One Man to Another

Where will the worker of steady hand
Find work enough to fill his mind?
Where shall the husband find bread to stand,
If not from his wife in love's kind
Embrace...made bitter sweet by slow times
Melodious roll, by this endless rhyme?

So should the worker steady himself
If he has no one steady to love him?
Shall a husband employ all his wealth
Upon others if full to the brim
Is his barn with the spoils of his crop?
He should, lest his heart should die, and he drop.

I don't know how to say it, or why it
Should matter at all that I say at all
How very happy I am for you. Wit
Has no rhyme worthy of a union
Between the working man and his woman.
On such a day as this season of Fall
I wish you well; today, and the long haul
That you have ahead of you in marriage.
And latter, when pushing baby carriage
Perhaps you'll look into the eyes of she
Who stole not your heart but countered its pull
With a mutual giving, one soul to soul...

Whatever the times bring to you, do know
That the body pines for a true show
Of what truth makes known in the bitterness
Of life's military march. Distress
Will be a pillar of life upheld by
The steady heart of the one who works long
Hours, in days when he'd rather not.
And the lovely song, or beauteous sigh
Made by lovers becomes a stronger song
When they work together rather than rot.

So if you wish for the glue that's needed,
The cohesive that bonds two together,
Go to Christ in prayer, not conceited
But with contrite heart, a love that is sure.
Know that the love you bear him will cement
The steady heart into a steadfast trust,
And as surely as the floor will not dent,
Nor the bar betwixt your love will not rust,
So too may you count upon the work of
Your hand, and hers that stands beside you,
To draw you closer together in love
To God; you both, to each other, will be true.

              One Man to Another, (c) Luke Bennette, November 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

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

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