Wednesday, May 30, 2012

The Black Canvas

Tear the page away from me,
Tear it right on off, set me free,
Like Aslan to Eustice,
Show me how true bliss
Becomes a man
How he dons it's hue,
To paint man,
To paint him true.

Act away while night rolls on,
Give me hope, this lowly pawn.
I take from you, you take from me,
We roll right through the rolling sea.

But you changed me,
You opened my eyes.
You acted,
And you cut all your ties.
And I watched you,
Couldn't look away,
I sat there,
But now I pray.

Give me hope to stay afloat,
Give me time to get my coat,
You're on your way, you walk again,
I want to go, but I can't pretend.
And though I know I'm the not the same,
I'll act the part and put on a frame.

Live my life,
Day after day,
Night after night
Down by the bay.
We danced after
The show we'd done,
The sound of our laughter
Was a sign that we'd won.

Yet time still passed us right one by
It took from us as though with a sigh,
Our hopes, our dreams, our youthful face,
And now you're gone from me without a trace.

Where did it all go wrong?
Were you playing right along?
I know I acted just for you,
Was it all just an act for you?
How could I be so blind
As to say we'd never fall.
Was I just being way to kind,
While you never bothered to call?

What's an act but a middle way
That lets you see through a different lens,
A prayerful hope you can be
Somebody else, that we can be friends!

So tear away my heart and soul,
Cause I've lost it all, all control.
So tear it right off, and set me free!
Let me be the one you always wanted to see!
Build me up, color me with law,
Rip me head from limb;
Cause without the pain of the deadly paw,
There's no way to escape from sin!

Keep me straight, and narrowly guide me.
Walk me through, this towering slide.
Be for me a my guide and confessor,
Be my love, but don't be my lesser!

Cause life tears you down when you expect what
Doesn't mean a thing, causes you to strut.
Life tears you down when you don't hold back,
When you act out of hatred; so pick up the slack!
Life tears you down when you act unreal,
Life's not a schedule, a film's not a reel.
Teach yourself to look inside,
Open yourself and remove your pride!

Paint it black, you've got nothing.
Paint it white, other colors will spring...

                    The Black Canvas, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

To Trust you must Sue

You told me,
I could be,
Anything that I wanted, yeah.
That's what you said.

I told you,
Yes it's true,
I'd rather follow instead. 

And it's not easy,
Yeah that's what you said.
To follow you,
Would tear me to shreds.

Since when did the world turn to grey?
The gold is gone, it's gone today.
The world is bankrupt,
And it can't see.
Don't want to interrupt,
I just want to know, who you want me to be!

A child is warm,
Like red leaves, and gold.
Your heart is torn,
Yeah, it's all been well worn.

You're falling too fast!
You're getting old.
You're changing fast,
That's what I'm told,
But I can't change who I wanted to be,
When I was a boy, and wanted to see,
I wanted to see,
But I'm not free.

Like a lion's rage
I'm all confused,
Trapped in a cage,
Poked and abused!

And if you keep it up,
You'll find it's not good,
Volcano's do erupt;
I would that you could.

Cause the world is grey
When you can't sing,
And I have to pay,
To the table I bring,
One last ray,
This ray of hope,

Cause everything's grey!
And I can't say,
When they end will be,
The end of sorrow
That will set us free!
I'm at the end of my rope--

So tell me what it is you want me to say,
Tell me like it is, do you want me this way?
How can I change please help me teach,
What I've learned! O please! help me, I beseech...

Please be true.
Don't let go.
I'll follow you,
Forever you know.

You shook my hand,
You let it stray.
You let me wander,
I ran away.
But where I went, I can hardly remember,
And I didn't come back, till half past December.

Years had gone by,
When I thought I would die,
Still I can't cry,
And I don't know why!

Cause the world is grey, by it's heart is green,
I'm not here to stay, is it all just a dream?
Is there a place where the gold is good?
A place where men do what they should?
I can't see,
The raging sea,
But I walk into it, because you want me to see...

You told me to walk,
To trust in your hand,
Can I walk and talk?
I can't understand;
Cause I took my place there at your side,
Yet I wasn't content, I was full of pride...

I ran away from what I said,
Said I'd follow you,
Until I'm dead!
You gave me to much room to think,
My heart is a ship that's ready to sink!
And everywhere I hear the jeers,
Cause the world is grey,
It's filled with tears!

I just want to be with you.
Don't make me beg, please don't make me sue.
I want to trust, to trust in you.

              To Trust you must Sue, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

If your Brave

Strange enough I find my way,
I walk the path, and I'm here to stay,
Strange enough I can't see,
But that doesn't mean I'm not who I want to be.

Make a stand, if you're brave,
Don't be an arrant knave!
Take spades, raise the fortress high!
Employ the clubs until you die.
Make a stand if your brave,
Give into your hearts, cause he forgave, you.

I Play my hand with ease and grace,
I know I'm here, my rightful place.
But walking home I am all flush
And can't keep a strait hand;
To see them their makes me all hush,
It's something I can't, I won't bear,
To see them all in such a rush!

Make a stand if you're brave,
Don't be an arrant knave,
Take spades and raise the fortress high!
Employ the clubs until you die
Just make a stand, remain true,
He died for us, he forgave you.

Take spades and dig a whole,
Create for yourself a greater soul;
Employ those clubs you saw last night
Keep them out of a fight,
Make them strong, right a wrong,
Fight the fight and make it through,
The light at the end shines in you!

The enemy will fight you still,
Until he's had of you his fill;
He'll strike you blind, and take your hand,
He'll lead you away from your home, your land.

Make a stand if you're brave,
Don't give up like the knave,
Build the fortress high enough
To overcome the spite and guff.

You play your diamonds to beat his pair
Of spades, but you were unaware;
Overcome by your fear of clubs
You ran right past those sweet cherubs,
You left them in the dust,
And while you fought the fear inside
Your car turned into rust;
You're home devoured your very soul,
But heh! You still have control!

Be brave!
Keep strong,
Fight the knave!
Sing along,
The song of angels weeps for you,
They pray and hope you will be true!
Walk back the way you came,
Cherub clubs cry out your name,
Beg you with their poor refrain,
Don't hold yourself back,
Release the cane!

Make a stand! Please be brave!
Cry out, they'll help, you fight the knave!
Raise the fortress high,
Don't keep walking,
Don't walk on by!

We all want a royal flush,
But strange enough,
It's not the flush that's royal,
But men of every race that work and toil.

I make a stand,
I play my hand,
I bravely walk without my fear,
And hold all close, I hold all dear.

Strange enough I walk my way,
I find the path, and I'll never stray.
And since I've found my sight again,
I'll never doubt again, amen. 

             If your Brave...(c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

A Wake for the Awoken

Waylaid by sleep before I could fall to sleep,
I dream of dreaming down by the deep.
Deep in the water, yet not deep at all;
For I hear the sound of a soundless footfall.
See the images before me, before they occur;
I smell the enemy, I can smell his dank fur!
Grip I the knife that grips my hand tight;
Both in my dream, and in my sleep tonight.
Creaks open the door within my open mind,
Red eyes in a dream, are the one's I find.
Yet closes the door with a gentle creak
In the night wherein my mind still doth seek
To understand what it hears, hearing it dimly,
To see what it see's, seeing it grimly.
Feel's the touch of a fiend, touching mine,
It tightens it's hold, as holding a vine.
But reality shows a woman showing love
By tenderly clenching her lovers hand above.
Quick as a flash of lightning alight
With the power of quicksand,
Where darkness becomes sight
In a desert like land,
The knife within his dreaming fist comes up,
And turns what was love and loves own pup,
Into a bath of suffering demand.
Now wakes the woken man to make
A funeral of his own wife, a wake;
Now awake is he to the folly of his way;
For he feared the coming of gentle day.

                   A Wake for the Awoken, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Sundering Sense from Senses

Overcome by the senses, senseless I am;
I am hopelessly lost, yet hope for a tram.
My eyes are shot, they're shot full of smoke
From an angry fellow I did foolishly poke.
Now sore from a battle, I battle death's cape
That dogs me every where my feet trape.
Distant lights speak distantly of a bed,
Where I am bound; what is bound is my head.
A horn blares out in the silence, silently;
For I cannot hear while I'm here in a sea
Of darkness that darkens the dark I'm in.
Brought on by vice, the virtue of sin.
Rest you weary heart, but wearily though;
Woe unto you if you should find more woe. 

                     Sundering Sense from Senses, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Washing Yourself

Washing away with the leaves that fell
Is the letter you gave to me from hell.
Where the prints of paper given at dawn
By the press that presses upon your green lawn,
There memory sticks like a sponge,
Causes me to strike out and lunge;
Like an angry crap that sidles up the sand
And reaches to strangle with sharpened hands,
So too does my heart at the sight of your face.
But it's washed away now, without a trace.
Hole yourself up with a rock that's to big,
Like an oil giant out on the ocean, a rig.
Until you wash yourself clean of the past,
You will never find peace, and will not last.

                        Washing Yourself, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

The Raging Theme

How they rise up and down, almost afraid,
Never standing still in a peaceful glade.
How loud and brazen, thunderous appeal
That racks and shakes the house with zeal;
Yet from the faintest depths of my soul
I hear no sound, and I am not made whole.
Now for a chase, and a building high pitch
That weaves itself in and out of a ditch;
But music cannot be free to express
What it seeks to compliment, as a dress
Cannot stand for the woman who wears it
Rather adds to her feature's of charm, wit.
How it sounds my core, and rattles my cage,
But it never fills the whole made from rage.

           The Raging Theme, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

The Dream is Calling

I hear the sound, the call, the silent word
Within the heart as it begins to herd
Those few that are hued; And even some who
Heard of the call begin to tread to you
Who make it's color, who dreamed it's order
Of black and white hue. Yet how that sword her
Son still carries gleams within your white hand,
Pale in the sun, cold in the moon lit land.
Will she be willing to bequeath such sheen
To someone who feels that he's in a dream?
For sound men are sounded out and broken,
Yet dreamers cannot be sounded out when
They are told to act; for they know better
In a dream they are confident, and sure.

                    The Dream is Calling, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

The Thundering Clear

It's clear to me,
As I hope you will see,
That with the season's shiny new dance
Everyone goes,
Though nobody knows,
Where they are going in advance.
Now the breath of the ground heaves a sigh,
And leaves near and high
Taste the stain of absence, no sweet relief
Made plentiful without a thief.
But high in the sky,
Sporting no clothes,
Is the sun, and O my!
He hasn't any robes.
No clouds fill in the cunning clefts,
And the sun's teeth makes cruel hefts.
And beneath him the world moans.
For the sigh of the wind is naught,
And birds in the tress are caught
Without the gentle blue baritones. 
Now even as this changes to winter's strike,
Where workers wont work for pay,
Where men and women,
All of them alike,
All leave town for a single day,
Even as change occurs and derives
From the land a gentle hiss ,
(for water goes up,
Then down,
For a while,
And then simmers the ground with a kiss)
My friends and I
Don't change,
Are spry,
And we ourselves have not a one miss.
Yet came into our lives
Women, our wives,
And we could not hold true
To each other, our brotherly bliss.
We left each other,
For woman a brother,
And saw each again the blue sky made clear.
Yet I'd rather see,
From beneath the tree,
The sky all a thunder,
And adventure afoot!
Than to tend to a wife
Who's sure to bring strife,
And want me to massage her bare foot!
Fled I then underneath
The bland summer day
Between the crannies of the sunlit quay,
And never looked back,
I even picked up the slack,
And made it,
Now I sit,
Underneath the thundering tree, but alack!
For no clouds were there.
The change was clear.
A morbid affair;
And I was a poor seer.
Loosing hope I stayed,
And my life was staid.
I sat there underneath the tree and I played.
Like a boy in the rush of the creek at dawn
Plays with the critters, and rolls in the lawn.
A feeling of fear at the thought of change
I thought to myself I will seek out the range
Of mountains tall enough to climb;
No matter their height,
I shall be fine.
I returned then to the home of my friends,
And sought them out not;
The thought of them offends!
Thus as I gathered my things to go
Upon the great trek,
The great show,
A woman stood there clothed all in blue;
A mantle of white she wore, tis true. 
Thought I then, I have found my life!
My way out of all of this horrendous morbid strife!
I reached out to take
What I sought,
And thought
My head what would my heart slake,
She vanished from me with a smile and a laugh,
And I was left,
Without a path to take.
Twiddle nature until it grins
And the sun beams down from the heavens.
Squeeze the jar of glass till it breaks,
You wont find what you seek,
You're peace it takes.
Restless was I then,
I could not see.
My eyes were blind in this world,
Yet the scent was clear, and the sound still held;
For the sound could of sky and earth meld
To make one all existence,
Though by another's power;
For she was but a mighty turret
In a castle
A tower,
A bastion of reminiscence. 
Searched I the world in a kite of stars,
But found her not,
Not even on mars.
Looked I into the farthest depths of space,
And could not find of her a single trace.
Returned I then to my house and home,
And went to my room,
Where I now atone.
For I lost what was good,
And what was good is now gone.
I pray I might be taken from this life gone on.
Yet strange,
Lo, Behold!
Here is a wonder that's never been told!
For with a smile and a laugh,
She appears inside
My room,
My home,
And walks to my side.
Kneel then did I upon a sheet of grassy wood;
For the vision did change where I stood
Into a golden Forrest,
A resting place,
Where I forever might live, I could.
With what speed did you run said she
To the farthest reaches of the sun to be
Where I was not,
You thought, but caught
Me not outside the realm of your sea.
The ocean is grand, but the sea,
Is where you were meant to be.  
And though it pains you as a cliff that breaks away
From the mighty face of a mountain's back,
To remain in this place, to stay,
I must ask, and implore you to be
My own servant, co intercessory.
For your friends, they have changed,
And so have you;
As is wont of men and women too.
Do not run from the fight
Which is here, in your town.
Here it is that you might
Turn your frown upside down. 
Left she then her aura there,
And my life as well,
My life she did spare.
Like a wind now gone that's promised rain
In the aftermath her scent, a thunder in her train.
Now it's clear to me,
That the vision we see,
That is life itself around us,
Is more often than not
Exactly what we got
For the sake that we give our trust.
For as an elephant is loath to admit,
Might even curse,
Or bite,
Or spit!
He'd never give credence that he forgets a thing.
And upon himself is own ruin he will bring.
Likewise the man who flee's his home
Without proper cause, and does not atone,
Shall rue the day he left the stalk of green grass
Untended within his home; the unsaid mass.
So don't look for clear skies,
Look for thunder,
And lightning to arise!
You'll know you're in the right place.
There you shall find rest, and grace. 

                      The Thundering Clear, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Strange Habits

A habit of mine is to walk in the sun,
In clouds as well, when the rain makes one
The earth and the sky!
And bits of hail go sailing by.
Yet a habit of yours is run all about,
Inside of your church where you cry and flout
The lazy daisy I've become.
You seem to think that I'm nothing but a bum. 
Yet the winter came and neither I, nor you,
Saw each other again, which made me quite blue;
For I'd become accustomed to your face
In the window at two.
Now I'm inside running errands and yelling,
Attempting to buy, but more often selling;
And it leaves me unhappy, I confessed!
That I'm chained in here to a paltry desk.
But looking up I see a smile,
The face of one I haven't seen in quite a while.
Rosy cheeks from the cold outside,
And clothing of black and white.
Through the window I've seen his game is mine,
Our paths have crossed, but no longer aligned;
And it seems to me as though from a height
Had I fallen into the scene.
For my stomach dropped to see him wave,
But I'll have the last laugh! That daring knave!
He and I don't have a difference,
No, only time shows the public our commitments.
Now the spring rolls around, I'm free at last
To walk out in the fields.
And I walk up past the window to see
That face of his, no longer jolly.
But instead of the man who held the joke
With me, the bloke,
I see a man whose flippant and red,
And can't be bothered to look up.
Can it be said I,
That this fellow I've laughed at is dead?
I wonder, O why?
What could have turned that lash tongue to lead?
Yet turning around with the thought of going
Inside to find out the reason,
I found myself face to face with that rascal,
Myself, crying out treason!
Said he to me, that habit we have,
Of changing in the seasons,
I thought it best, to end that old quest,
And come outside with you to reason.
Said I to him, O no you old trickster!
I'm not interested at all.
You're a man of the cloth, I of color,
And I wont see you again till the fall.
Well I'm sorry to say he didn't respond,
Rather he sat there, quiet at my taunt.
Wouldn't say a word.
And I felt myself to be quite absurd.
He shrugged and said,
O well, be it all on your own head!
But so you know, I'm your competition,
And to beat you is my ambition.
Scandalized was I!
How could this fat rogue have done
What I thought was impossible?
To have made my taunt his own fun?
Said I to him, I don't want to compete!
You my funds will spoil, will deplete!
For a true man of God
Takes none for himself.
So he said, tis true,
I make and I give,
I haven't got a single jot of wealth.
But still, I'm well fed,
And have a nice bed,
Tended to by the nicest of elf's.
Thought I then how nice it was,
And all of this was,
Well because
He gave himself up for a bunch of people
He didn't know,
He gave it all up, the color, and the show.
My trance was broken,
I was upset!
For along came a customer who gave;
Not to me but to him!
Just on a mere whim!
That horrid man of the cloth! That knave!
Then he smiled at me, lifted his hat,
And walked away like a big black bat.
I felt my pockets, they weren't very full,
And my stomach the same.
I decided I'd pay the toll,
And go up to him, to learn his name.
But he turned to me on the dot when I came,
And said to me very plain;
A man of the cloth isn't in it for the food,
As at times you'll find it's worse.
This is a good year for me, and the purse,
But sometimes even I do curse!
I said that's fine,
I curse on a dime!
And never think twice about it either.
I may be a bit queer,
And sometimes I sneer,
But I can still be called a believer.
Then the sun came out and the cold came through,
The teeth were warm, but the breath was blue.
The hand shivered white while the head made fast
To whatever the body upon it hast.
A frown in the clouds told me upstairs didn't think
Myself to be suited,
A wink,
From the man of the cloth;
Now I think myself a poor old sob.
Tried I once more, as the man turned away,
As the wind in vain tries to make a man stay,
Tugged I on his feet, his arm, his ankle,
And even resorted to be a living manacle.
But he smiled all the more, said,
My son, do abhor
That you act in this manner to me.
Rather if you still,
Find in yourself the will,
To overcome even the sea,
Return to me err a year has gone by,
To see whether all is well.
And if you find the desire is there,
Then I'll be there for you to tell.
Walked away the breeze from me,
A habit of the earth, loose and free.
Kicked his feet to the ground like a canary,
And sailed into the sky like a bee.
But I on the ground remain, like a dog,
Tied to my work, like the ground to a log.
Struggled, I did, for a year,
And many a times I greatly feared
I'd never see him again,
This strange man among men.
Wooly goats with chins of white
Passed by the window in winter's blight.
Kids with horns and saucer eyes
Made jokes and crack the windows eyes.
Then spring came through and I'd had enough!
I walked right out, as though on a bluff
I sailed down the steps of that hill,
Which was my building,
I still had the will.
Having left all my things behind in the room,
I didn't think much at first.
But then the sun filled out, went down,
And I began to be athirst.
I left my keys! That skeleton bone
That lets me into my home
Where alone,
I find comfort and solace in a bad way.
Hoping for another, just one more, sun lit ray.
Then when I'm down among the unsettled mist
That's sipping the the sky like a pleasant tea,
I hear the sound I've longed to hear,
The sound of a man,
Buzzing like a bee.
Flying down the street
All in black,
He smiles at me,
And picks up my slack.
He asks me again,
Do you want to come with me and work?
Will you earn your wages and your perk?
Will you overcome your own miserable self
For the sake of a kingdom
That provides excellent coverage of health?
I said yea to each, and nay to none!
Excellent! Said he,
But there is one,
Just one more thing I'd like to say.
Your rewards are all after this life.
At the beginning of May.
Now a habit of his was to tell these folk
That were interested in his work,
Everything in pieces,
It was his own little joke;
And for it I tore him all to pieces. 
With a poke and a jab I picked at him
Like a vulture that goes for a manikin!
For he did nothing to me at all but laugh,
And in the end I found nothing.
The aftermath.
Perhaps, and it's strange,
I've found in myself a change,
And I've found one inside of him too.
I'm still here, a bit deranged,
But I've found that he flew
Into the heaven's the skies,
Where now he flies,
And never cares again for the woes of earth.
Yet I consider myself to be changed,
And can't go back.
I can't go back to being deranged,
I must pick up the slack.
So I jaunt down the road, laughing now,
At my own stupidity.
For even as a dog may scratch at the flea
I found myself a dog to be.
I still walk in the sun,
In the clouds and the rain as well.
And often the hail causes me to bail,
As if I were avoiding hell.
But my dress no longer
Resembles the color
Of red,
Or blue,
Or green,
Or gold,
Or any such mixture of which we are told.
Now I'm black and white, and I like it too.
For it suits me.
This habit,
It's true.

                 Strange Habits, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Amid the Playground

When the sun begins to beat on your back
And the sound of his voice, all shrill from slack,
Causes you to whine and groan underneath
The stroke of the sun, it's whipping teeth,
Remember he's but a little child who's out
To play, to jaunt, to take a long walk about.
Yet the sound of others who jaunt alongside
Make a screech akin to the sound of a ride;
A whirl of a hurl and you're flat on your back,
Trying to pick yourself up, and the slack.
But espying the lad whose been bit by rays,
Teeth of the sun, a most deadly met gaze,
See how he runs amid the children of she,
The woman who smiled and taught you to see. 

                Amid the Playground, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Monday, May 28, 2012

I Dreamed it up

Dreamed the world was simple,
Easy to understand,
But then I woke up,
And received great reprimand.
Saw myself a king,
A king among men.
I had nothing to give,
And still they kissed my hand.
Yet time shook me fast,
And slapped me cold with fear,
Across the lake and through the woods
Where run the mellow deer.
I Woke among the moss,
Where lichen grows and stays,
Another person laughed then,
And showed me the error of my ways.
Dreamed he life was harsh,
Cruel and undefined,
Just an unpleasant marsh,
Life was yet to be defined.
Spoke he of much glory,
Tales of ships and masts,
Yet at the end of his story,
He sighed a great alas!
Dreamed we the world was happy,
Bright and merry too,
Yet life began to go astray,
That day did rue.
Light began to creep,
Into the depths of our souls;
Wherein we found sorrow,
Discovered we were full of holes.
Another came upon us,
He walked with ease and calm,
He smiled at us with bent teeth,
And told us all to move along.
Walked we around the lake,
Now frozen with despair,
And stopped before a stake,
Which even he said to beware.
Yet dreamed we that the wood,
On fire with red and gold,
This burning bush, this golden pire,
Our salvation it did hold.
Walked we through golden flame,
The other drew back in fear,
Unafraid, and unabashed,
We walked into a clear.
Walked we by faith alone,
To guide us in the mist of lights,
That surround us, flesh and bone. 
Dreamed we the holes were mended,
Our souls were made a light,
Our hearts we thought were rented
By darkness black as night.
Yet time, he woke, and so did we,
Amid our yells of fear,
As night came on and we did quake,
Awake we quaked with tears.
Knew we to change our ways,
Though neither knew the other,
And one day we may phrase,
Our deeds unto another.
Dreamed the world was what
We thought it out to be,
It turned out that it was but
A fantasy.
Long after the dream we saw,
As though through a lens each other,
We smiled for a moment,
Each content,
To see again his brother.
Then time snatched us away,
One by one he does,
Takes by surprise his prey,
He will be, is, and was.

                I Dreamed it up, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

The End of a Storm

Hear the shouts of joy, the tears of sorrow
That man may never see the day tomorrow.
Feel the pain in your spine as you walk away
From the family you loved down by the bay.
Smell the garden in spring, the fresh Lilly,
The rose that made her smile and say you're silly.
Lift high the banner he left behind for you,
A reminder that you ought to be true.
Yet forget all fear, all doubt, all anxiety,
Else though their sacrifice be accomplished
You will not have learned by them to be free;
And this, indeed, is that they'd have wished for.
That you'd pick up the torch, make it your chore.
They gave up what they had so you could have more,
And though the colors are faded, those they wore,
And all that once they valued is vanished in
Misery and corruption, the taint of sin,
You still have in you the will, to fight, and win. 
On a cold summer day when all has been done,
When the battle is over and the day is won,
Think of those that fought in winter's heat,
Those tried by fire, by frost, and sleet.
Forget the woes that caused coast to sunder
From coast in that great perilous thunder;
Now a memory faded in summer jeans,
And torn apart, threaded at the seems. 
But don't forget the hope they once had
To deliver you from what they saw as bad.
For no matter the hatred that sent them to fight
Against the dreaded foe, during blackest night,
No matter the anger you felt at their absence,
The feeling of fear that sent you into a trance,
The thought that they might never return again,
Might never hold you, never come round the bend,
No matter the end they met, or the label
Put upon the war in which they fought and fell,
No matter these things, in their hearts they smile,
And they think of you, thinking, all he while. 
Sure it was wrong, history would say to us;
That we didn't try hard enough, didn't trust
That peace could be had, that we could have done
Better to save our daughters and our sons.
Yet they don't care what label history gave them,
They died for a brother, a sister, and when
They came to on the other side of it all,
They were satisfied, proud they answered the call.
So hear again in your hearts the sound of music
That first ushered forth a new country, a new age;
Hear again the sound of antiquated weapons, rustic
Instead of the anger, the hate, and all the rage.
Bend your mind to give thanks, to pray, and hope,
That no matter the label, the war, or the leader,
No matter the intentions that were held like a rope
To the pure intentions of those that were sure,
That they who died for their brother's sake, fathers name,
May rest eternally in peace, as in a summer rain;
Now end your prayer with the thought of the sun
Breaking through the clouds, it's presence a train
Of cars that filters through the darkness now done.
Think of summer, of life, of happiness,
All the things of life which we bless.
Hear the shouts of sorrow, the tears of joy,
That men come back and no longer deploy.

                     The End of a Storm, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

A Flowering Maid

A flower, of sorts, I say! she retorts,
Did you ever see a flower like me?
Of blue and purple? Long legs that hurdle
Giant obstacles like the running foals?
A youth in her prime, that can spin a dime,
Yet run the length of the world and a glove?
Why no, said I then, I imagine, when
I see you, that there stands a beauty, fair
And proud in her sheen, attractive and lean;
For while it's true that some flowers are bats,
Blind without glasses, their passport, passes
To the world about them when they go out,
It does nothing to change what is still true.
A girl who's young is a beauty, like you.

                      A Flowering Maid, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Sunday, May 27, 2012

Natural Forces

What is this thing, this new ability
By which I may string up a child of three
With long lasting words strung out by me? How
Strange is it to attack that which attacks
Without striking a blow, to  give a bow
While all the time I know true justice acts
On my behalf, is my witness above;
And even justice is mercy in love.
How wordy is my attire, made up from
So many arrows and barbs that do sting
Those that approach; I harbor, as a thing
Of great price, my pitiful pride I won.
Yet we see the contradiction; for force
And mercy have limits, else they are coarse.  

                   Natural Forces, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012


The essence of a friend is hard to pin
To a single essential thing. But I
Think I have found a certain noun wherein
I may deposit the meaning. Now try
To make clear to me the meaning of day
By which you see things in a certain light;
How is this different than supposed night
Where you see things in silver moonlit ray?
A friend may be seen in both of these sheen's
Because of the one who takes residence
Within the heart; a brother may you glean
When you see his works among the peasants.
For essentially a friend, one who gives,
Is one who, for you, never stops, but lives.

                   Brotherhood (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012


Away in a land that is steeped in God
Lives a man who's learned to hold up the rod;
King of no man, servant of all, he lauds
Only He who was never once at odds
With the Father who sent him from Heaven's
Pearl strewn gates to give all men unleavened
Gifts of bread, a mixture of wine and
Water in order to cleans sin from land.
Lives this man, who's learned much of God's decree
In a place where I should soon like to be.
Yet it's a privilege for some, those chosen
To hold up the people which God has won.
Away to this land many men go to
Give to God all they are, and all they owe.

                  Vatican, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Cardboard and Roads

I walked down the road and I found there, in
A small cardboard house, a man of seventy;
Dressed in rags, with a beard, had never been
Sheltered in any home save under trees.
Said I to the man, walk with me this way?
We're sure to find adventure this day
If we walk away from what has had us,
From what has tied us down, taken our trust.
Said he to me, I want to be free! from
Tyranny and despair. Yet I can't go
For I surely know that I have been won
By a name I dread, and who dares not show. 
Said I to him, walk with me and therein
Your hope and salvation, a companion.

                   Cardboard and Roads, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Inside the Trench

From the trench you espy the enemy,
All decked out in his pomp and glory. Such
A sight leaves you parched, athirst for a touch
Of God's great love, his most wondrous mercy.
For yourself, this is true, but more besides,
For the sake of thine enemy who knows
Not of the sea and of the rising tides
That soon will swallow his great pomp and show.
Your back to the wall now, he advances,
You wish it were better circumstances;
For an enemy is a loved one made
By the same God, and he could have been staid.
Yet you and he were given a chance; true
Love is made by the gift of life in you.

                      Inside the Trench, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Saturday, May 26, 2012

Intellectual Musings

Like a flower, musk of rose, did your scent
Appeal to mine intellect. Though the heart
Felt it not. I do suspect you hold some bent
Purpose in mind while you dance at night, part
Daylight rays with but a touch of lipstick.
Yet while the mind clings to euphoria
The strings, the sinews of the harp, the trick
Lock upon my bolted heart wherein the
Greatest treasure I do poses is
Contained, are soaking in so much wash bizz:
They cannot be roused so as to muse on
That beauteous scent that is scantly clad.
For the heart knows what it gazes upon;
As the sun lessens what the darkness had.

                   Intellectual Musings (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

The Limb of a Willow

What hope have I? A willow branch, to make
An impression err I die? That my stake
In the ways of life were greater, I should
Improve the world! Oh would I! that I could
With my knobby hand overcome the wind
That attempts to rip me from my great limb!
Shall I find my ruin, my desperate end
Before my purpose is wont? Shall I win
The battle that I fight day in and out?
Or is death what's in store? what is about?
A willow branch am I, that I cannot
Overcome a frightful gale of thunder.
Yet perhaps my purpose is clear, still bought
By the frailty I poses, O wonder!

                The Limb of a Willow, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Foiling the Fox

Two beings, two persons, two great figures
That walk, and talk, not small miniatures!
They are what they are, and have always been,
Yet seeing them now is victory in
A race, a gamble, an unfair fight! What
Goes on in the head of a man who looks
To see his friend happy? How strange the rut
That a man falls into when in the books
He's counted for his soul, not for his looks.
It leaves a feeling deep within the gut
That causes him pain, a deep gash, a cut.
But he doesn't say a word, speech forsook.
For he knows that wounds only occur when
The fox is let into the coop, the hen
Allowed to be ripped to shreds by his teeth:
When to the fox foolish man doth bequeath
Willingly all of his hopes and dreams. For foxes
Can't do proper mail orders, their boxes
Are all bent and bruised; they leave one wanting,
Searching for what's removed from creation,
Leave them unhappy for life's duration.
Two beings, two persons, two great figures,
Make for a pair divinely cut out. Yet
While the longing heard in the overtures
Of the third, the observer, strongly set,
Makes itself known in the tones of great song,
He comes to terms with his own hopes and dreams,
Hopes that they will be happy, get along;
It's all for the best, is what he deems.
The fox is still there, causing him some pain,
But he relies always upon the Name.
And in the Name the two are made one; and
The observer finds a purpose at hand.
Two beings, two persons, two good friends,
Unified because he died to his own ends.

                   Foiling the Fox, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

At the Window Sill

The winding clock chimes at night for me; still,
I cannot help feel a little guilty.
As I lift my feet from the ground, the sill
Quivering with a groaning sound, I see
A light that shines beneath the door. Be not
Afraid, it echos in my mind! Sore are
They that find out what they have purchased, bought
With their last farthing, is not on the par
That they expected. Yet the thought of
What I will buy with my elusive time
Sends thrills down my back, and into my wool gloves:
The mist rises from my mouth, and the rhyme
Echos within the confines of my head;
Still feeling, I really should be in bed.

                       At the Window Sill, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012


What is in the Wind anyway?

Not much can be said of the windy day
Other than what can be said, of what may.
Like anything else that is grand in scope
A windy day requires a bit of rope;
That it might be caught for the rest of us
And shown off as a windy sign of trust.
But what is trust in a thing that still moves
Even when you've caught it? It's gentle grooves
Change even the stubbornest grey rock
Into dust, which eventually turns stalk;
That is the growth of cellar fiber from
The ground that grows upwards and soon becomes
A beautiful flower. Not much is said,
Yet still, great towers of words may be read.

                    What is in the Wind anyway? (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Friday, May 25, 2012

The Night Hawk

Watching her go by the red wayside paths,
Just outside the city of Yore, I saw
A sight that suggested an aftermath
Was soon to follow, was in store; the paw
Of an enemy reached within the fold
Of his own dark red cloak, blood stained trench coat.
Yet the maid noticed not, she did still hold
Her current course: as one who's on a boat.
Began I to move forward toward this man,
This blood stained fellow, who thought a can can
Of this beauty, this woman deep in love;
But perhaps I was too late, morning dove.
Yet the vulture was foiled by a nighthawk,
Her guardian, her man, her own bedrock.  

                       The Night Hawk, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Dangerous Beauty

Softly falls the light of day upon your
Tear strewn face. A veil of darkness becomes
Your body more highly than the great chore
Of clothing; and unburdened you may run.
But such a vision of grace and beauty
Is not what I see here before mine eyes;
For where I hoped to see a flowered tree
In the middle of spring, therein now lies,
Fallen to the ground, bark and all, sorrow's
Handiwork. Yet stranger still, to borrow
An old fashioned line, a maid with a sword
Now becomes the sight, is beauties reward;
For what is beautiful was slighted hard,
This dangerous beauty; a song for bards.

                              Dangerous Beauty, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Wednesday, May 23, 2012

Godzilla, Time, Money Man

Time mocks us as it gently passes by,
Time stalks us, for it slowly drains us dry.
Yet time cannot undo what is done to
Our bodies within it's confines; how true
Is it that a radiant light that will
Radiate far and wide with a great still
That stays the tide, and causes us forgo
The ways of Time for a new gravity
That better fills insatiability?
If light radiates change a does it show?
For stomping down time is a green plaid suit
Made of dollars, very soon given boot
By a tower made up of light green waves,
No longer Time's servant, with yells of rage!

                     Godzilla, Time, Money Man, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Monday, May 21, 2012

Music to Mine Ears

The music begins to crawl into shape,
It twists and turns about the very nape,
Begins to waltz to it's own tune, made bold
By a strong influx that winds; it takes hold
Of the box, causes it to unwind sound,
Causing the world to cease being so round.
Yet song, by it's nature, is a changeling
That forces humanity not to sing
What is in the head; rather it suggests
With a sigh, a grimace, and joking jests,
That the heart is where song crawls from,
The sinews are strings that give it's shape form,
And it twists and turns through the blood of man
As fast as the wind is blown through a fan.

                    Music to Mine Ears, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Brothers True

He's bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh,
But he lacks sameness, has not quite the mesh
That keeps brothers, or sisters, together;
We are not, as it were, birds of feather.
His age waxes four years ahead of mine,
Yet he's not so much older as mature.
When he was a lad, a youth of nine
He knew how to behave, he was so sure
Of himself, knew how to treat all women,
Knew to respect companions; went through a rough
Patch with his family, and all of his friends:
Acted like a jerk at times, acted all tough.
For all his talents, his weaknesses to,
Experience is what ties brothers true.

                     Brothers True, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Sunday, May 20, 2012

Less than a feeling

A stranger, by his own hand, gives off vibes
That don't sit well with those that give witness
To the event that they see. Unlike tides
That sooth the mind heart and soul, slake fitness
Of body with a greater control, strange
Tides make known their presence with a chilling
That flows down the back of the spine, that stays
The mind, that stops the heart, makes unwilling
The soul: causes many calamities
And later suggests them insanities
That were misunderstood for what they were;
A stranger paints what is, so that unsure
Men find themselves at a loss. So a grace
Is a grace, but what sort is in this place?

                        Less than a feeling, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Isn't it Curious about Curiosity

What is curious is not that you faked
An illness in order to escape this
Company of friends, but that you must take
Such offense at being found out! such bliss
Do you take in making your own rules
That you think us all to be dumb fools
Who cannot learn anything from what's seen,
What's held in plain sight, from what has since been!
Yet curiously you don't stand back from
Me, don't jump on my case as before when
We were young and immature; you have won
Some strange look in the eye from the great den
Of men that taught you. What did they teach there
That you now listen? or did they ensnare?

                        Isn't it Curious about Curiosity? (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Classical Movies

Shouldn't a movie grow old after time
Has passed by, and the memory grown short?
As a short in a poem that doesn't rhyme
Well, doesn't fit, exists merely, a port
Without a dock; is that not how memory
Behaves when it is given over to
Time? as the land is changed by the great sea
And no longer resembles what was true
To those that came before: does not a film
Conform to these ideas? Yet I still watch,
I still return to it, as the great helm
Of a ship is manned so that no great botch
May occur that would drown the sailors few,
I still watch, and glean new things of new hue.

                       Classical Movies, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Damned if you Do, Damned if you Don't

No hope exists for cold words without home
To lay their heads in; though a cold they have
They can give no help to man, not a bone
Could they provide, could not so much as give
A shred of hope: could not give what they don't
Have for themselves. Is it not the same for
Those of us who walk around and use them?
Is it possible to give from a store
That has no stock to give from? and so when
We give are we not giving mere flufies
That will only incite great big huffies
And puffies from those that receive such gifts?
Yet no words at all could prove that we wont
Grow at all, like a flower in cold fits.

                         Damned if you Do, Damned if you Don't...(c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

The Snag in Time

Time has changed, and many have gone,
Life goes on, but it feels like a pawn
In comparison to the bastion of life
I once had; that life so full, so rife
With little problems and bickering people
That caused me to look through the peep hole
Of another's study to glean my prize,
Which was to see what no others eyes
Had seen, not another set of ears heard;
To see and hear the fulfillment of the word.
Yet suffering bored me, and became me not,
I often found that I was at the door caught;
For my interests were not pure of heart,
And they caught me before I could start.

             The Snag in Time, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Saturday, May 19, 2012

Memory's Bend

Shall I describe the way we met?
Would you then make with me a bet,
That if it turns out as you thought it did,
And not as I thought, as I think now to bid,
That seven of ten is not the number given
To we who are incapable of a nice sleep in?
I know it's an odd question, but perhaps
Soon, very soon, you will see. The maps
Of understanding are fickle, and sometimes fake,
Made by those who understand not the take
Of the designer to made them, the maps you see.
Just as some take the sky to be another great sea.

So now, I'll describe it, how we first met,
Upon a great cliff, mountains! At sunset!
It was raining, just a smidge, a drizzle,
That fell down in the heat and went sizzle.
Yet the sky was red, and the hue was great!
It made me feel just right, next to my mate.

Now to speak quite plainly, I don't mean,
Those of you who are reading this, who glean,
The mate for life, that second part, the pair!
I am not speaking to one of such affair.
Rather I speak of a woman, a friend, a dame,
Who always reminded me of why a refrain
Was a good idea, a sound thing, a sight
That would always give mankind delight.
Now back to the telling of my tale,
I'll not in the telling of it fail!

There you sat, brown hair, grey eyes,
Mixed with golden hue; I despise
The fact that they are mixed, and not whole,
But then I'm often one who lacks control
And can't be determined by fate alone:
Always I role up the hill a weighty stone.
But you also had dimples, and a smile
That kept me smiling for quite a while.
Such a friend as this I said to myself
Is far better to have than a Santa Elf!
And pointing out to the sea, or the shore,
I beckoned you on to new sights, always more
Did I seek to learn from your knowledgeable head;
So that in your place, or in mine, we might be in stead. 

For knowledge I'll have you know, those who read,
Is a thing that makes up a person, oh yes, it does, indeed!
And it's such that if you all have the same one
Strapped to your head, such as a lovely gun,
You'd have the same function, in a sense, just a sense,
The sense that delivers another from recompense.
Anyhow, back to the memory that I bet
Was what it is inside of mon tete!

You told me of many stories, not one
Of which caused me to go without fun:
I told you of adventures and tales,
Of flying elephants, lions, and whales!
You of course gasped and clapped out loud,
While I nodded, politely, for I was too proud.
But in my heart I knew that I'd found
A woman, a kindred spirit, that was sound.

Now by a sound I'll tell you this much,
That sound is similar to a gentle touch.
You see the touch of the ear is like that of the hand,
It merely takes you to another special land.
And by it's melodious, wafting, gracious breeze,
It can lift one up, like wings, or down to their knees!
Back to the story, I'm sorry, it's tedious I know,
To deliver these explanations, like winter snow.

Now the weather turned foul, for a moment or two,
And we ran from that place in a hulabaloo!
Yet even as we ran, laughing all the way
About how much fun we'd had this day,
The sun set within that very moment, and lo!
It made a crown for the sea, and a stool for Joe.

Now Joe, he's the name we gave to the sky,
For he's quite the hard worker, and very spry.
He filters about with a misty like presence,
And doesn't often talk with us mild peasants.
 I'm sorry, again, With these explanation!
I'm sure you don't like these adjurations.

But no more, could I say for you told me, quite plain,
That my accounting was foolish, and clearly quite vain.
For it spoke of the glory of our meeting, not else.
Forgot the sorrow, the suffering, the tender bells.
For the description of your face was to fond,
It made of you a great sea! But you were a pond...
Your eyes you said were merely plain grey,
Not at all mixed with brown, a mere pall clay!
Your smile was forced, not at all on cue,
And often it was meant to keep you from being blue.
But that's not all, you revealed to me
That you were Santa's Elf. I am sorry.
Yet you acknowledge my point that we wanted more,
To know, to understand each other, yet we abhorred
What we discovered: for we could not change it.
And upon that information we did often sit.
So that all thought of being in the place of each
Was turned to loathing sorrow that we did preach.

Now preaching, I'll have you readers know,
Is something of the sort read by the beau
Who pursues a girl with sonnets or something,
And comes back without even touching
On the point, never making it clear
That it was the girl he loved; how queer.
Yet back to the point, I'm sorry, I've gone
Off again while you wonder what I'm on!

Of the scene you said it was merely a house,
A porch where we sat, we espied a mouse.
There was no sun, it was a cloudless grey,
Much like your eyes on a sunless May.
There was no cliff, but a five foot drop
From the edge of your rail, a very small hop.
The rain was a storm, that cleared later on,
But still the sun did not shine on the swan
That sang a shrill song as it passed away
Into the gathering night, end of the day.
When it came to leaving, we didn't laugh,
That sadly as you remember was the aftermath.
You didn't know what to think of me,
And I didn't know what to think of the sea.

Now when you scratch your heads at that line,
Understand, everything is as it is, and is fine.
I was focused on knowledge, not on her.
Perhaps I've left her in the cold, a winter blur?
But back to the story! I'll anoint your minds
With what happened next, no more pig rinds!

But even though I remember how it went,
I can't help but feel that my thoughts were heaven sent.
Mind were more majestic, yours more practical,
One fed realities senses, the other fed the soul.
Mix them both together, I'm sure you'll agree,
That from them we may still grow a great tree.
A kindred spirit I still have found in you,
And I hope that through me you are no longer blue.
My only hope was to remember a thought
That would not cause you to have been caught
In a raging sea of emotions and grief;
I sought to give you some simple relief.
I love you, you see? A friend are you to me.
Not a mate for life, but a mate, a dear friend!
That is what it held for me, memory's bend.

                     Memory's Bend, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

The Maid Tied to a Sea Weed Stalk

To some you seem a damsel,
All covered over in peril,
To be rescued by the dragon,
As little as a sparrow.
Yet how can they say to one another,
Let us save our sister or our brother?
For though they see you in distress
And more over in great duress,
They judge incorrectly the cause of it,
And therefore would be better to sit,
And wait for the cure to come in time,
Just as the end of this long made rhyme.

But damsel you are, of another sort,
One not for man to save, or presort
As he would any sort of mail or letter,
So many are chained up in a great fetter
Of assumption and misunderstanding.
Man, do listen, to my tale and sigh,
Understand her reason, the reason why
She takes upon herself to wait on a rock
In the middle of a sea tied to a sea weed stalk.
It is not enough that she be saved by man,
For there is nothing that man truly can
Do to save her from her dismal situation,
Of sorrow, of pain, and consternation.
And you might say, well I'll fix her right!
I'll chase away all that causes her fright!
I'll make her see! I'll teach her the meaning
Of what it means to be a woman! Such gleaning
You may desire for her to understand, by you.
But would it, if I may ask, would it of her be true?
Now you, young maid, all clothed in black,
Laid out for a dragon, like a monster's snack.
Do you sit there for a reason other than this?
That mankind scorns you, you cannot have bliss?
True, it is true, you are misunderstood,
None can understand you, none here would
Give themselves over to the study of your case
To understand the reason that your tear strewn face
Has been tear strewn for many long days,
As long as you discovered the truth of your ways.
But now I ask you, if it is your ways that cause
You to be afraid of society and the laws
That bind all men and women to the judge
Who makes, in some cases, chocolate fudge
Out of the most harmful situation there can be,
Then I tell you, not even the great sea
Has danger in it that should be feared;
Rather the difference should be revered.

The difference that holds you apart from them,
Those other women, and other men,
Should give you some pride, not much, but some.
For it's in that, you'll find, that you will have won
The meaning of your being, your creation! My dear,
If we are all the same, then we would have nothing to fear.
Yet it is clear that every being is different,
Each builds a different sort of tent.
And some would go so far to say that each
Who does not follow him or her, is a leach
That desires only to prey on those that are young;
But this tale is not yet finished, it's fullness not sung.

Who is to say that you are wrong in being?
Perhaps wrong from a knight who would say
I want to rescue you! From your terrible way!
But who is it that speaks to you of your ways?
Is he credible? Does he rightly have a say?
Know only that this being, this existence you hold,
Is still a part of God's design. Be then consoled.

To solve this riddle of the dragon and the girl
Who is tied to the stalk, upon a rock, in a whirl
Of sea mist and waves that crash upon the shore
Is to take from Wisdom, part of it's great store.
You see, each one of us is not the same in body,
The uniqueness makes for great specialty,
And gives each one of us a responsibility.
So while most of us, are one way or another,
Each of us, whether we be sister or brother,
Have a part to play in Gods greatest of plans,
And by that part we shall obtain the demands
Reward's, and be given over to heaven's gates,
Where we will find, for sure, first class rates!

But the case is this, that the design might be flawed;
For some have been made in a way that has awed
The populace into fear and distress.
And each of them have a great duress
That is equal in strength to the woman on the rock,
Tied to the seaweed stem, that wanton stalk.

But in truth, how can we, each one of us,
Truly see God's plan in the wanton truss?
Is she a wanton? Not at all, don't you see?
It's merely the fact that she's different than you or me.
Now for the deciding factor, that's what you want;
But you I fear not, no, my spirit you do not daunt!
It is true she is different, and that much is clear,
So you knights who desire to save her, don't fear.
Yet her sins, if they exist, are her own, not ours;
Just like many a man who goes crashing bars
Comes out drunk and mad, and revels in sin
Finds that he's got in store for him a great bin,
So she has her own sin, and it's her own to see:
For she was not made like you, or like me.
Will she accept that she is? And at once also say,
I cannot have what some have in the worldly play
Of love? Of family? Of hope in dreams to wed?
Can it be that I am an old maid instead?
Likewise I'd remind those knights that chastise
Such existence of being to now so arise
And make amends for their own sins that are,
For they have done much to crash the car
That is God's plan's for the men and women now
That have given themselves over to his prow.

I'll refrain myself from any more advice
On a subject I know little about. Like mice
Who cannot be trusted to build a construct,
A house, which must be build with a truck
That has a crane, a roller that flattens mud,
A digger that does not even have a thud...
The point is this, the damsel is not evil.
She is lovely, a fair, even to Evil Canivil!
Yet she was made different than you or me.
Just as the sky is different from the great sea.
So now, accept her for who she is,
By this you shall be certain to see,
She is capable of so much, just like you or me.  
Don't throw her out as a second rate love
That was given by God, from Heaven above.

Know now, see, that the damsel is all of us,
When we refuse to place in God our trust.

                      The Maid Tied to a Seaweed Stalk, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Friday, May 18, 2012

One for Two

You told me to run and to hide my face
Away from this place of awful disgrace!
I told you I'd rather die in the reaches of space
Than to hide my face from God's blessed grace!
It seems to you that one is not one,
And that two takes the place of one.
But it seems to me that you have now done
For two with one, and you have not won
The proper sum by your actions now;
So you shall fail, your knees shall bow
To the inevitable sum of all things
That says what is, is, and it brings
With it a unique style, a unique way,
Just as night is as different from day.
So do not tell me to run and hide from God,
Who I deeply desire to love and to laud!
It seems you've mistaken one face for another,
Your enemy wears the mask of your brother...

                           One for Two, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Thursday, May 17, 2012

The Laggards Merry Go Round

The devil's got me on a merry go round
That's never going to stop until I'm found
Lying dead from the spinning wheel
That never stopped until a great seal
Came flying out of the sky to greet
This spinning piece of metal, a fleet
Of fire and brimstone that landed fast
Upon my head; there I spoke my last!
Yet all of this is but to come in time,
And if you have a way to change my line
From woe and grief and spotted pain
To joy, a wreath of happiness, do rain
Down upon me your knowledge of this
That I may find a way into eternal bliss.
Else I'll still be here on the merry go round,
Waiting until the morning, until I'm found. 

                    The Laggards Merry Go Round, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Fade from the Cage

Sadness doesn't seem to want you back,
Nor does laughter, you seem to talk smack
Every time either of these two comes near,
And now you cringe at them, they you fear.
Terror wont have anything to do with you,
And courage wouldn't stop even for a brew
Of the finest ale in all of the lands about;
It just happens that he's in the middle of a route.
But wouldn't it be grand to be accepted
For what you are, not just protected
As a mere means to an end? And end
That doesn't have any purpose? Offend
The meaning of your name with a foolish idea
That you couldn't escape from, like Syria
In a great tempest, a storm that's raging,
You were taken in by yourself; caging
The wonder of who and what you are
Will only lead to isolation, near and far.
Like a star is all alone in the depths of space
So also will you fade without a single trace.

                       Fade from the Cage, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Let your Gifts guide You

What is the expression of the soul in flight
That it must overcome every day and night
A new terror that seizes it by the hand
A terror that chastises gifts as contraband.
Why should the heart skip a beat when it sees
Another human being? Why falter to your knees
When that same said being is a woman?
Tell me why it is that you do this my son?
Yet these two things, the terror and the skip,
Will not blow together as sails on a ship.
Necessarily you must choose, the on or the other,
Else you shall be stuck in limbo for another
Thousand years or more while you struggle to find
Your purpose; and those that care to unwind
The mystery of what happened will only laugh
That you missed your chance, at the aftermath. 

                            Let your Gifts guide You, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

Chemical Compound

A light like you? Come on! You don't want to Hide away from the sunlit valleys! True Love is one that holds on, even in dark Places, where you can't find a single spark To light your dampened torch. And why is it That your torch is dampened when you can sit In the light of one million plus days? Bask in the river of moonlit rays, and Jump into a pool of stars that reflect From the surface of a pool? Why protect yourself from what is good? If The Greatest sight in the world were just myth, Then, only then, could I see you sitting Inside a cave with a dampened old torch; As opposed to sitting on your own porch Watching the last of the sunlit sky grow Dim with mists of pink and rose, orange and tang. Such beauty have I seen and heard, it sang A great duet with the billowing clouds That poured in over our heads; and we proud Fools forgot to an umbrella hat To cover our heads, had to run like rats In order to escape the lightening That struck the ground in a great fiery string Of white light on the brown grass, that scorched earth. Incidentally now we give that place berth, A wide berth. Not because it wasn't grand To see a fire in the sky mix with rain, To see a fire that filled our own wet hands With a liquid of pearl hue, violet pain. No, we left because in the end we did Not need to see again that mixture of Climates, of lights, of the sun and the wind That mixed beauty with fright: into a love. We carried it's memory with us, since It's power seemed to mix with human form And did not cause us to smart about. Whence do you go as I finish? The storm Was only in the mind's eye, nothing more! Perhaps you like not the beauty, the score, The grand opera of imagination? What else would you need, what else my friend, more Beautiful, do you need? Where is your fun? The light is here, waiting for you to take A drop of sunshine mixed with rain, do wake!

But you reply that wakes are for the dead Who have gone, no longer on the earth tread In the forms of those we loved to see; As the tide that heaves off, returns to sea, So too are those in memory. They lost Their lives within that mixture of rain! Strewn All over the ground was a mixture of Gravel and mud, that flowed with a graced boon Of a down hill slope! And they who we love Lie at the bottom, underneath the gift Of a show of lights, it's mixture of pain; You'd have said they are alive, only sift About in the wreckage before the wane Of the moon is completely lost from sight! Yet they live on now only to torment Those that have yet to endure the great blight That is death: who have yet to make their tent In another world where love, a bygone, Is merely a dream within another Dream that never found a light to give dawn, A damp torch that never lit, a mother Without the hope of a child to call her Own little girl, a mixture that's unsure. And even those that remain on the shores, That do not depart now forever more, They do twist and turn at the absence made Wholly visible by marching death, maid Of God sent out to reap what is due; so Now the dead are gone, and the living too. Why do you hold your head up high as you Stare at me? Am I a fire that fell through The heavens and mixed with rain to heal old Scorched earth? I have not the power to break Free of the grasp that pulls me in, that holds Me in a vice; for I can't even take My own life out of misery and spite! To think that tears may form in your eyes for A nobody you found in a cave! bore Misery as a child that would not wake! Wake! You desire me to wake? Why don't You wake up you foolish, childish, dreamer! But even if you keep at it I wont Be brought about by a petty schemer That seeks to poison reality's kiss With dreams of sun moon stars mixed with rain bliss!

                     Chemical Compound, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Monday, May 14, 2012

Endless Argument

When the sun begins to set the great score
Between two loaded guns that evermore
Will be turned in enmity against each
Other, then shall we begin to beseech
For a truce by which we, they, may both reach
An understanding unlike common leach.
But chances are it wont be so easy,
For the one believes in a, quite queasy,
Inappropriate design to the house,
Insists that there be a hole for the mouse!
Didn't you know mice weren't meant to live
Inside of a house? They cannot here give,
As the rest of us do, of themselves, true!
So we, they, remain loaded guns that sue.

                  Endless Argument, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

A Grave Problem

The slope is grave with gravity, the grave
Beneath my slipping feet begins to loom
As a monstrous form in the dark. I save
The Critical words for critical tombs,
That is to say for times when they matter.
But as I slip I cannot say what I
Mean to say to my mother dear. Hatter
Mad, from Alice and Wonder land would die
To think that I said anything sober
And implied with said saying that mother
Was wrong in her findings: disclosure.
I would say nothing, but I must deter
From the path that now looms before my feet.
Call out our mothers, can sons do such feats?

                                 A Grave Problem, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

The Tool and the Fool

I will describe to you a man I see
Staring straight through your back to glare at me.
Tall, skinny, without a mustache or beard;
Yet a smarting of wires on his face smeared.
Glasses, yes, and little ones, as in books,
Or is that one glass through which he now looks?
Yet the distinguishing mark of this man
Is that he wears no clothes over the van
Of his lacking bulk; rather he wears a robe
Of black, no other color in wardrobe,
At least I suspect. He's a tool I suspect
Who never learned any decent respect
For those that sustain his made livelihood.
Perhaps he'll turn around, I think he should!

                             The Tool and the Fool, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Concequences of Lightning

Lightning shoots down my arm, down to my toes,
Making me think I could frighten off foes
Made of legends! Olympian Gods! Maid
Of honor, well, what's that mean exactly?
It means she's the prettiest bell who stayed
On the earth to make a man made; a fee
She said that must be rapid with like act,
That must be given over to a pact
Of ink, writ with pen from eternity
And sealed over by a maternity.
She's speaking words to me, some old maid's hope
That we can be married, and grandly wed.
I'll sign any paper; wish we'd elope
Than to go through a big wedding instead.

                          Consequences of Lightening, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Sunday, May 13, 2012

What is Flight, and Why Fight?

Look about me and you will see why it is
That I choose not to speak in front of his
Friends, his cronies, his bully heavy weights
That push and pull like shifting train car freights.
Is it not preferable to dwell in
The shadow's where you are safer? Therein
Shall you find peace, and not a drop of sweat
Shall fall from your brow; their distance is kept
As a banker keeps his interest high,
As a man who asks the question of why.
Yet you shall rue the day in your heart, will
Be overcome by a grief that will still
Your blood as a dam stills the flowing stream.
The flowing waters will not longer team
With life, variety of goods sacred
To the land that is now steeped in hatred.
But if you should stand as a mountain, firm,
You should find yourself unable to turn;
Even as the breeze pushes on a ledge
You would not give in or renounce your pledge.
So look about you once more and tell me,
What is it in this place you truly see?
Is it a man who sits in the chair of light?
Or a monster who tries to cause a fright?
Do his friends, those bullies, and heavy weights
Cause you to step back from the open gate?
Fear shall remain as long as you do dread
The pain and turmoil; but should you instead
Take it upon yourself to remake them,
To overcome their ways and berate them,
Despite the blows you will surely take in
By the anger and rage of their own sin,
Then you will have a peace that is most pure,
And will not leave you, will not, as sure
As the scars that you receive will not budge
So too will the peace remain as a sludge;
Yet more wholesome is this sludge, tonic drink
That lets you fall into a deep sleep, sink
Into a feathery pillow of bliss,
In it you receive the breath of life's kiss.
So look around you, and weigh in your luck,
Lest you fall back and forever be stuck
In your old habits, old ways, and old tricks;
There is nothing like routine's hand that sticks.
Thus the conflict between and man and fear
Has always been present is always near.

                         What is Flight? And Why Fight? (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Imagination Courts Reality

They walk apart, yet side by side,
These two lovers of loves made wide
As the oceans between the lands;
Yet never will they hold their hands
Out to the other; for they fear
As a brother that when they're near
They shall compromise what is there
And so bring ruin and despair
To the hearts of the purist geek,
That thought them separate, and weak.
Yet perhaps one day they'll grow more bold
And reach out in their desire
To satisfy the great untold
Longing that has set a fire
Inside of their hearts and their minds;
A musical piece that unwinds
Has similar effects on men.
So both desire to give ten
Out of ten to the others sight,
To give themselves as they would, might.
They move slowly in silver moon,
For he's silent, and she doth swoon!
Yet I wonder to think if they
Should give in to their desires
Whether they would go on to play
As Olympic runners. Tire
They never would if they could but
Give themselves to the other. What
Joys are in store for us who act,
Who give to each other a pact!
Now cold reality stands firm
And imagination will burn;
Both take one look and then they reach
Out to the other, they beseech
What is, what has been, and what will
To look upon their union still;
To bless what some might call a dumb
Union between those that can't run.
But run they will, now they have made
Their decision, have not been staid.

                              Imagination Courts Reality, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Walking Apart

If notes could be tasted you'd have great feasts
Every night within the halls of you home.
If the rainbow could be walked through the east
I'd tell you where it touched down, all alone.
Easy is it to wish, my heart doth string
Along a few well made rhymes that I creep
From the realm of reality, take wing
Upon a farce; then shall I indeed weep
For the follies of mine own mind undone.
But should fear keep me from what I have won
In the forges of imagination?
Shall such a force bend it's back, bend it's knee
To the harshness of cold reality?
Only together may they indeed run...

                             Walking Apart, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Providence Failed

Doth the falcon have a voice that he calls
So serendipitously as he falls?
Yet lest my hearing not take advantage
Of what his voice does to the stone montage
That are mine enemies arrayed against
My person, who have but little defense,
I take upon myself to strike the first,
To level the odds, to slake my blades thirst.
But even as the battle rage fit
That has taken me by surprise, the wit
Of my follow begins to shape anew
Until arrogance binds me like a shrew.
I heard the call, but did not think it prude
To credit the falcon, the hawk imbued...

                             Providence Failed, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

A Turn of the Page

Now the keys of the reef begin to swell
Until I cannot, am without sight's hope,
Tell what their depths are; they may be as hell
Is deep, and the waters and sky elope
With rigorous exercise of ship weight's
That are tossed about the keys like a rag
And given over to the game of tag!
Yet this is not the sort of music near
My position, for I am in the clear,
The sun shines on me, while you take the fee
Of the storm, the brunt, the damaging breeze
Brought about by the playing of piano keys.
So what is joy to one man becomes rage,
Two times, to places, a turn of the page.

                             A Turn of the Page, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Memory of the Salt Malt

In a modern gist have we began, salt
Has mingled with the bitter grain made malt
And with both of these we begin to loose
Our sight, our senses, all of it to booze.
The music begins to sound out with groans
Of screeching nails, like a chalkboard's tones
Made apparent by the child childish prank;
We rarely put love into the old bank.
Yet still a thought remains in my head, worn,
But still, immovable, an iron will
That keeps back the cascade of raging seas
That are intoxication and bee's knees.
In modern days we have no honor; sigh
Doth the heart, for we cannot even cry.

                          Memory of the Salt Malt, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

The Notes I Sought

Four notes did you pass along to me then,
And in time I have kept them. Often when
No one else was about to see my sight
I took them from the bottle to the right;
For it would appear to them a ghastly
Sight of evil spirits, and quite nasty.
Thus would I look into the past that's nigh,
Through your handwriting I then could espy
Some piece of the love that had then been drawn,
Much like a painting, or the break of dawn. 
But long ago the picture was finished,
And for it's glory days I would have fished
For a thousand years or more and a week!
Those notes were all I had of you to seek...

                                   The Notes I Sought, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012


From the other room I hear you play, sing
Fun ditties on the piano. You lay
Out the keys profoundly, so do they ring
Out from the highest heights! Bright as the day.
Yet behind glory is a note of pain,
And even as the moon in time doth wane
By the power of the sun that moves on
And forgets his love as he goes anon,
So too does your music begin to stray,
And your heart upon it begins to weigh.
But it is for the best, as the silence
Tells me that you are happier with this
Great weight of sorrow, your music goes hence
Much better; a melody of great bliss.

                                  Pianist, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

The Toll

Onward and upward they go their way, to
War and carnage, hopefully not to stay.
Their wives wait in earnest for news of them,
While their children walk in the wastes of fen
Ridden gardens, untiled by the men's hand;
War has ruined man's hold on nature's band.
What do they wait for but a cold callous
Being that rides to them on wheels of malice?
Still the sun rises and sets no more, in
The hearts of mothers waiting is a din.
Yet as the sun sets there appears white clear
Upon the horizon four wheels of fear.
What hopes have they of lessening their pain?
Did their son's die for some vain full gain...

                          The Toll, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

A Merry Gathering of Needles

How many friends have you to speak of sir
That you cannot in the first place go to
Them who do await your coming, your sign
Of peace! a truce cannot be made by they
Who do quarrel and bicker without fur
To keep them warm! cannot be made true
Without the one to keep in the heat! Pine
Needles do crack when they burn, and so day
Doth scorch the ground when no clouds cover it.
Are your friends but needles that pop about
When time's get rough, and leave you to your fate
Of doom? Must you come to me without wit?
It seems that your friends did of you route out
Something that turned their love into great hate.

                                      A Merry Gathering of Needles, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

The Slaking Pen

Doesn't want to write, doesn't want to care,
Or want to seem to be at all aware
Of the plight that I'm in, of the fatigue;
Far have I traveled. Yonder hills, the leagues
Between them and me fraught with perilous
Beings and strange creatures that roam the earth,
Are something that I'd like to give wide berth,
But the need that drives me is like to fuss.
The Fuss is a power, makes me cower
Like a boy in the middle of July
When I was still young and so very spry.
With dreadful pain and weary limbs I take
Upon myself, once more, the pen to slake
The feelings that do draw upon my heart
And cause me to forget myself in part.

                               The Slaking Pen, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Out of Touch

1) The well is dry to all that seek water
You speak of quenching it like a father.
Even in sight of all that is good, pure...
I find myself unhappy, and unsure.
You place your hand on my shoulder, and speak
Of what is forbidden; those that are weak
You say are foolish to abstain from it,
That they have no hope in their merry wit.
Yet I turn away, your suggestions, false,
Are only in hopes of making the walls
Of my quivering heart collapse inside,
Reveal how alone I am; though I've tried
Over time to grow in the light of God
I cannot discover a single laud...

2) My hope is in God; but my mind is so
Tied by the world around me. It is dry
To think only of what is to come. O
For a drink of water, or tea! I sigh.
None of these things can satisfy my heart,
And still the currents unbalanced do smart
At the walls of this old hallowed being
So I cannot understand what I'm seeing. 
O for a sight that would confirm my name
Was not got from another all in vain!
O for a plight that would test my old skills,
A hike, a trek, through these mountains and hills!
And with me the presence of the one love;
In other hearts we are satiated. 

3) The sight of self is enough some would say
To pass away time, or the heat of day,
To overcome the raging waves of light
That assail our eyes and impair our sight!
For when light has no object, no person
To absorb it's beauty, then a hearse in
Black is the result of this great attack!
Men cannot hope at all, not trust alack,
In withstanding alone this great advance
Of light into darkness. This circumstance
Requires more, requires absorption,
Requires that one be many, for fun!
So know that the sight of the self alone
Does not give creation it's proper tone.

4) Like the sound the fills the whole world at dawn
When the sun cries hey diddle diddle tawn!
As the birds that sing an orchestra's march
Of spring and beauty in the cold of March!
With a tang of croaking and bellowing,
Of purring cats and barking dogs, all sing;
Such is the sound of creation's great ring,
And added to that is the sound of each wing
As they flutter, and hover in the sky;
The merest sound of a gentle sigh...
Sound fills the earth with the great trumpet blast
That announces our God is here at last!
Yet it's not for any one thing I long,
But for one who will with me sing along.

5) A man, or a woman, both have their perks;
Each has potential of being a jerk;
Yet it is with hope that I long for them,
Their company reminds me of times when
I had love in my heart. I look for shades
Of gray that may be overcome, the fades
Of the sky in the morning mists cover
Over the glory of the noonday; were
Such fades as the evening hue, that red
Spotlight that causes mantles of blue, wed
To the morning, and afternoon lit rays,
Then would it be as I desire it,
I would be joined with brother and sister
As is glory light at the end of days.

                           Out of Touch (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

A Desert in the Destert

The page is bare as a most barren waste
That did never find the time to have taste
In the glorious waters that come from sky
To saturate all the ground that lies nigh.
The flowers don't bloom because of the stint
Pulled off by one Loki, who gave a hint
To nature and made everything much worse
Than it had to be; this must be his curse.
That the air should wait to give it's fair breeze
Until mankind should stumble to it's knees,
That the ground should sink the moisture it made
For the sky lit march, the great promenade.
So by his suggestions we are now cold
From lacking the water that makes us bold.

                         A Desert in the Desert, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Saturday, May 12, 2012

Busy Beaver

Like a busy beaver mine enemy,
Chiseling away with his two good buck teeth:
Dragging across the crevice of life
An obstruction that causes me to weep.
Now a lake has been made around the tree
Of life! And I stand now, still underneath
The bowers of it's fruit strewn limbs. The knife
Now deepens it's blow as water doth seep.
Yet it works both ways, the water that's trapped;
For all gentle quays that will now be mapped
Out, by cartographers handiwork seen,
Will be for naught when dam breaks in-between.
The beaver makes me impatient to act,
But I will wait; I will not break my pact!

                                     Busy Beaver, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Time Will Mend

1) You doubt my resolve? Very well, you shall
See just how much I am resolved to be
Removed from your reckless, pot ridden pal;
As removed as you: as you are from me.
A wedge was driven between us both in
A most unpleasant form: by loath talents
Each was shown to each other a norm; dim
Is the light of our respect for each. But since
You abhor my talents, and I do yours,
Then let us retreat to our private stores
Of knowledge and come not near the other.
Even though you be, sister; I your brother.
When differences define our long feud
Long will the land, by our hate, be imbued.

2) Care you at all for my woes or my griefs?
My sorrows? or my pains? Were I deceased
Upon the field of battle protecting
Many a man and woman, my King's fiefs,
I doubt you'd fret; for it was my belief
That you despised, my hope that you abhorred:
Yet as like to you am I, and I you.
This causes you distress, a living hoard
Of strengths, even weaknesses, will you rake
Unto yourself so as to compare us;
But in this, O, winter, thou shalt be dust
Before ever you shall find enough slake
In the differences which divide you
From me. This is my royal grantee.

3) Holding back, like the night, without much hope;
Can it be that you should be pushed to rope
Yourself round the neck with your difference?
Or is this apathy? Indifference?
Though you clutch the lever that holds you still
In place upon that mountain cliff, your will
Shall weaken in time: cause you to fall through
The sheet of ice that is your pain. Untrue
Are the lies that compose it's cold thin frame
That holds back your potential. In the vein
Of bitter rants you have often told me
That if you could not have it you would not be.
But I say that what divides us is to bless;
For when under such strain, more will be less.

4) You roll your eyes as you roll a stone, not
Interested at all in the progress I've
Made by arguments: you are staid; you've bought
The lie as though it were a truth, and played live
Soldiers as though they were uncouth soldiers.
Do not roll with ease the lives of these men
That come with love: a general does fear
To loose a single man; but one in ten
Is for you a small sacrifice. Yet roll
The white dice with the red for too long cher
And you shall soon be laid out in a full 
Suite; and I believe it will be quite bare
Of any fashion or design so to
Speak. A naked blade is the stone you brew.

5) Why the anger? Why the hate? I come back
To these questions, you retaliate, and
Hide your face as though the stars from the sun;
Such lesser beings in their glory undone
By the greater truth, the greater light seen,
Are no match: must retreat, their light they ween
Throughout the day from the darkness without.
For rivals are they with that fair sunlight
That causes them to flee and hide from sight
Their glorious sheen, their truth giving rays;
Yet for them our sun is the end of days.
So now I see why you hide. Why just route
Me before your anger and nighttime wrath?
Come into the light, let me see your staff.

6) But what am I? A fool. Just the kings fool.
You may laugh at me behind that fair mask,
You make half of me seem to be a tool
In the hands of my betters. Yet you ask
Me why it is that I have success, yes?
You cannot understand: you do confess
Yourself more the fool than I have been in
A time now long gone. What is this sin
That you and I share with the other one?
Is it but a trick of shadows and flame
Meant to hide the truth of what we've since done?
Is it but a cloak, our dagger, a name
By which we may hide our true felt desire?
Such secrets may end us both in the fire.

7) As light is from dark are you from my being;
But closer still than any other man,
Or woman for that fact, are you. For seeing
What is, and what has been in my life span
Of some twenty years, and more besides this,
You are able to know how each thing pans,
You know me even down to whom I kiss.
Yet as I said before, you understand
Not a single thing that I've done. I'd planned
That you might work with me, work side by side
With your brother; each of us then allied
Could make more of the world than we had done.
Thus it was with feeble hope's of friendship
That you betrayed me, and I you, with whip. 

8) Do you resent it after all of these years
Of living that you should rend yourself bare
Of any fruits, of hopes, forbear your tears
For the sake of bitter enmity? Wear
Caution my sister: the enemy does.
But your enemy is my friend because
Of a friendship we had long ago, not
Because my friendship causes you woe. Bought
Nothing have I from the woman you hate;
Though you have taught us now both to relate
With the other as though high treason were
Upon us. Yet it is simply not so.
Like the soft skin of an animals fur
Is the deception that neither will show.

9) Now hidden in the dark is a poison
That reeks of hideous powers, imbues
Upon the land, like our hate, a lotion
That feigns to be what it is not. A fuse
Box is but the chamber for many wires
That are housed within it's metal frame. Yet
If the box be made of permeable
Stuff, it shall against water soon tire.
Thus the masquerade that made us forget
That the chamber box must be seal-able
Is likened to the masquerade of our
Rivalry. As two vines do we act now;
Yet little do we know of what we are.
Thick darkness upon ourselves we endow.

10) Enemies have we become over what
You call enemy number one! A mere
Of water has become a vast lake, but
It still comes from the same stake. A mere tear
Is but a portion of what we have here
In this little room, this little chamber;
And out of it we would like to clamber.
Yet the lake of tears, of sorrows and woes,
Keeps us here standing even on tip toes.
Meanwhile our tear becomes a mountain weir,
And soon begins to broaden out it's shape;
The chamber overflows, and we are made
To float about without hope of escape!
Refusing to deal with what is inside
Allows the ocean deep to become wide.

11) In such a state of indifference you
Could write out a sonnet, poem, or two
Great songs that would sing out your olden grief;
Will you not seek to remove underneath
What I sense disturbs you, causes distrust
Amongst you and I? The armor may soon rust
If you do not get out of the rain storm
That is bearing down on you. Is it norm
That what is hidden inside be kept there
So that what was alive soon becomes bare?
Wherefore are your writings, your songs of woe!
But now I begin to see the problem.
My friend is your enemy because no
Words could you read or write when you were ten.

12) As a current rips apart travelers
Who fail to read the signs of winter's chill,
So too, do you, rip apart hopes to till,
In the early Spring, a crop of new cures.
As far to the right have I gone, in search
Of a melody that I may sing you;
As far to the left have you gone, to flee
My melodies, for you find them untrue.
The more I press you for my friends pardon
The more you press away from me, harden
Your heart. Yet the crack is always there for
Water to enter into the rock. Ice
Freezes even the hardest of stones, hoar
Frost becomes a weapon for a heart heist.

13) Yet as your heart is hardened, mine also
Is but a piece of sludge; a mushy one
At that, all cuddly and fat. You are done
With me not because of the battle throws
That you held with my friend, your enemy,
Rather because I was, like you, under
The impression that I was in life free
From foolish behaviors; and you, sister,
Were under delusions of grandeur, maid
Of honor where no honor now exists;
(Such honor lost by whom it was then staid)
Honor surrendered without fight of fists.
But who is perfect to judge the other?
Surely not sister, not even her brother.

14) The mantle we take upon our body
Is one that is fake, a window; haughty
Have we each become in our dim lit capes
Strung out below the crest of our own napes.
You take to wed a laughing horse of tricks
That cackles and coughs up lungfuls of ticks!
Yet descry my friend as full of deceit;
Not of words, but of looks. In your defeat
You go low enough to believe that she
Has nothing, superficiality 
Is the only thing that's going for her.
Well it's better, I'd say, of this I'm sure,
Than the cackling horse that's on your back.
So each of our mask capes gives us no slack.

15) Right is left, left is right, and in this war
We do not know what wright will not abhor
The creation we've made in the smithies
Of the Rocky Mountain, where the misty
Fogs do spread far and wide; this you do fear,
That we have allied in our anger for
The other to a greater power. Hear
Then that this is not our desired chore.
But already, it seems, that your words strike
Within me a cord of fear. For music
Will be what it is, left or right, the shrike
Will eat up anything untouched, the wick
Will not burn without the candle made wax.
And in fear now, I do fear for my pax.

16) A battle is won by soldiers, tis true
Enough; soldiers are hardier than I,
And I would not think to be one of you.
Who do without pause take the knife to men
If you suspect them of strife. You will die
For your fellow soldier, for your wife. Then
You would fight still in the outer rim: lie
In wait on whichever side you are in.
So now I consider, whose side am I
On? Whose side do you take? Yet even now,
As I consider anew how the rift
Between us began to unfold, the row
Which was our undoing, unwholesome lift,
I consider the outer rim anew...

17) Where have you passed by in logic of thought?
Why aren't you and I on the same white page?
Inside both of us are torn to little
Pieces: shrapnel overwhelms the senses,
Anger clouds judgement, hate bypasses love,
Rage instructs us attack without mercy!
Yet now I begin to wonder what cause
Could have made us forget the old ways, laws
By which we once solidified the sea
Of differences that now keep a doves
Distance between us. But the answer is
Not at all to my liking. The fiddle,
Though it play many a good tune, is sage
Only without hindrance. Now it is not.

18) What is time but a worn rag? and the rag
but resembling nothing more than a hag!
What is anger that it should boil over
In a great foam of bubbles? bubbles were
A thing that signified clean, where there was
Soap to be found! Yet we see that because
Of the heat of the water wherein set
Is the soap, pain is the first thing to bet
Primacy of touch. What a shame that this
Thing, set over the limit of it's good
Use, beyond it's purpose abused, this would
Be solution of cleansing for the worn
Rag of time, is no useless, is overborne
With the heat of rage, a victimized scorn.

19) You are but a worn rag, a would be thing
Of cleansing power that was so abused
By the heat of passion and the raging
Swing of seating fashion. I am confused
As to why you must boil over at my
Touch, why you must foam at the sight of me!
While I know that I too must appear, to
You, as a raging sea of boiling foam,
I cannot help but think us both alone
In our thoughts and unwilling to be true
To the other, to confess ourselves, see
The other for who they are; though we sight
To think of who we were, a polished rag,
We cannot undo now our timely sag.

20) Then what is the problem that holds us here
As enemies? enemies that will not
See the other for what they are, as clear
Sunlight upon the ground reveals the caught
Inhabitants that dwell in the dirty
Clearing, we will not see the other so!
Rather we see with the eyes of flirty
Expectation, a damnable fellow
That causes condemnation of the sort
That is eternal; a horrible wort.
The solution to your pot ridden pal
And my friend, who is your enemy now,
Is to live our lives as we would each day,
To live our gospel, to live our own way.

21) A car that collides with another on
The highway, or the street, through the salon
Window, collides with men and women, does
Not succeed in getting the right that was
Promised to it by the voice of command;
Yet so many act thus, they take a stand.
Can you force me to give up my old friend
Or I force you to forgo pot pals sight?
Perhaps somewhere around the future's bend
One of us will see in the other, might
Come to realize what it was they said;
And then they shall clear out of the old head
Of mothballs, and cotton two, all those old
Arguments of strife that had made love cold.

22) Sight undone is sight that has been won by
The enemy of all men and women.
His hands are now black, they were made thus when
He took quarrel with the question of why.
Why should a King, all robed, in such splendor
Of light that doth ring out, eternity,
Be wedded to that strange maternity
Of creation? It doesn't make sense! Wore
He his armor, but none of it mattered.
Bore no amour, he was a bit battered
By the sword of an angel, all in white;
Blinded forever, the dark became light.
If he needed this, I suspect we both too
Needed our own friends; mine me, and yours you.

23) Right is made wrong in the sight now undone,
Victory is loss that is never won.
To loose what we have without any gain,
Is like to throw us into a great pain.
Should I relinquish my friend without
Hope for another that's lying about?
Should you forgo that old pot ridden pal
Without a word from me? that I then shall
Be your guide in a world without her face,
In a new, possibly forsaken place?
Can anyone possibly hope to change
What is in the heart of another being
By insisting their way is best to sing?
Can they replace what they seek to now change?

25) The light of the dark is easy to see
When it's been your own cold reality.
Light outside the cave, in the daytime's ray,
Is harder to see through, keeps you at bay.
Can the dawn that brightens the sky's great frame
Come up all at once? Would it not be vain
For such a change to occur all at once?
You'd strike all men mad! They'd be made a dunce
By the blindness that strikes them, in their plight
They would run and hide, and they would requite
What you saw as an act of merciful
Ministry with cruel hate, and they would flee!
Thus I have gone all wrong in telling you;
What you should have done, I should do for you.

26) Slowly but surely the light comes out now,
But it comes not from the sun, or the sky.
Rather instead, you see, in your head, how
A star has descended and has drawn nigh.
In a dark place there is not much to see,
But it is not known, the reality
Is not seen by the inhabitants there.
You must come into the cave and lay bare
All that there is, which is nothing at all,
Not through words, but through living God's call!
A tree that blossoms, merely does it's task,
Is light in which others may want to bask.
But force is still the hand that forces us
To be enemies, and to have no trust.

27) Returned I have to my question you see,
What could cause us to be enemies so
Violent and bitter, in anger show
No love? The wit in the sting of a bee
Is that it's poison seems to be greatly
Exciting, enticing, it becomes you;
As any hurt first makes pain feel blue
And causes you to curse in vanity
It begins to seem normal like a tree
In the dead of winter over time does
Little to perplex us. We know what was
Will come again in time, and you shall see.
But what if we willingly made it such
That every day was always winters touch?

28) Who would help us along such a bad line
Of thoughts? who would string them into a whine
Of Naughts, Nay Sayings, and Horrible quips;
Who would take delight in making such rips?
Coal in the lungs, smog in the nostrils, and
Oil in the sand; these images of land
That are made unwholesome can become true:
Land is staid its growth by one who did woo
The nature of man in devious fashion.
This one turned all that was good in passion
Into dregs of what it all could have been;
This is the one, he who invented sin.
Yet even as he reaches to blot out
My mind, I still know what I am about.

29) He would keep you and I at fray of arms
That cause us always to make new alarms;
Of noise he is the master a bitter
Fellow who we hate, as is a sitter
Is he to a child. Now he reaches in
To my mind and also into yours too,
Tries to overcome what I know: this shrew
Thinks to erase revelations I've had
That I may continue in being sad.
His shell is cold, he is all made of tin;
I fear that his hand should cause me to feint
If he should but touch me, such is his taint.
But I focus instead on new found light,
This raises my stature to greater heights. 

30) Perhaps I am to blunt now in my speech
And you will not take from me the lesson
That I had hoped, with all of this, to teach.
Such is man, all stuck in his depression,
That he will not allow for the truth to
Sink into his head. For if he then drew
From the well of life, as I have now done,
He'd be done with his old life, and the fun
Which he coveted with his life being void
Would force him to let go of the steroids
He's been using, the girls he's been flirting
With, and even the guys he's been hurting.
But the point I've made, I came to slowly,
I came to it for you, my sister, see?

31) Yet all of this is unnecessary;
As the sun does not require of me
My rising in order for it to rise.
Though evil will often of us despise
The possibility of hope and love 
From the light of glory in heaven's glove
Lit hand, that it could reside our mind,
That we could respond to each other, kind
Words exchange, the past forget, put an
End to the last range of the bet, get tan
Skin from the sunlight and absorb it's sink
Of music, that bubbling water's link
To music, It cannot undo a look
Of understanding that you and I took.

34) Does a quarrel between oranges and pears,
Which are both fruit in case you're all wondering,
Have to catch us both at such unawares
That we must become bitter enemies?
As cold is to warmth, as heat is to chill?
Are these things not in fact connected to
The other in so much as they do brew
The conditions whereby the other exists?
As the boiling heat becomes the water
So that it may fill the dry air with mists
Of nourishment? The undying father
Created each thing as good, despite bad
Influence that causes us to be sad;
Yet in these things the farmer still doth till.

33) Suddenly the quarrel is gone like fruit
That came into season; the old owl's hoot
Becomes faint and then disappears as brown
Colored hues of night turn into the sound
Of yellow and orange that paints up the town:
So too did my anger towards your pot pal
Disappear, and your anger for my friend.
How does a look through the well of grief
Become the man or woman underneath?
Is it not better to see through the weight
Of sorrow and grief and in such time state
What harrowing pains are on our own souls?
So we might override all our controls?
So in a look we begin, we intend.

34) Over days we think to first speak of hurts
That were inflicted upon us by each one;
Yet when weeks become our brows the deserts
Of our thoughts begin to fade, are undone.
The months turn such things into childish dreams
That unravel, come apart at the seams.
Years begin to hold a sway over us
So that we begin to fail in our old trust;
For the look wherein we understood each
Other became a look of longing, reach
Of desire to speak out our heart's own guilt:
Yet we are still stuck at the very hilt,
Stop at fear, and a decade is gone now.
Still we meet each other, politely bow.

35) Then after a decade we speak again;
And time seems to, our friendship, give us both
A new sense of unity. We see growth
Seeping underneath the skin of our thoughts,
And think to ourselves perhaps now the cost
Of silence, of patience, of endurance,
Has actually saved us from the woes made;
When I was a boy and you were a maid.
The blink of mine eyes seem to have erased
The memory of hatred and anger. You
Too seem to see the change, you have surfaced
From the deep cold, the dungeon that held two
Of us for so long within the confines
Of our own selfish thoughts; our whines are wine.

36) My resolve to hate you has dimmed, in flight
Over mountains and golden hills, the world
Seen over and over again has slight
Consequences upon what I have hurled
Into your face years before; insults had
More impact when we were younger, and now
We seem to have lost some of that umph. Bad
Thoughts seemed the greater, the stronger, and how
They seemed more glorious still when we were
On the breach of time! When we entered through
That wall, that breach made by rhymes so untrue;
For little of the truth made it into
My thoughts, my great undying love for you.
Now sister, we lay it all aside, pride
Has no hold over us. We are allied.

                              Time Will Mend, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012