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

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

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

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

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

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

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