Wednesday, October 31, 2012

Early Morning Fishing

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

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

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

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

This Ill Begotten Prayer

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

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

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

The Ocean's Sigh

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monday, October 29, 2012

Filming Ya

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

                   Filming Ya, (c) Luke Bennette, October 2012

Chain Letter

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

Chain Letter, (c) Luke Bennette, October 2012

Saturday, October 27, 2012

Le Page

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

Le Page, (c) Luke Bennette, October 2012

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

The Storm of Nihilism

The Storm of Nihilism

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

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

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

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

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

                 (c) Luke Bennette, October 2012

Monday, October 22, 2012

The Sad Day Friend

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

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

Sunday, October 21, 2012

Mon Amie qui avait une belle sourie...

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

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

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

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

Saturday, October 20, 2012

On Noise and Silence

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Friday, October 19, 2012

In the Quiet of the Noise

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

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

Thursday, October 18, 2012

Madness or Realist?

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

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

Monday, October 15, 2012

Caught in Traffic

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

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

Morning Herald

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                 Morning Herald, (c) Luke Bennette, October 2012

Sailing Eternity

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

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

Sailing Eternity, (c) Luke Bennette, October 2012

The Dwindling Hour

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

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

Saturday, October 13, 2012

Before the Trial

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

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

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

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

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

Tuesday, October 9, 2012

Big Sister

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

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

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

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

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

Big Sister, (c) Luke Bennette, October 2012

Sunday, October 7, 2012

Many Things...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saturday, October 6, 2012

The Hidden Light

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

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