Monday, July 30, 2012

Change of Color

I sit in silence upon the marble floor.
I wait, such defiance striding up the shore
Of my mind, a marker in the white sand,
A rare find, one that I do not understand.
So I sit and stare out at the great sea,
I sit and stare, and I contemplate thee.
But sitting here on my marble perch,
Fidgeting, restless, as one in a search,
I find inside a flame burning brightly,
The kind that, if one discerns rightly,
May overcome all fears, doubts, and worry;
So has your call become somewhat blurry
To my sight, my mind plays tricks and I flee
From marble stone floors, walls that are very
Constricting of the inner flame that I've known,
I've run away, and to the world am now shone.
And as I walk through the sand that I saw
In my minds eye, I wonder what great law
Kept me from the joys of God's blessed gift;
For in the distance I saw you, the rift
In my soul was healed on the very spot,
And I have never once questioned what I got.
Now the flame is bright, and burns brighter still;
Color becomes the white canvas, does fill
It with life and love, and glory untold,
Does make me glad that I was made bold!
And life besides this pleasant gift of art;
Husband, son, daughter; treasures thou all art...
I still hear the sound of the waves in me
From my house upon the green prairie,
But now it fills me up with your delight;
For I see you now, in them you are my light.

Change of Color, (c) Luke Bennette, July 2012

Saturday, July 28, 2012

Ode to the Holy Spirit

A breath of wind, a breeze of air
That filters through the open snare.
A Ray of light that penetrates,
That enters through the thorny gates.

Such is the Spirit of God to me,
This breath of life, of eternity!
A tree may be undone by the vine,
Creation is but created, not divine.
Encroaching vines do smile and fawn
To see their deadly power drawn
From great saplings grown so high,
Blot out the sun and fill the sky.
Yet when these saplings are all grown,
The vine takes hold, and death is shone
To be waiting, in line, inevitable.
Such is a dead tree, a net to a shoal.
Now dead it falls, look out bellow!
For it shall crush all that do show
To see the fall of the mighty tree;
So the vine takes, not one, but many.
Yet it proves to be its undoing,
This vine has lost it's once proud footing.
For dead tree's give no life, are dead,
And now both vine and tree are wed
To an early grave, shackled both die;
But in the clearing, new growth is nigh.
For the seed is planted neath the tree,
Is waiting for the rays of sunshine's glee.
And like the ray that waits for death to fall,
That bit of sunshine always on call,
So does the Holy Spirit waits for you,
To take the word, the seed, construe
For yourselves what you have received,
That it may pass over, and be believed.
Now the vine is lost with the mighty tree,
But the tree lives on in gentility.
So is the power of the Holy Spirit's hand,
For He reigns in God the father,
Christ Jesus is his brother,
Mother Mary is his mother,
He is the love of one another,
That reigns, triumphant, in the land.

Now come, Holy Spirit come!
My proud heart has fallen to the ground.
Christ Jesus my deafness has overcome,
No deafness is to be found.
In my heart I beg to see the light,
The rays of God's love made bright.
The soil of my heart has planted deep
What Christ stowed there in his feat.
By your grace transform this humble seed,
Into a home for birds in need.
Let me be for others a bough,
Upon which they may rest, for now.
Let them come to me through you,
That I may give them hope to do,
What you have asked of them in time,
In their hearts you have given rhyme,
And meaning to their suffering.
Now, dear Spirit, breathe on me the spring,
Breathe on me life itself anew,
My Faith in Christ increase I pray,
My hope in God the Father renew,
My love of neighbor increase this day.
And when I reach my peak,
Lift me higher, through me do speak,
Let me serve as an example to all,
Catch me, lest I tumble and fall.
Do not let your servant know decay,
But let me stand, that others gone astray,
May see a landmark by which they may find,
God's mercy on earth, be of this mind.
Glory to the Holy Spirit,
Whose gift is found in both Father and Son,
May I resound to those who hear it,
To prove the battle has been won!

                    Ode to the Holy Spirit, (c) Luke Bennette, July 2012

Friday, July 27, 2012

An Inscription

Searched the sea for a place to rest my head,
In vain it would seem, for now I am dead.
Searched the world for a home where I could dwell,
For I did oppose the lifestyle's of hell;
But I could not find a solid place there,
For the world kept spinning around in space,
And man spun with it, looking for a fare,
Had no clear image upon his sweet face.
A blur was the day, like stars near at hand,
Such was my plight that I could not see life;
Work I still to find a stronghold, demand
To rest my head where there is no great strife.
Thus did I come upon a strange building,
Upon a cross was a man, a killing
No doubt made by mankind in it's own wrath;
Such was I, killed by an emotion bath.
Coming near to the place I found that the blur
Gave way to a face: an inscription, most sure;
Made not of this world or the one bellow,
But made of light, for his face did then show
All the stars and the moon and the sun, as
The combination of constellations,
Greater than any universal gas
From wayward star's; and I was there undone
By that countenance, did there undertake
A new impression upon my dull wits,
As one is like to do when need for slake
From such great overwhelming blind eye fits.

                     An Inscription, (c) Luke Bennette, July 2012

O, Anathan!

Within the confines of this place
We who have never seen your face,
We who never saw you, but heard,
We who always took in the word,
From those who still remained in time,
Who spoke to us about the line,
A line unbroken, Anathan,
From which you came, and with are one.
Legends made within the confines,
The confines of this little stage,
By these we've taken to the mines,
Of our skills, honed them, as a page.
By example have we been taught,
In Anathan, were we all wrought.
Such imagery was our first taste,
The image of our hero's gone,
And that taste lingers, while effaced
Are our fears, they've all fled, anon!
So all that's been rings out to me,
And all that I am comes from thee,
For through thy example was made,
A lively group, their growth unstaid.
And by their skill was I then trained,
And my own fears were then restrained.
Now I have taught those who have come,
Thus see what they have now become.
O Anathan we thank you now,
We thank the one who steered your bow.
Yet by your leave we'll learn some more,
And come at last to God's own shore.
Theater be, for me, a book,
Within which is found a new look,
Into the depths, eternity,
That endless, sea, that mystery.
And now I praise those who have done
The impossible, the race they've won.
We lift our glasses high to thee,
We thank you for that recipe,
By which we have all profited,
Your example, which we do tread.

                        O Anathan, (c) Luke Bennette, July 2012

Thursday, July 26, 2012

His Inner Spark

Not much to go upon have I while you
Do hide your face behind the rye of new
Ideas, behind the face of many strange
Words that have the ring of old; you derange
Me by playing hide and seek, go where man
Has been, or where he currently is. But
Were you to speak upon the floor, where what
Moves man may play to the beat of a drum
Or the strum of a string, there you become
A frenzied fellow; the arms of woman
Entwined with yours in a dance so that two
Become one in a vigorous prance. Few
Are they who have seen underneath the mask
Of your actions, yet such work is the task.

For what I see and hear of you is gold,
Gold that shines and glitters in the warm sun
For all to see. Yet inside the mind lies
A trove far greater than what you are on
The surface, the sum of what you could be.
Have you no ambitions of any sort?
Or do you find the summer to be sport
Enough for you, engage in it's playful
Breeze so that you may enjoy a good romp
Amongst the tree's? While in summer you stomp
For the naked eye to see, the inner
Soul yearns, and longs still to be free. From what
Trials and tribulations I know not; but
From what I have discerned they are few that
Trouble you, for none know where you are at.

Perhaps the summer sun that glistens here
Upon the surface reaches down into
Your soul and fills the mind with ease. A queer
Thought for one so young, and yet perhaps true
Contentedness has eluded me, so
Far away in the land of summer day's
That I who sit here in the winter can
Only see the illusion of happy
Men; with lasses on their arms. in a dance.
Men do smile more heartily than not, give
Themselves over to what they have got live
Not only for but in the moment wrought.
What source of power is his gift to find
So much peace in the heart, soul? What's his mind?

Hazard a guess if you will, yet no such
Pain or suffering as they who do risk
All their wealth on a gamble will now touch
You if your hazardous guess goes wrong. Whisk
Your troubles away as though a stray fly
Did slyly enter your sight; such is your
Willingness to pardon all man's offense.
So that as they all pass you by and by
You may give to them your all on the fly
Without any hint of a false pretense,
Without giving him a suspicious fence
To place between you both for your crime.
Such is your grace, you do turn on a dime.
Yet the source of all this does not depart,
Remember, He is greater than thou art.

                   His Inner Spark, (c) Luke Bennette, July 2012


Why do you torment me so thou fiendish
Phantasm of possibility? Why?
Was it not enough that you should relish
My fall from sound reason, that I should die,
But now you seek to pursue me under
This hallowed ground, this, my burial site,
To laugh and torment me further still! Sure
Footed reason has gone away, he might
Never come back, and you seek now to house
Yourself in my nooks and crannies for an
Old spite you had with him, like a mouse
You creep from hole to hole, like a great fan
You prevent me from listening to what
I deem to be the greatest source of my,
O! so lacking comforts! What is life but
A tormenting fiend that keeps you all spry
Around the edges but nibbles on it's
Center so as to soil the whole meal
For which you have been working. Now it sits
Upon the cusp of land, and it doth feel
That I should not accompany right mind
To better accommodations than this
Damp ground where I do now trod. Yet I find
That the more I struggle with him I miss
The boat of departure. For he distracts
Me with all his taunts and raves, with a great
Hullabaloo he catawamps the facts
Into so many knives and daggers. Hate
Then fills my soul till it is bursting, makes
My hair stand on end as I contemplate
The measures to which I could go to rake
This fellow off my plot of land; though fate
Has stuck him with me up until this point,
And I cannot escape him nor anoint  
For myself some other portion of land
By my own will, no, not by my own hand.
Seek I then some other will than my own
By which sure wind is more oft then not blown?
Sure footed reason departed by that
Boat that I have missed these many times; less
I have been sure of. Shall I be a bat
That is blind, or shall I not now confess
That there is one higher than my own will
Who seeks my soul as a harvest point, who
Seeks to furrow the soul, it's soil to till
With the everlasting grace of life; true
To his calling I have yet to asnwer,
But converse possibility banter.

                     Possibility, (c) Luke Bennette, July 2012

Monday, July 23, 2012

At Large

At large is the monster of my demise,
Who wanders through streets with her lucid ties.
Fulfilling in the moonlit sonata
A cry of desire, such a salsa
Did one never dance as this who did prance
Upon my mind with shimmering advance
Similar to the oncoming slaughter
Of man who defiles his own made daughter.
Now at large is the one who stole my love,
Misplaced is upon the wayside, a glove
Missing from my hand, rain without cloud bands;
And now I am alone in foreign lands.
Yet waiting still is the bride of my hope,
Who braces me up, gives me faith to cope.

At large, greater still than this monsterous
Belle who did steal my heart, led me to hell's
Door and broke my lamp upon onerous
Thoughts so as to lead me deep into dell's
Made of darkness, light of despairing gloom,
Hidden inside such light, impending doom;
Yes, at large is my old hope, just outside
The door of my wounded vanity, pride
That grew in the night rather than the day;
Such hope is greater than fright that may fray
The constancy of man. Yet should the night
Give way to light so easily? What lay
Did prophesy of the harrowing bite,
That highway man who staid my now lit way?

Large enough is the shadow cast by him
Who causes light to seem at it's great height
To seem but a shadow, to seem so dim;
A deadly sorrow to men this cold weight
That sifts the ground for minerals and grain,
Who sifts for life, his own to sustain. Fright
Is prompted by such a sight to appear
And lead astray the hope that is still near.
But worse still is the one who comes behind
And steals the hope from within the man's mind,
Calls him fool, and prettily calls him back
To be her man; exposed to such attack
From behind, the shadow creeps forward to
Steal what it deems is it's reward, it's brew.

Larger still is hope cast aside, seems small
To the illusions of the mind, a gun
Hidden in the fold of man's coat to maul
The evil that crosses the moat of one
Who desires to remain pure and free. From
The side the weakest link seems to call, makes
Vein attempts to rally the heart; a drum
Beats in the heart of impending death, takes
It's toll upon the inner workings of
Man, driving him to his senses. Such love
As man does perceive without his hearts say
Leads all men to fall, to wither away.
Thus beauty turned is a monstrous offense
That borders the heart like a picket fence.

At large then are they who do strive to win
The beauty of God from the hearts with sin.
Larger still is the heart that wills beauty
To be what it was truly meant to be.
Blackened hearts cannot sense the hope that's near,
Cannot overcome their own man made fear.
Yet spring eternal lies within the heart
Of men who seek to do their given part.
Beauty is in the eye, held as a speck;
But is laid low by doubt, is held suspect.
Then be at large my hope within the fold
Of my jacket, from my pocket I draw
A weapon to fight the shadow's untold,
To turn from false love, and escape the maw.

                        At Large, (c) Luke Bennette, July 2012

Sunday, July 22, 2012

A Series of Doors

My mind is full of portals, images
By which I may take leave of my senses
Per say and give over my self, array
The thought in clothes of ethereal play,
And don the crown of majesty by one
Motion of the hand; for when I am done
With the day I labor tirelessly  
To understand the worth I have won, free
Myself from hindrances such as concern
And let through the barriers that do turn
Within my mind the overwhelming grace
That reaffirms my dignity, my place.
Then all at once these doors do disappear,
For all at once you have come, you draw near.

My mind becomes a myriad of walls,
Where none may exit save through the labyrinth
Of God's will; dare I exit premature
And fail to see what lies at the end of
This bland mortar stretch? Now I move, he calls,
And I make my way through the hyacinth
Fragrance that peppers the floor, am unsure
Whether or not to turn back from this love
That seems strange, that I do abhor! For some
Reason keeps me thinking this is a trap
From which no man returns; once overcome
By the throws of sleep man cannot then map
The halls of his dreams, nor the depths therein;
Oft he meets not only virtue but sin.

Images fleetingly cross the walls bare
Without so much as a sound, raise my hair
To such heights I had thought they took their leave
From the body. And I do now believe
That wherever I was going is not
Where I am, and that this place is all shot
Full of deception; now I plan, as ought
All when in such a position, to run
From this place, and pull from my side a gun,
Though I know not how it came to be there;
Still, tis a dream, and in a dream all's fair.
Yet hardly had I taken to my heels
Was a roar behind me sounded; as keels
Do reel from rocks beneath did I then feel.

Now dark goes the dream, but the sound remains,
The growl, the hiss, a most deadly refrain
Echos down the hallway of stone I tread,
And I long to wake up, go back to bed!
A door opens right, and I see to my
Relief there lies a way out of this ply
I did find myself in; though very narrow
In breadth is this door to my faint surprise,
And I am unable to in this guise
Enter in. So my heart begins to race
Once more, as chains clank on the floor; I face
Down this monster of cold emotion's breed,
Determined he should not upon me feed. 
Then the wall behind me opened up wide,
And I heard the soft sound of laughing pride.

A light as bright as the sun was there, but
Faint was it's source; how odd is that to me.
He spoke with words that did support, and shut
The door to my right with a sly smile. Free
Was I to walk away, but bound by such
A gaze as was his I forgot the touch
Of cold dread that still approached from behind;
This cold intellect had chilled my quaking mind.
Rather faint was the sound of clanking chains,
His voice seemed to sooth and shake my old pains.
Yet suddenly I heard a voice most clear
That told me death was close, was very near.
The light did frown, and grimace, then did snarl,
The clanking grew, and my own mind did whirl...

                  A Series of Doors, (c) Luke Bennette, July 2012

Friday, July 20, 2012

The Doorman

My mind is full of portals, images
By which I may take leave of my senses
Per say and give over my self, array
The thought in clothes of ethereal play,
And don the crown of majesty by one
Motion of the hand; for when I am done
With the day I labor tirelessly  
To understand the worth I have won, free
Myself from hindrances such as concern
And let through the barriers that do turn
Within my mind the overwhelming grace
That reaffirms my dignity, my place.
Then all at once these doors do disappear,
For all at once you have come, you draw near.

                     The Doorman, (c) Luke Bennette, July 2012

Wednesday, July 18, 2012

Next In Line

Who is this that travels too and fro? I'd
Like to know what she does and what she says.
The reason? Just to show that I care, hide
No cards up my sleeves and you'll find my plays
To be nothing more than human concern
For another human being. I yearn
But to know the name of this person, this
Roaming pilgrim that wanders the earth, for
Tis intriguing to me to see the bliss
Of falling stars that do surround her. More
I cannot say, except that she surprises
Me with her understanding of guises,
And that her eyes do pick out such talent,
And held mine with understanding she lent

To my own person; and all who saw her,
Those littered cans and dusty trophy's, were 
As a bright lit stage when she did come by,
Did reflect the same rays she did espy!
Yet if you do not believe my intents
To be pure, to be at all heaven sent,
And do continue to deliberate
As to whether to call security
And have me thrown out, consider your state;
For how did you come to know her name? Be
You free of the pull that pulls on her? Can
You judge me to be mischievous when
You yourself have become, by her, a man
Of success, turned from the ways of children

Into a source by which others may learn
Of the knowledge she did to you intern?
Then finding no fault within my desire,
Will you not acquit me of this interest,
Satisfy this intrigue, this burning fire,
Before it bursts from my impatient breast?
But forgive my behavior, for you see
It is most clear to me by your express
Silence that your loyalty to her be
As strong as her loyalty to God. Yes.
Is it not strange to see the reaction,
The chain of events that plays out through time?
God gives to men such great satisfaction,
And men in turn give their children a rhyme.

                     Next In Line, (c) Luke Bennette, July 2012

Monday, July 16, 2012

Created for Thirst

Create for me by this lovely fee
A creature of delicate being, But
See to it, that it has great wit, is free
To speak it's mind, is brazen, yet kind. What
Can you say against talent? To sing, dance,
And perform, this assent to place in her.
Then from the light of moon take fright, advance
Her beauty with perilous rays, be sure
That by day her sight makes one daze; for such
A creature as this requires a bliss
That calls out to man for a single touch,
Lest he, as heaven, this fair creature miss.
Now place, at last, in this beauteous cast
A mast of wisdom to see the world vast. 

By this may she see me, and long for me,
For her God, who created her. At sea
May she be at peace, in heart, mind, and soul;
O please be free, relinquish all control!
For I do desire, with a burning
Fire, all that I have made. I am yearning,
I thirst, my heart fit to burst, happiness
For her I desire. And so I give choice
To her, and a voice by which I do bless
Her folly with bliss; by silence my voice
Shall be to her a kiss, and shall renew
Her in body, mind, and soul, what men do
Not in their wildest dreams think to give her.
Now, create this beauteous, overture! 

                    Created for Thirst, (c) Luke Bennette, July 2012

Laughing Fit

To what do I owe this uncanny show?
A most crescent smile. My life is in woe,
But to you I owe happiness for a while.
For by and by went you and I, we lost
Our heads in the clouds. We climbed up there
For some fresh air, and ignored all the sounds.
Then friend, my friend, you did pretend, to fall
From the sky to earth. Thought I to wend my
Way, intend, to save you from your great mirth.
Then did you laugh, inuring my wrath, you
Made such a fool of me; and with glee you
Shouted out Whee! Raced the skies, you flew!
And by your friendship I must admit, you
Took off years from my serious wit.

                 Laughing Fit, (c) Luke Bennette, July 2012

Stringing Them Along

By yonder star he steers his course, the course
That's steered by a star. And though he's been called
A boy, tis a boy by man that's appalled.
For in his heart there lies a string, a string
That's smooth, yet unbent. And though, like a horse,
Tis put through it's pace it retains fair ring.
So sing me a song with your string unbent,
And help me forget the world. For I know
With you there lies a clue; will you it show?
For without your song men fall along, rent
Their heart and soul. May your music be clear,
That men may not fear; be you heaven sent?
By yonder star make clear the way for men
Who do seek their hearts, to leave wild fen.

                     Stringing Them Along, (c) Luke Bennette, July 2012

Sunday, July 15, 2012

Prodigy Come Home

Too far away for me to say is this
Young fellow; my eyesight becomes a bit
Dim in the sun, which he does eclipse. Bliss
Overtake me! for I see a young wit
Coming through those tall stalks of glittering
Wheat! And by golly he's got new shoes on
His feet! What a surprise to see that ring
Again, that I durst not swear to see. Wan
Was the day when I last saw it's like, Spring
Was in the air when he left; up and gone
Like a glimmering sprite! Some leprechaun
With his pot of gold, off to buy his fame!
Now here he comes fast, and I go anon;
Lost his money, but I love him the same.

                    Prodigy Come Home, (c) Luke Bennette, July 2012

Seasoned Reality

An image is worth a thousand words, but
Remains an image. A basis in thought
Stands upon an image in order to
Pursue, to the end, the desired end
Of thought in the one who views it. And what
Sort of image can break the mind when caught
In a blow of words, emotional brew
Spouting forth steam, with no thought to give mend
To the situation; what image makes
A man change a heart when full knowledge of
The image gives him leave to trample such
Petty emotions to the ground? Reason,
Reality, that quintessence of man,
Allows him to rise above the fray of
Anger, emotional response, like a
Ship at sea may withstand the mighty wave
As a child endures the splash of puddles
On his rubber shoe. An image of man takes
On the emotions of men like cargo,
Bolster's it's revenue, feeds like a leech
Upon the unintelligent, and fakes
Any decency, like a white made glove
That conceals an unblemished hand of touch
So foul that only a mask would make one
Reach out to grasp such an illusion ham.
But the solid ground, thick set thread woven
Into a montage of colors that say
I am what I am in context, brave
Words that appeal to all mans common goals, 
That flow of the collegial thought by which
Man builds up his house, by such images
That find themselves upon the rock first set
As the foundation of thought may man see
A truth inside painted reality.
For a thousand words are but a thousand
If they are not based upon the one. So
Start from the beginning, work forward, and
With thought make sure images; understand
That this is no assurance they will see
The depths of the glorious mystery,
But if you do all that you can to make
Them open their eyes they must die; or take
What you have to say as the truth made real;
The truth made flesh, an image that is real.

                     Seasoned Reality, (c) Luke Bennette, July 2012

Saturday, July 14, 2012

The Ranting Spirit

Lies abound outside these walls, with knives men
Walk, their speech a mixture of pointed fangs
And dented truths that doth comb the land dry
Of any bearing; such rare dignity
Did woman hold before the fall of men.
Tis fitting she should cherish him in his
Fallen state, his fallen comrade in arms,
His muse, his misunderstood nobles. O,
For a sigh of the wind to blow it all
Away from us. Where is the lion's den
That he should be so late in coming? Pangs
From childbirth do come sooner, can fly
More swiftly than the crow does south; a free
Man does more swiftly take up a promise
Of fidelity to his wife, fair charms
Make more of deadly situations; woe
To this lion for his lack of great speed
While the people suffer, are in great need.
Do you suppose that he shall arrive soon
To this hallowed ground? This place of stone graves?
Shall he come to save mere slaves of flesh? Cry
You for him to come and save you from me?
Or does the moisture in your eyes say but
A trivial wind is in the air that
You should drop such drops, such glistening streams
Of water that could slake the thirst of men
From a thousand miles around and then more?
I think you know as well as I that lies
Do hold the greater sway of this city,
Do parlay to the depths of man's heart more
Easily than bread does nourish man's flesh.
O, but here you do faint with fagtigue, swoon
In the heat of the day! Take heart dear slave
Of fortune and woe, take heart! Do not sigh
As if no salvation will come! Why flee
From me as if I were the dread plague? What
Could cause you such anguish? Were I a nat
I would understand your desire. Means
Your excellency to do something when
They pry their way into this cell? What more
Can you do than to surrender to nigh
Unbeatable forces? this great witty
King who does stride through with a mesh
To catch all royalty, including your
Own person, with the intents that your core
Be flouted? public humiliation
Awaits you! and eternal damnation
Will be your reward in the eyes of men
Who do venture through old time's darkened fen.
Can you afford to wait for help to come
When it is clear it comes not? is undone
By time itself? is unraveled by it's
Own design? Is made weak so that it sits
In the limitations of the world's hand?
Have you no answer? I do you command
To answer me straight with a yea or nay
Of what you intend with this straight faced play!
Sorrow? Is this what I hear in your heart?
You are too noble to hear this, thou art
More than mere flesh and bone to deal with such
Petty pittances of grief and pain, all
Misery is a fools game to you, why
Cling to it like a life raft in the stream?
Twill only weigh you down in a battle;
And such a battle rages on outside
These walls, goes on without your aid; men do
Fall dead, their entrails stick out from their sides
Like so many vegetables fallen from
Their wayward basket. Yet are you a deaf
Man that you hear not their cries from afar
And turn your ear's to lead? How sad, bizare
That their king should leave them, bereft
Of his senses, slain in the spirit's thrum
Of battle, overcome by the red hides
That do bear an ill intellect of true
Malice and woe; O you have no such pride
As did men of old, who did conquer whole
Cities of men with one arm tied, dream
Without ambition in your cell! O Fie!
Fie on you that you do not hear all
That I have had to say! That you do touch
Not a word I have laid out before you!
That you take me for a spirit untrue!
Well go on your way then; day turns to night.
Soon I shall return to give you a fright.
You did not listen to counsels of war.
Now see what your enemy has in store.

                    The Ranting Spirit, (c) Luke Bennette, July 2012

The Price of Knowledge

If it is knowledge you seek you've come right
To the place where knowledge is begun. Sight
Takes man on a journey unlike any
He's ever been on; though he has been three
Times around the world this shall out do it.
If man seeks knowledge this is where it starts:
Where man seeks to understand many parts
In the life he leads, the varied hands he
May employ through different gloves: one of free
Masonry where he may enjoy brick's and
Mortar laid in the cracks and crannies: band,
Where he may realize his talent for
Musical apprenticeship; such a chore
Is by far the best, gives the most vigor
To it's champion: yet still there is light,
And through a prism is it trapped and seen
For what it was, and is, and could have been.
But if you truly seek knowledge my friend
You must clearly state what you do intend
To garner from the knowledge you seek;
Lest the outcome of your great search be weak.
So here is the knowledge, there are the tools.
Do not let them make of you both such fools
As have wandered forth with a shiny new
Diploma only to hold out their hands, through
Beggary earn their keep. Pursue a line
Of inquiry my boys, lest the price, fine,
The expense, or whatever else you call
It, cause you to fail in life, make you fall.
Tis better to earn a simpleton's keep
Thant to fall from the ladder of knowledge,
Better to be good at what you do hate
Than to live your life as some second rate.

                      The Price of Knowledge, (c) Luke Bennette, July 2012

Truth Wears Disguises

Nay good friend you are right to think it well
For men to scoff these fools who do tinker
With words, as the tender of ale is to
Throw from his keep those who break bread with hell;
For such men do exist, I do you assure.
But tis another thing to ignore true
Wisdom when it comes to you from such mouths,
Although the mouths may be ridden with fumes
Akin to the entrails of a blackbeak:
Tis all good policy to scorn a troth
When tis spoke from an ill dissenting plume
Of feathers and stained leather; yet such reek
Is quite different from the ripened scent of
Beauty spoken from a mound of drivel,
And it cannot be ignored without such
Care as one gives when treading into love.
Have you never thought of the great sea shells,
How they came to be empty of their much
Needed companions? I should think not, no.
After all, you are the man of respect,
Cannot be bothered by a simpleton,
Especially when they are breathing mass
Quantities of putrefied air from woe
Laden throats, those who coat the beggar's deck
With jealousy, and give the nose such gas
As would put under any decent doe.
There is a saying you see, the true state
Of man, whether hidden under rags, can
Not be undone by layers of rags; fate
As it were plays it's own cards, and the fan
Of spirits bleak blows over the world's vast
Canopy. Such desirous cat calls
Cannot be the end of man's speech, as we
Do know; for man is capable of more
Than the shriveled arms he displays, the tall
Countenance he parades, the bounding sea
Of his eyesight, and the varied hues worn
By damsels cannot account for their pluck
In the darkest hour of the night. Thus man
Is not to be seen merely by the light,
Nor by the dark for that matter, that he
Does see by; for the illumination
Comes from a multitude of intellects,
And the dilemma by which man is torn
Shows his face to be one that will not suck
The life of a man who carries a van
Of knowledge deadly to his heart. The fright
Then that you have of these unsavory
Blokes is all well and good; but tis one
Fear that, if you take my meaning, respects
Not the complexity of life, but takes
On a rather shrewd line of thinking, so
That the man you hear babbling nonsense
Truly seems to be speaking nonsense. Fakes
Your mind so easily because you show
No interest in his statement, only fence
With his appearance; his unworthiness
Causes your soul much more than distress, for
His words pierced your heart with a callousness    
Unknown to you in your adult life. Sore
At my touch dear friend? Don't like my new talk?
Very well. Then let us home; shall we walk?

                          Truth Wears Disguises, (c) Luke Bennette

The Misery Bell

By pain you are miserable you say?
How can that be when you are so, laid out,
Spent by the day in a pool of food, water,
Wine, merry entertainers of the day
That keep you from distant ailments that shout
Out at passerby for a cup of sure
Love? Can you honestly expect this way
To accomplish anything? What of you
Hopes to be a saint in life? Have you not
Sense to see within all of this strife true
Love has been hindered? O, would that you ought
To examine yourself profoundly, shrew
Over yourself with merry wit akin
To those who do proport all vice and sin;
Then would you appreciate your lack wit
And upon wisdom, a throne, would yous it!
For do not pain away at me to fix
What is clearly within your reach; for cause
Enough have I to fix the cries of poor
Men who run naked in the streets, but one
Who's neck pains him from lack of sleep, caused no
Doubt by his own tardiness to return
Home and go to bed, is not of any
Importance to me! I shall go now, free
Yourself from your vice if you can; then true
Wisdom shall return to you as a wick
By which you may light your candle, your flaws
Shall then be visibly seen. So abhor
Your desire for me to fix your undone
Body, fix it yourself if you may, grow
As the plant towards the sun, and do not burn
In the midday from lack of water; see
That there is water nearby and take it!
Else you shall be left without any wit
As water evaporates from the ground,
And so you shall die without a one sound.
For misery is naught but a child's moan
That he has not been fed when he likes, gives
The talking to God since he must atone,
Brands all men as sinners so he may live
Out his own way of life. Yet if he seeks
To serve himself he will turn back to God,
Leave fear behind, and through the gifts he's got
Will compose a song by which he may laud
The God he seeks to serve, as he well ought.

                   The Misery Bell, (c) Luke Bennette, July 2012

Charitable Contradiction

Dost thou not understand you have a mouth
Just as capable of taking for your
Very own self what you desire? South
Of you lies the person, the main line shore
By which all the sea washes upon tides
Of sand, without which nothing could be done!
Had you approached him yourself, at your side
Wisdom to guide you, you'd have now won
The battle that you seek from me; but you
Persist in fighting yourself with a comb
Of self deceit, a frustrating little
Bone that you pick with yourself so that true
Progress cannot be made, hide behind, moan
To my person without a second ill
Thought about how you could have done with all
That besets your person without my fee!
Is not man made to speak? But how to speak
When man does not appreciate the call
He is bidden to to take, without which weak
Minded fools do propagate the hall
And cause all sorts of ruckus from their cries
Of anguish! Such bitter discontent, like
Pearls cast before swine would be my teachings,
Their wailing tears and petty schoolboy sighs
Would drown out any good cheer from my psych!
Indeed they do appear to be leeching
From a kind hearted soul what they cannot
Achieve for themselves, having blocked their way
With complaints and bitter resentment, sought
No more than a penny among a stay
In millions worth of Gold! Such is the find
Of potential in their vast repetoire
Of skills! And it pains me to see myself
Run from them all, having tried every mean
To accomplish in them a small pitance
Of understanding as to how they shelf
Wisdom in exchange for small comforts, glean
Nothing from the many converses, chance
Upon a excuse as if it were such
A rare find that they must excuse every
Other sense in their bodies so to use
It's ghastly being at the moment they touch
Upon it's presence in their mind; a sea
Were likely to stand between, such abuse
Is in store for those that try, they flee
From these beggars who do not learn to live,
Who fail to understand they're called to give
Of themselves as freely as is given
Unto them. So have I for years striven
To make them see themselves as fools of light
Who never seem to bother using  sight;
Do they wish to be healed? Then let them act
Within the parameters of their wish;
Let them give themselves over to a pact,
Then shall they be given a rod to fish
Out what they need from the waters of life.
So shall end both mine, and their unlucky strife.

                   Charitable Contradiction, (c) Luke Bennette, July 2012

Thursday, July 12, 2012

Faith so as to move

Mountainous is the task to open
Your eyes to the truth of what exists in
Flowing streams, in fountains, in the wide glen
Of this bottle, this toy from which we win
An understanding of the world in it's
Miniature form; one might move mountains
Before you recognize that mankind sits
Upon a vast sum of orr, foundations
Rich, and in the poorest of the world's face
Thrives the glory found in the richest man's
Clothing. Yet you do no see, not a trace
Of sulfuric acid from a great fan
Of volcanic ash would you perceive, though
It were upon you and you were dead. Cross
The Road a million times without a true
Knowledge of it's shape, I am at a loss
For what to do with you of little brains!
For brains do confirm what the heart knows, and
You seem to know little in your heart, feign
Deaf to an avalanche, and understand
Little in the cries that do assail your
Ears! You need better sails rather than oars,
Need eyes in the nest to call out the waves
That do crash upon your bow; what fine slaves
You have that know more than you do about
The mountains you move with loud mouthed machines,
But you do not pay them a whit of thought.
Rather, inside currents of greedy dreams
You have been found, have been easily caught.
How long till you understand that mountains
Are easier moved than the hearts that move
Them from your path? Yours is like a fountain
That lacks a running stream to supply groove,
Cannot sustain anything other than being,
And is like art; which can only be seen. 

                  Faith so as to move...(c) Luke Bennette, July 2012

Bordering Heaven

Between the lines there lies a mystery,
Communicated through notes, a harmony
Of song; such a tender feeling creates
In men the hope to overcome their fates.
But when the music ceases, and the lines
Where past and future blend into the pines
Of the present age, the crease of our soul
Begins to expand as a wave that's full
Of malcontent and mischief; on the wing
Of a hurricane does the soul then fling
Out all decency for deadly chaos,
Sacrifices peace, dreadful holocaust.
Yet within the silence before the blast
Of wind, the stillness before the tempest,
Can be heard the sound of growth in the soul;
Growing from insecurity, a shoal
Of thought swimming for the depths of the sea.
Stuck between those lines is eternity.
For in the blurring of boundaries lies
The key by which the door of growth is kept
Open to all mankind; thus when man cries
Out in the stillness and music inept
Of comfort assails our ears, then does man's
Soul grow wings so as to fly through the air
Rather than swell into chaotic plans
That catches all mankind in a great snare
Of wind and rain, of lightning from clouds dark
With bitterness; for he must now go share
His land with others in the merging park
Of the mystery. So is a choice made
By the blending of lines within the glade
Of earth, sky, and sea, an eternity
Analogously understood to be
As the letting down of fences and walls
In order to share in glorious halls.

                   Bordering Heaven, (c) Luke Bennette, July 2012

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

The Garden Patch

Within the sore lies a burden, a weight
Of sorrow and more, a bitter spate made
For the darkness that surrounds us, the hate
Of the enemy abounds; for we staid
The hand of God by idle limbs, stayed long
The growth, our laud, of song, of praise and song.
Yet beats the heart with this festering pain,
False hope, this insincere love, a vein of
Pride by which we maintain ourselves in vain;
But called are we still to the feast of love,
This heavenly call from above, and can
We make due by ourselves? Walk in old gloves
Tattered and worn from this youthful spar? Man
May seek in the darkest places for God
Rather than live in the light of day, plods
On in a torrential downpour to say
Forth the inner depths of his reach, to pray
Out in the cries of anger and rage's hand,
And all that men may his song understand;
For within the sore lies sorrow's despair,
Of which no man is more keenly aware
Than the one who seeks for God with his heart,
Who travels through night, proclaims in his art
The growth he has seen from violent boy,
That showed him that life he could sill enjoy.
Thus in the heat of the day we find joy,
In the heart of winter there we employ
A song that warms our hearts and weary limbs;
And in autumn we rejoice in the death
Of the old, that which is soon born anew
In perpetual spring; from which we grew.

                    The Garden Patch, (c) Luke Bennette, July 2012

Turning the Stone

Salutations O bright star from darkness,
Strange greetings though it may be for one
Who was seeking out of the brilliance
Of the Sun his saving peace; yet outdone
Are my hopes in the coming of the night,
Overcome by the light that has now shone
Through the colorless veil of human sight.
Though men loose incredulity that's won
By a momentary lapse in man's doubt,
Tis overcome by man's false need to run.
But I have seen through water fire's array
Of brilliance and splendor; for the sun
Illuminates the world without a price,
Yet the Son overcomes sin, death, and vice.

              Turning the Stone, (c) Luke Bennette, July 2012

Sunday, July 8, 2012

Mystical Mentor

What a stranger we see here before our eyes,
This wandering vagrant some would call her,
Rallying from shore to shore with her cries
The many young children as yet unsure
Of their true calling. Yet little thanks she
Receives from them in the life she still lives;
For what is thanks but the afterlife? We
Live in  sea of turmoil, strife that gives
Us but a chance to prove our sails, advance
Our cause. But the cause is tied like a rope
To a vast assembly behind us. Ants
Do move faster than humanities slope!
Thus we move slowly while she rallies all
To heed in their hearts the sound of the call.

                Mystical Mentor, (c) Luke Bennette, July 2012

Saturday, July 7, 2012

Moving Through Time

In time you may be unmoved by the dust,
Though mind over mater continues to
Move through the misty waters; and the rust
That we gather from storms that do still brew
Up trouble for our tired minds does rub
Off with but a touch of sympathies hand.
So by your action you move forward, dub
Anew the meanings of life in this land;
Yet the body moves slowly, unwilling
To move through time, a barrier of growth
That stunts the heartiest of women. Sing
Out the melody of time once more, doth
Not time overcome us all regardless?
Thus after time we do all find true bliss.

               Moving Through Time (c) Luke Bennette

Cop Out

A time may tell me where in time I am,
But time I cannot tell why a black van
Spews forth men of evil intent, their souls
All black, and their bodies spent; my controls
Now falter and I cannot see the light
Behind the silver lining, all a fright
For my life, uncertain of what's in store,
Yearning to live, to experience more.
Yet strange as time seems for not stopping men
From doing vile acts, it astounds me when
It conveys through the senses my rescue;
For then is my spirit lifted to new
Heights at the sound of my friend now outside.
For his courageous deeds fill me with pride.

                 Cop Out, (c) Luke Bennette, July 2012

Through His Sight

Eyesight makes the world a pretty place, or
Is the world beautiful because it doth
Represent in all it's splendor a more
Wondrous sight? Is it to be enough
For man to see what he can feel beneath
His feet or must he consume it all so
That his sight may grow to feel, bequeath
The five senses to his sight through a show
Of experience, and weigh the cosmos
With eccentric eyes? Can the the depths
Of time be measured by sight, by Eros
May man see the hidden meaning of death?
Or is man merely doomed to see a place
Resplendent of no particular face?

Through His Sight, (c) Luke Bennette, July 2012

Friday, July 6, 2012

On Your Way

You wait,
I pace,
And you know that time will tell,
            Will show me what needs to be.
But I don't understand why damned hell
           Why it, wont just let me be!
It seems no good is left unpaid
The devil's hell bent, yet still he's staid,
But I've got nightmares that keep me up
Why do I feel like some frightened pup!

Cause I'm shaken, to the bone,
And I'm quaking, all alone.
Time seems to have run away
I'm left here all alone to pay.
Love won't come for me again,
I'm stuck inside this rotten fen.
I wait for simple clarity,
A distant boat in a stormy sea,
But soon I feel I"ll fade away
With time's old bell; O, I can't say!
                             No, I can't say.
                             I'm on my way. 

Listen up,
          Cut up heart,
I Listen,
         Then you start.
You tell me life is full of pain,
           You see through my heart of fear.
I yell back that I've got no name,
         I go slack when you are near.
Yet all my faculties remain
And in this life I go insane,
Without your presence I am mad
But still I think of what I could have had.

So I'm shaken, in distress,
And I'm quaking, self duress.
Time seems to have done away with me,
I'm left to ponder your Vacant See!
Love won't ever be the same,
Stuck in time I call out your name.
I wait to see the fruits of God
So distant now, I feel like a sod.
But soon I feel I"ll fade away,
Within this world; O, I can't pray,
                          No, I can't pray.
                          I hate my way.

Now I speak,
         Weak is man,
You do nod,
           God's own plan,
They listen to me like I listen to you,
        Glistening in the sun.
I start to loose hope, O God! are you true?
         Who is God the Son?
Cause your spirit in me,
Seems a bit of key,
And I can't help but think,
My life's on the brink.
They picked up knives, they throw them stones,
And nowadays they speak in baritones;
That guns still pointed right at me,
Will you deflect it from your Holy See?

How long now must I wait?
To see you at that pearly gate?
How far from home must I run now?
Will my spine still know how to bow?
When I've grown old can I retire?
Or will I still be filled with fire?
Why can't you pick some other guy!
I wish you'd quit on me, O why!?

Cause I'm shaking all mankind,
They are quaking, may I remind;
Time seems to have come on back,
I'm left in motion where's the slack?
Love no longer seems a chore,
Stuck in your presence, I want more!
I wait now for your Holy call,
So distant from this worldly ball,
And soon I feel I'll fade away,
And I'll be gone; O, I can't stay!
                         No, I can't stay.
                         That ain't your way.

         Ought you to say?
In Pace now,
         How far away...
Time has told your story anew,
                Old as history
I finally understand what I knew,
                You hand O God I can see!
And everything that I thought I would rue
It turned upside down, it turned into glue,
My fears all gone, all gone in a flash!
Lets hope angels can fly and that they don't crash!

Cause I'm shaking with delight,
And I'm quaking, still in flight.
Time seems to have stopped on me,
Left in slow motion, I am free!
Love wont ever leave again,
I'm stuck inside, yeah! stuck in heaven!
I wait and pray for all mankind,
So distant though is pain from my mind,
And soon I feel it all fade away,
My mind is clear; O, I'm hear to stay,
                           Ya, here to stay.
                           Have it your way!

Have it your Way, (c) Luke Bennette, July 2012

Tuesday, July 3, 2012

The Pursuit

Strangest fellow I ever did meet, a
Crazy old coot in the makings, but sweet
Love did he find and such acts did belay,
The thoughts of the future by her were beat.
Out of the mind that careworn intellect
Did he crawl to see, like some strange insect.
The moon doth morph to reflect her fair sun,
And so did he when he saw her, did run
To meet fair lass, did shed all of his fears;
Despite the smiles and laughs of all his peers.
What hope has man of living inside heart
Filled ambitions when such acts lack the flare
Of the Sun, that doth forget to impart
All that he is into a weave that doth not tear?

               The Pursuit, (c) Luke Bennette, June 2012


Upon the ground i did espy the sight,
A pool of water, intrigue, and delight.
Bending over to see whither it ran
I saw inside a small boy grown to man.
A wind did strike the pool, it moved down
Five sidewalks; I hurried apace, a frown
Upon my face, for eager I was to
See what the future held for him I knew
In bygone years, the realms of fantasy
That children do espouse while they are free.
Yet as I stalked this picture on the ground
It vanished from sight in the heat of day;
And looking up I saw the man, and found
The vision manifesting midnight ray.
All dark did the sun go, mimsy the air,
And I found myself suppressing chills; fair
Weather now did seek to escape my thought,
As the vision had escaped, was uncaught.
And standing in the moonshine was a friend,
But he was changed, and did my calm heart rend.
No longer did I see him present, but
In a whirling dream. I could not know what
Was that I did deem to see in that hour,
But I knew it was a vision of power.
Dared I to go forward? To shake his hand?
Could I understand his path? or demand
He return to the pool from which he came?
I found the boy I knew, no longer lame
In thought, speech, or intelligence, no fall
Did I detect in his sight, and his pall
Was one of color, of youth, of a smile;
No longer unsure, not so infantile.
Rather unsure of what I was to do
He made the first move, and had I withdrew
From the scene I know not what would have been;
Having seen the future, what I have seen,
Seems to me more strange than what man may glean
Had he gleaned it from the depths of his dream.
With a twinkle in his eyes that spoke days,
Volumes of understanding found in bays
By the sandy sea, he stretched forth his arm,
And took my hand in his; to my alarm
I had not a word to say to this act,
Could not renew my friendship, my old pact.
And even so the vision did then fade;
His smile faded like the deepening glade.
The pool of water did form once more then,
And I saw again the boy in a fen.
And even as the sun did shine one me
With a bright array of colors, a sea
Of endless colors, I did shiver so;
For having seen what may become of time,
I was stifled, and could not complete the rhyme.
Seeing there in the deep chasm of thought
Made visible by God, by God's hand caught,
I recognized my part in his transformation,
And it sent me deep into contemplation.
For by my absence he did grow strong,
No longer did he pine or tag along.
Thus out of my deep revere did I stumble,
And turning about I did stutter and fumble.
For he was there, smiling still, this boy,
No more than a child still, holding his toy.
And holding it up he said to me, his friend,
Will you help me to fix what I cannot mend?
Then taking the toy in my hands I sighed,
For in the past it would have been by pride
That I'd have told him to deal with himself
The problems he had, such unending wealth
Did I place in a man who could fix things
Without the help of another, who sings
Out in his work self sufficiency;
Little did I know then. And now I do see.
So as the years did pass I walked with him
And steered his path wherever he did whim;
By my aid he overcame such usual trials
That do often beset young infantile's.
Then, one day, I saw a pool of water,
That I thought to myself I should not bother,
But strangely enough as I walked away,
I saw the boy, now grown to man and stopped.
I smiled at him, he smiled back. He hopped
The pool of water and wrung my hand good,
As I had hoped in the past that he would.
And in that embrace we did part well worn,
As a ship that's run it's course, not forlorn
But happy in that it's done with travel;
No more mysteries to unravel.
Yet as I walked away I heard a gasp!
The man was looking into that same pool
That I did long ago, and a strange clasp
Was upon his face as he followed it;
To where it led him I haven't a wit.

                      Unending, (c) Luke Bennette, Jully 2012 

Monday, July 2, 2012

Cheek for Cheek

By the way of night comes the enemy to your gates, waiting for his chance to strike, he awaits.
And when he espies his enemies he marks them, he sits within the marshland, the fen.
He contemplates his vengeance unearned, that vengeance within him that has burned
His heart and soul into a cinder of ash and smoke; such a sad faced unhappy bloke.
Yet by his own admission he would rather not be foe, harvests he would gather
Under a summer day with the thought of young Jill sitting at home, beyond the hill.
But clouds did overtake the sun upon his daylight vigil, and by such a shadow, the still
Overcast that did tranquilize the earth's rotation, was an act committed. Condemnation
Was out of reach while he ran towards the screams that did fill his ears, the seams
Of them did burst and all hearing was lost for fear of going mad; such silence cost
Him much more than the sorrow that he felt. Upon the hill he saw, wept, and knelt;
For the sake of life he knew, now gone, had fled behind the cloud strewn sky. Anon
He went to find his love before the night overtook him; for the fledgling dark did brim
With teaming stars, bright as envy emeralds that do take the hue of green pastures; folds
he the door as though it were paper; crushes through the walls of the fire--The Marshes
Where he now sits begin to team with activity, as though the sky had with land made sea
Into a battle ground by which they may sort out their quarrels; this crooked sport
Of assassination begins to wrench a his stomach. A song appears, he begins to hum it,
And as the parade of men goes by in midnight hues, he contemplates what are his dues.
But even as he marks the target, makes a prayer that his aim be true, the would be slayer
See's anew the face of one he loved; for in the face of treachery lies the mark of deadly chore,
And it cannot escape the notice of one who does abhor the deed; it cannot escape the shore,
As a tide that is doomed forever to remain in place; such is the look of this man, his face.
In the name of the Father, he stands to make ready, and of the son, he holds his bow steady,
And of the Holy Spirit, he doesn't blink once, Amen, he looses his arrow; a cry from the men!
Among the flames he see's her, wounded, blood, tears in her eyes, arms extended,
Trapped in a sea of flames, helpless to escape. Behind him comes a blow at the nape,
And he feels no more. Still a daze of colors stands before his eyes, those of his brothers.
And in the marsh the sound of men begins to fill his ears with the same old fears of sin;
He takes flight, not waiting to see to his delight that the man, his target, is finished. A fright
Takes a hold of him, as though spirits walked beside him, blaze the trail and do talk
To his weary soul of greater glory unseen, of a hidden mercy that would have redeemed.
And as he runs through the woods, the sounds of men behind him and around him, found
Out by a pack of wolves that do echo their masters betrayal to men and to women, curs
That do howl like a pack of dogs fresh on the scent, a scene unfolds in his mind. To repent
Of such an action seems like a dream, and yet it takes on a true likeness in visions.
Now the sounds and the sights fade once more, and he see's before him his home, the orr
Of his life, the sweat of his brow, the love of his life, all turned to ash; on his face the glove
Of a brother, a betrayer, a wounded fiend that wound's men; his words begin in tunes
Of ash, and falter as snow flakes that do drift vaguely through the air, seeking like the plague
A place to lodge themselves. Yet the mind will not admit them, does scorn brother's plea, kind
Though it may be. The words begin to funnel into the ear and through the mind, and a tear
Begins to form, upon the cheek it falls; yet in the eyes hatred sounds the trumpet, and calls
For vengeance upon the man that has hurt you, vengeance, may man be given his due!

                      Cheek For Cheek, (c) Luke Bennette, July 2012