of things quite merrily
So too do I find the door to my mind
Not shut against fears, reminders of time.
I clench my soon aching teeth, to stop thief's
Mad biting damage, to find sweet relief!
Yet this moment finds great weapon so fierce
That has caused me some happy smile; for worse
Moments have fallen to me before this,
And now I have mighty weapon of bliss!
So as I walk into their lair renewed,
I sit in the awkward chair, marble hued.
Look into the light as I feel a sting,
And the smile of delight, that cresent ring,
That bobs just out of sight behind their masks
Of blue, white--do me a favor, don't ask!
So now as I hear the sound of a drill
I sit in silence, just chill as a pill.
For in my hand I have something light weight
Humorous to think of, delightful state.
But you would say it's serious work to
Pray the rosary, a decade or two.
Strange enough, it seems to me so, quite fun
To sit in silence in their lair, till done.
So now I finish, again all is well.
I have made it through this dread seat of hell!
My mind now at peace I may begin tell
Of the wondrous peace, this great old belle...

                                                        Dentist's Bane, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

Dreams of Regret

Afraid of your gun more than your bark,
I find myself caught, as though a lark.
Your eyes pierce through my skull to the bone,
Still they cannot see though my mind thrown
Into a flurry of words, "uh oh!"
What you ask for is more than I know!
My mind is caught in the dreadful web,
Attempting to find what you wanted.
Now the gun begins to sink into
The back of my spine, a metal brew
That is sure to silence once for all
The black thoughts within my empty hall;
For you sought me for information,
Threatened on me some decimation
For the hope of discovering why
Men do act as women, men do cry!
Men do with such sultry looks and sighs
Behaved like petty geese that do fly!
Yet I do not know, am I a man
That has done these things? Have I a plan
That can reveal to you how it is
Why men end up in a fussy tiz?
My response doesn't make for a nice
Reaction, you press your gun like ice,
Satisfaction you demand of me,
Lest you should shoot, throw me to the sea!
Then thinking upon the empty halls,
Vaguely remember one of her calls.
From a long ago memory, a ball!
There was dancing, she said I was tall;
A smile comes to mind as I do think
Upon that night of happiness. Wink
Furtively at the man with the gun,
For somehow I had had so much fun
That night it warranted such risk. But
As the man begins to puff his gut,
I remember the tears, awful rut.
I see the gunman pull back his arm,
And then I find to my great alarm
That tears have been flowing down my cheeks!
Of sorrow my pitiful frame reeks
And nothing can keep me from such pain;
All at the thought of her love, her name.
Then all at once the answer is clear,
Why it was that I cried; she was dear.
Yet looking upon your angry brow,
I wonder so, what could happen now?
For if I tell he gunman how
It was his anger was aroused
I believe he will in turn shoot me;
In my answer I will not be free.
But hidden just bellow the surface
I see his great and deadly purpose.
The bullet is never meant for me,
It is meant for him, as I will see.
So taking a grave and dreadful risk
I let his mind mine own gently frisk.
When at last he understands the ring
Of sad circumstance and happening,
The gun to his forehead he doth bring.
For even as women men do share
In the sorrows and pain, they do care
That love was never made fully theirs;
Men regret their cheating love affairs.
So I watch in horror as you think,
This is the end, your life on the brink!
Into the darkness you will now sink;
But the bullet never caused a dink.
For in the moment you pulled that string,
That metal trigger, that crescent ring,
I awoke in sweat and could not sing.
Thus have I with guilty conscious done
What never in waking starlight won;
Admitted wholly my love for her,
And the regret that we never were. 

                                                 Dreams of Regret, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

Friday, April 20, 2012

Man and Woman

I sit in silence as I cry,
For you did go, you passed me by.
Now upon the shores I do sigh.
I ask myself again, O! why?

I watched your stallion descend
The fairest hills in Christendom.
I watched you go around the bend;
Never return this way to come!

For when your sight vanished from here,
At first I was full of fright, fear
Was the maker of my intents,
The clear maker of woeful dents!

So go your way as I sit on,
Never sing again to me, gone
Are your charms, my flustered heart no
Longer committed to your bow!

For brave you were upon the heights,
Great dashing boots and even tights!
And though some men should not wear these,
They became your grace as leaves trees!

Yet even as I remember,
I watch the clouds of December
Roll over my golden head. So,
The weather must match with such snow,
flakes of dreaded cold will but throw
Me into a deeper despair.
My knight is gone, he does not care
That I did love him with passion,
Left untimely, out of fashion! 

Yet even as I muse upon these,
These thoughts that do not, cannot please,
Dear father, you dropped to you knees,
Begged me to come inside; not freeze.

I asked him, why should Man intend
And then go beyond snowy bend?
Why propose such happy future,
When he leaves me so much unsure
Of the love he carries me? Were
He more the gentleman his pure
Heated love would move him to stir
His heart with roses of red hue;
Such a sign he would imbue me,
That I may have seen his love free
From all harnesses of fair state!
Yet his love seems so second rate...

My father smiles at my anger
Towards the man, this most fair ranger,
Whom did arrive some time ago;
A twinkle in his eyes says woe
To the man who behaves as he
That left Castle without loves fee.
For when he returns he'll have fights
More fierce than battles on the heights!
Know then my daughter, he then said,
That you may fight later, to bed!
Your head is cold and body too,
Come inside and I shall you brew
A father's advice; me to you!
For you are my daughter, my Sue!

Standing in silence I think him blind,
That he cannot understand my mind,
But perhaps he knows more than men do,
For fathers often usually do.

So as we walk under the snow,
I tell him my heart and my woes,
Until the cold has got my toes
In bitten cold and overthrows. 

We get inside, he gives me tea,
Tells me about reality;
That men forget women for sea,
For that love is lost, loves set free.

Yet freedom they obtain not, no.
For they are but shy of a bow
That binds them together in tow,
The one and to the other, such woe!

So taking me by hand he says,
You must of him demand, must press
Him to make his love for you known.
Force him to change, growth shall be shown.

As he walks away from me then
I remember our loves, the den
Of beauty we made for ourselves,
Where we thought to forever dwell.
That silent ranger, lover grim!
O, his brow did often glimmer
In the light of the moon, shimmer
As though a crescent moon. Winner
Of my heart, for he made me swoon.

Yet all of this is passed, he left
Me without a word for his quest!
So when he returns I'll do best
To make his life weary, no rest
Shall I help him to have until
I get my answer from him, fill
My heart and soul with surety
That we always were, are to be!

So cry away sad and fair maid,
This game over centuries played
Has left many lovers dismayed!
But you shall find your way waylaid,
He too in turn shall make a raid
Upon your heart, to know what's there.
Wishing to know if inside fair
Maiden is also just as fair!
Do not let him catch unaware
Your scheming hand, do not tear
The corners of your plans. For where
There is distrust you must clear air!
Both of you must change and prepare
To speak your hearts out as you stare
Into silent eyes; O so bare.

Yet all of this is not so rare.
Men and women have many cares.
Selfishness and vice many snares,
To catch their weary toes and hairs!

The message in the end? Work out
Your problems together, don't pout!
So man and woman have their love
Put in order from up above.

                                         Man and Woman


My hands are bound fast within by my pride,
They take me along for a foolish ride!
My friends all jeer and laugh and then they clap
Hands upon me, and then force me to tap!

Once long ago I was merely me,
A silent force of reality.
Since then I've become a sight to see,
But none of this show is really me.

Caught in a whirl, a tornado,
Remembering bits, snips of Plato,
The image at the cave's gate, Oh!
Yet falling down, stubbing my toe...

Now the music begins new,
People pour down me a brew,
Such dread cold! Not warm as stew,
Each douse they in part me slew...

Cannot see before me,
Is that a man or a tree?
Cannot hear around me.
To happy, merrily...

Begin to sing songs,
They all sing along!
I start to forget,
Yet inside I fret.

Darkness descends
Upon mine eyes,
Shadowy fens,
Wild lust and cries.

Cannot see,
Hear the sea,
Smell her hair,

Too drunk,
Can't speak,
A punk,
Not meek.


Yet no,
Can't go,
Must cease!

Befriend her;

They shout at me,
Too full of glee,
They cannot see,
This cannot be!

Run away from them,
Out the door, from den.
Escape by the moon,
Twilight's blessed noon.

They call me back again,
To their hearts I must tend!
But not until I Am
Tells how to be a man.

Music inside of my head,
I start to feint and I dread
That they have returned, instead,
I find myself safe in bed.

Yet still the ache inside Mon Tete,
Remains as though a lively bet.
Proves that my friends designs upset,
Before I did mortal sin whet.

Now hid beneath my blankets and sheets,
I wonder how to accomplish feats
That came to me in my dreams, complete
The task heard in the depths of hearts seat.

Thus am I now troubled within my heart,
How to leave the past behind and to start
Upon the straight and narrow gate? Impart
O God, how to save me from my darker parts?

                                                      Waywardly, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

Too Late

Believe if you will, but believe sooner
Than the man on his pretty old schooner!
Life at sea has taught him at last that boon's
Do not come upon those that do fast so
Long as he; for he did never last. Oh,
Throw upon yourselves the protection, woe
And vice and sin, greedy deception toe
Your line with cunning hand! Direction now
Has been changed, no longer deflection! Look
Fast to your lines and your sails my friends, cook
No meal to eat on the high raging seas!
Be not stubborn up until the end's brook.
For holding fast to your beliefs makes wise
Counsel vain; caught up in the storming ties.

                                                       Too Late, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

Thursday, April 19, 2012

Witch Hunt


Time doth

Guard your rear!
Hear the sneer
Very clear!

Holds you fast now,
With hands of cold,
Threats bold, made proud,
Tightens its hold!

Fear of a witch hunt,
The burning of runts,
Gifts of ill intent,
All twisted and bent.

Secrets had are gifts now past,
Gone from the light at last,
Darkness made into gas,
Poisonous fumes, alas!

Shadows most fell glisten still,
Hold the mind, the human will,
Drag all creatures on the hill,
Drag from behind window sill!

Fell deeds done in the past nights rays
Glisten still in her deadly gaze,
Secret she thought it, all a maze,
Until at last it woke from haze!

Now lock your doors until nights gone by,
If you don't you'll soon wonder; how why?
Why did I not hide behind that rock?
Now with my secrets they do me mock!

Yet now that hiding is impossible,
My deeds revealed beyond my control,
I shall stand before them, my heart and soul.
Bare witness to me! I am free! made whole!

But listened to my confession, none,
They dragged me about to have some fun,
Called me names most foul and made me run!
Until at last I was spent, I was done.

Ropes of steel carved into my chest,
Made it impossible to rest,
The end of secrets, of my quest,
Secrets did get of me the best!

Tears of cold now wrap my face,
Choking cold and such disgrace!
Removed from me gentle lace,
Treated like a lesser race.

They bring execution,
Not one prosecution,
They have no delusion,
Murder, their solution.

Curtain falls on me,
As water on the sea,
Lights go out as black
Folds prevent sights track!

Sound of an ax,
Domini Pax,
Cannot relax!
Must face the facts.

Death comes now.
Take the bow,
Sweaty brow,
Filthy sow!

Witch hunt,
Mere runt!
Old cunt!
So blunt...


                                         Witch Hunt, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

Heart Mind Body and Soul

Fly, fly! For the mind does run apace with
Greater speed than the heart can keep, cannot
Match the hare's bounding feet that do forthwith
Act at the behest of his troubled heart!
So shall you find him far ahead if not
Soon followed by you he is. Bed's marked well
By the sleepy eyes as they are passed by,
For no rest shall you have if you seek tell
Of the bounding hare you seek! Mind's fly
Over hill valley and dale as in dreams,
Faster than even the greatest of kings
Do command their servants for food and drink!
Then know, press on! Your doom is at the brink!
Made slow be a mere chance of the clocks link
That was severed ever long ago, sinks
Now from the depths of forgotten lands old,
To return to the forefront of men bold.

Now fly! Fly! For you cannot reach him yet
By standing upon the feelers of your
Hearts desires, which is all so beset
By calamity and woe, fear's great chores
Set upon you like wild dogs to make the
Heart scatter before them as a fire drake
Does melt the Forrest with a single la!
A heartfelt tune from men, but he forsakes
Such tunes when he causes everything in
His path to turn to dust, the aftermath.
So if you do not act now or sooner still
You shall soon wish you had, oh yes you will!
For standing here you shall soon see naught
Of the fast mind, the hare, he whom you naught
In the dells of your dreams and fantasies.
Now go, fly! Go now boy! And quickly please!

But coming to your senses you cannot
Move, are so wound up in fate, and thus caught
By such delays as these described by we
Who do sing the song now sung merrily,
You have only one hope to reunite
What was once one, now three, by end of night.
So reach out to your mind by God's precious
Gift of the soul, that which remains in you,
That you may take flight and loose control; true
Flight is achieved when soul knows no bounds, breeds
Excellency greater than found in hounds!
Now do the same to reclaim your scared heart,
Bring them together, that they may not part!
Now return each one to the source, body,
And become three in one at last, you see?

                                                           Heart, Mind, Body and Soul, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012


Stretch away dear wintery grasp, you shall
Not succeed in your stretch, not last in your
Fell spell of cold flurries made not in tall
Beams of light, the greatest of May's bright chore.
But say you to me it's not time yet, fight
Shall I until the end, and I will bet
That there is chance still of frost's blight, abhor
Me if you will, though you cannot stop me!
I shall return in time as raging seas
Do conquer land's, our weeping deep tides be
Ever on the offensive, we stride free
Of any restraint save the hand of God!
But I say you may stretch away, I laud
The great God, while you wait for the end's spree!  

                                                   Stretch, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

Wakings Door

Wake for the day, if not for the thought made
Clear in you mind at dawns first light. You wade
Through dreams at the brink of your doorstep, slip
And fall through the mist of memories past,
As though a sailor holding to the mast
In a swell, a surge at sea; now you dip
Through the waters clinging for dear life's fate,
Fell from the mast into the sea, fish's plate.
Yet will yourself to wake! Do not fade here
In the morning fog, rake leaves from the ground
That no thorn or bog in this place appear!
Let go of the waking mists that you've found.
Never was reality blended so well
With dreams than at the waking door, fell towns.

                                             Wakings Door, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

Cloaked Words

What do I say to the things inside?
That flow about as a river's pride?
Say the name and I shall speak!
Not minutes, or days, but weeks!
I'll speak my heart until the end!
I hope that I do not offend.
Yet can one help that January is cold?
Or that the dreaded February colder still?
Sometimes the truth can hurt our insides,
Ruthless truth often conquers, divides.
Hatred is a thing of infinite despair,
Because truth spoken thus is not good repair,
Its intent is meant to ridicule and scorn,
Makes us all wish we were never even born.
Know then that what I say is misted over
As St. Patrick did pray with rustic clover.
Hear then please my cloaked words, do not scorn me
For saying what I love is what I see.
Love is but a symbol of what is to come,
For as we know it it is imperfect, not done.
So know now that as I speak to you,
My words are undone, yet still, so true.
Their full meanings remain unknown in time,
Just as the meaning of riddle's rhymes.
So speak in turn to me of whats inside,
Do not close off the wall by self-made pride,
Speak in riddles if you must my dear,
For all will be revealed soon, made clear.

                                                   Cloaked Words, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

Mother Church

Darkest night can't see through,
Dreaded plight, can't see who!
Hatred's cloak, a blood hue,
Makes a stain, evil brew!

Touch of beauty in she
That drives the storm from we,
Darkness fades from the light,
Blue and gold is her sight!

Harrows old as deaths hand,
Greatest fear, contraband,
Red light of vilest strand
Now fights the light, last stand!

Hint of light never seen,
Brightest light with white gleam,
Safest night drawn from dreams,
Great I Am who redeems!

Cruel wood and iron teeth
Cause him pain underneath,
Gives her sorrow and grief,
Death's laughter, demon thief!

And in the summer's heat,
Drips red and white his feat,
Thousand drops, finest wheat,
Death's black tongue tastes defeat!

Death now freed from evil,
Is sister death, free to till
The everlasting will
Of he who rose, reigns still!

Anguish, flames hot and red,
Now sing evil to bed,
Makes him wish himself dead,
Now becomes his own dread!

Fairest light among us
Who did lite upon the dust,
Who broke the windy gust,
Now in you do we trust!

Sing again light the lamps,
Gone are bad circumstance.
Play a fiddle, lets dance!
Our song sprung from the lance.

                             Mother Church, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012


Constrain yourself to the depths of the sea
If you cannot contain your rage and be
Calm in the face of the storm at nightfall;
So now, go! And listen for me, my call
Shall hail to you down bellow in the deep;
Wait until you hear bellowing and reap
The rewards of patience and gentle hand.
Yet tarry not to long in the deep once
Heard you my lively song above. Pounce fast,
Make the hours minutes and seconds last
Until the end of my shrilly made cry;
So then shall you succeed and not die. Past
Tell of this I cannot help you further;
Do as I ask though you hear the murmur 
Of discontent that is born from hates rage,
Go now, be content, as the knights small page
That fetches his sword at the beck and call
Of the knights deep voice; go now to your hall
In the deeps of the ocean, the great blue.
Go now in peace, for I shall soon see you
Rise up again on crescent waves of light
That match the crescent moon we have tonight. 
But for all of this to come true, to pass,
You must obey, and listen! In the mass
Confusion that is your mind, every task
Becomes illusion. In kind so shall all
Things be for you in your current fall. O
Were it not for the original fall
There would be no need for my current call!
Yet I dwell to long on memories gone,
As merry as a lamb or dancing fawn!
So shall I reiterate what I've said,
Go now, to the deep, go to bed. And I
Shall keep watch that you may in vein not try
To fight the fight to soon. Patience is key!
No go. My son. Come forth in victory!

                                                     Obedience, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012


Softly the heart speaks to you of great heights,
Of adventure, bravery, and strong knights
That did once roam the land; they did fight those
Imperial dogs, Romans, and did rid
The land of each and every one. Hidden
Inside your heart in silence is great hope,
That you may follow they who fought so
Long ago! In wars of light were taught! Oh!
To be or not to be seemed childish play!
Meant for men who did not see the day row
By with the passing of the sun's gold bow.
O, to be a warrior, to fight one
Battle in the glimmering fields of old.
Would that you fought evil, as you know how.

                                                   Battle, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

The Ostrich

Ostrich are you who do hide your head down
Within the sandy dunes, underneath this
Desert mask, this arid plain, you do frown!
Yet you never know, down there, what you miss.
Lift up your head my feathered friend to see
March shining in the desert's golden sea!
Look around you in the cold dead of night,
To see why animals are all afraid,
To see what it is that fills them with fright!
Are you not, as a banker, well paid? Bight
Down upon some morsel of food, be lite
And merry! Use dorsal as though a kite!
So take your head out of the sand my friend,
Leave the land of make believe and pretend.  

                                                    The Ostrich, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

Shadow's Being

The idea is not so important as
What it represents; the portent of love
Becomes a gateway to heavens above.
So in my idea of you. I am caught
Drifting, as in a snow bank that does not
Thaw; it's virtual being always a has.
So as lightening brews I know April storms
Are fast at hand; bringing with them rain, wind,
Hail and sleet; each a portent of insane
Power, but a sliver of the great norm.
Yet as I look upon horizon's bleak,
I find that all have joined in a great mass
That hurls towards me in torrents overcast;
And there at last the portents being I meet.

                                                   Shadow's Being, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

Tuesday, April 17, 2012


To break the door you must be it's author,
Must know the inner workings of it's being,
Rusty intellect will not help you, sing
Not to the past to reach your love; to her!
But heard you not my call as I had hoped,
My word was ignored in your flurry of
Hopeless strokes against my authorship; Love's
Once had in luminous lights become ropes.
Yet felt me in your heart as I walked by,
Knelt down upon the ground; and then you cried,
Let go of your anger, replaced with hope.
Your body begins to heave up and down,
I place upon your head the sorrows crown,
A smile through the tears tells me that you'll cope.

                                              Authorship, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012

The String

Listen to the tones and the hues of music,
Such things do not come from down below, and
If they do you shall know; if you choose it,
Risk the loss of the music in your soul. Bland
Becomes the guitar, it's string broken, by
Choosing to play what is so clearly dry;
Forged in the depths of time was the sword that
Sings through the night, blind as a skyward bat
Screeching in vein to see the colors hues
As he believes falsely to be his dues.
Tone my heart with a serenade of song
That moves me to tears and to sing along;
Let souls be satiated by it's ring,
Lest trolls be invited by evils string.

                                             The String, (c) Luke Bennette, April 2012