Breaching Sleep

What is this idea that clings to the cloud
Of my thought? that seeps through the bosom
Of Orpheus, that forces entrance; loud
Is it's hammer, and proud are it's steps. Won
Many a battle has it over years
Of trials and defeats; many of our foes
Lie dead before or behind it's made path,
Fortunes of war are one and lost, our fears
Are laid waste as he passes. Aftermath
Of some great giant, colossus of old,
Strings together long drawn desires; tang
Of sweet juices are flung into the breach
Of what long ago we would have now sang,
So this idea overcomes, doth beseech.

                                  Breaching Sleep, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

The Silver Locket

What is the man that hides in your pocket
Of silvery hide? Shall tides of water
Flow forth from that same silvery locket
When it is opened? Shall I then deter
With my questions? Are you offended by
The desire to know where you now stand?
Shall I give up in my prayers, not try
To make the effort so to understand?
Then I shall stop my questions of the dead,
For they have gone, and gone out of my head,
But they will remain in your heart; a dread
Shall hold fast to you in the years ahead.
Yet while there is friendship true there is cheer,
And hope of the future is always near.

                               The Silver Locket, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

The Din of the West

What will would wake wayward westward watches
In icy igloos intensely ignored?
Your yellow Yale yetis, your yew Yack,
Black bumblebee bickering by breakfast
Pancakes, pickaxe pillowing parakeet,
All animals around, attend, abound
Towards two towering targets today;
For first friends forget funeral forays
Seldom, save some sorrowing sad Saturday.
Christendom christens Christianity 
Likable, like lore living livery
Made more marketable, made more merry;
Howling hounds heaving hundred harpsichords
Defying deaths drowning dastardly din.

                              The Din of the West, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

The Sword and the Lance

In a time of frustration you said you wouldn't
Act for every nation; such was your pact.
For deeds done to you by one high above,
Who you said didn't know fiction from fact,
You'd set aside everything you once loved.

A pity that you wouldn't, you couldn't
See, what was given to you in a time
Of frustration; livid was your sad face
For the ruin of the face of your son.
What is given to us at the time's dawn
Is not meant to make us suffer hardships,
But to equip us, slake our nature, fawn
Upon our being, shake our very hips
In a dance of jubilation. The one
Who see's perfection in an advertised
Statement, a direction that may not be
For everyone, not their cup of hot tea,
Finds daily sorrows rather than the joys
That would have been his. No prosperity
In the dark woods of life, the show of boys
and girls, beauty and charm, elegance, grace,
Is given to the one who shames the face
Of time; who shames this gift in their own child.

The race may seem off balance, a wild
Affair that has no hope of giving you
Anything other than a chance to live.
But wouldn't you take that chance, even give
All you had in advance just for a true
Moment of living? The lance, to the hand,
Is but one weapon in demand; and it
Is a strong weapon suited for a stand
Upon horseback. Yet swift is the sword hit,
And quick is it's blade! Suited for a stand
Upon the long promenade against men
Of arms, or for traveling lightly clad;
Neither lance nor sword are at all that bad
Should the circumstance arise where needed
Are their skills. But you cannot see, will not
Accept, that your son has been made a lance.

                              The Sword and the Lance, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012


  

Traffic

Open the lane across the way; another
Drawn out, heat stroke bay of flowering
Smells that take my breath away. Towering
Streams of greenery doth not sway the swing
Of the wind; and I cannot say, can't sing
A song in this obnoxious fray, shan't fling
Into the air any numerous words.
Here we stand, or sit I should say, in herds
Of wallowing willows; heat of the day
Sets fire to our greenery. In a way
I should be thankful I'm not walking, play
Music from the oldies; they be talking
On the radio of this fine May day,
And I could be eating, folding my tray.
On a long rampart of concrete, made clear
By the day's rolling stampede, lemonade
Strewn as-fault, this man made causeway of fear,
I cannot help but think I'd rather make trade
With those I see walking; O, such a parade
Of freedom, their greenery untouched by
The fumes of greed: all very young and spry!
Necessary evil they call it now,
Necessary; somebody kill me now!
Cause I'd rather die slowly, without pain,
Than to die in this traffic, man made bane. 
Still I suspect there's some good in this thing,
Otherwise I'd be dead long ago. Spring
Doesn't seem so long when you're walking through
An endless wilderness, Jungle of Nu.
Well I guess I've no more to say right now.
If you discover a new way, a prow
By which I may steer myself that doesn't
Involve staying behind  wheel's dent,
That is to say something more fine, pleasant,
Something that's faster, without the long wait;
So I don't feel like I'm stuck at the gate....
Let me know, and I'll buy it right away.
That would certainly brighten my poor day.

                               Traffic, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012 

Foliadge Sage Thyme

What is mud you say? Very well I'll tell
You. The thud at bay, the banter, the great well
Of knowledge which you seek to understand
Is foliage deep, highly contraband.
Do you still wonder, I wonder whether
You are still thunderously resolved to
Know, whether under my teachings, why sir
Mud made banished his very own name? You
Wonder whether there is more to this game
Of mystery and chance meetings, this dance
Of intrigue? Bland is the hand if no mane
Is upon the face; such a mane speaks trance
Like words to those that look upon it's age.
Now you speak to age, the greatest mud sage.

                                Foliage Sage Thyme, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012

Dis-Advantage

The Rapper who makes a song of fair dirt
Is no more than a dirty rapper: who,
Made answer to his curiosity
And found that from dirt comes grass, leaf and tree.
But he left that aside and focused on two
Things not allied, things that heal and that hurt.
There was a wrongness to the words he used
And a peace to the rhythm; he abused
The two, black and white he put together,
As though they were two birds of a feather.
Perhaps we should thank this rapper of dirt
Who found the means of making a new song;
For while you are sure I wont sing along
There's plenty of people to heal, he hurt.

                                      Dis-Advantage, (c) Luke Bennette, May 2012