The Grains of Truth


THE GRAINS OF TRUTH

Why is it so hard to embrace weakness
when we were born with it?

Small and helpless beings utterly
dependent upon the hands of another.

With no strength to feed, drink, or nourish
our bodies with sustenance.

Why is it so hard to embrace weakness
when it allowed us to be loved and cared for?

What is strength without first knowing
the pangs of weakness?

What is nourishment without the knowledge
of dire hunger?

It was weakness that first allowed us to know
the comfort of assurance.

It was weakness that allowed us to grow,
become strong and resilient.

It was weakness that allowed another to
embrace our needs until we were mature.

But yet maturity means to reject our
very nature.

Maturity means we dispel others who seek
to embrace our most basic needs?

It means we reject the weakness that
seeks out the flood of unborn tears.

It means we actively suppress the nature
that makes us passionate human beings.

It means we scurry away from the weakness
that brought us all the vigors of life.

Yet real maturity means we embrace the
brittleness that is—the essence of life.

It means we open to the oppressed well
of tears, and embrace the fears of flowing.

It means we grasp the grains of truth,
reject the lies that keep us from knowing—

That we are not truly weak.
We are just human.

© Benjamin Thomas


The Weightless Kiss of Truth


THE WEIGHTLESS KISS OF TRUTH

There’s a misbegotten truth,
weighing heavily on the tip of my wings.

Impeding the ascent to the height—
the cumulus flight to bigger, or better things.

Whispers of resistance, continue, in the
soft echoing of resilient wind it seems.

Companies of snow-capped mountain
ranges now break upon my sight.

Arises now a forgotten strength, and
defiance—to engage in a bitter fight.

Suddenly a pang of thought, rushes to
mind, and its presence was just right.

I bear no burden, I need no wings, the truth is
weightless—instantly I am light.

I am lighter than the restless, ageless wind.
I am lighter than the veiled, open air known to men.

Lighter than tenfold painful lies.
Lighter than the unheard strangled cries—

For the swift healing of crippled wings.
Or laments that the mourning dove always brings.

Lighter than the feigned beast, we call doubt.
Lighter than the wicked, weighted world of pout.

Lighter than the futile, hurled exercise of hate.
And soon—

I just evaporate.

Poof

For I am lighter than the lightest of them all.
For I’ve become the Paraclete, unsung molecule,
of small—

Belief. Relief.

Even until this very day.
No one knows the mystery, so they say.

Who wrongly assumed a premature victory,
in the gist of a weak, fledgling history.

But you’ll never know where I’ll be.
Perhaps, when you round the corner—

There I’ll be.
But don’t be surprised when you see…

The weightless kiss of truth—
from me.

© Benjamin Thomas


COMFORT IN WHAT I AM

COMFORT IN WHAT I AM

I am a mist of ravens.
A gale of pink petals.
the weight of precious metal.

I am a gallop of wind.
A heart of granite.
A dollop of passion.

I am the naked truth.
A season of change.
A flock of dahlias.

I am a camp of crows.
A clique of swans.
A gang of falcons.

I am a barren land.
A helping hand.
A crown of stars.

I am the woodwind.
I am the violin.
I am the taste of gin.

I am a song of shadow.
A chant of praise.
I am the rays.

I am me.

I am—
what I need
to be.

© Benjamin Thomas

Give Your Readers What They Want – with Melanie Harlow & Mark Dawson

IT’S TELEVISION TUESDAY

Give Your Readers What They Want – with Melanie Harlow ( The Self Publishing Show, episode #297)

The Sense of Inspiration



THE SENSE OF INSPIRATION: Marry The Gold



The beauty of inspiration is hardly inimical.
The might of its contagion spreads like the wildfire
of French marigolds.

It seeks to hold the retina captive—taken hostage,
with its awestruck glamour, like a tenfold hammer,
sizzling optic nerves piped to the brain.

It seeks to remain, replicate its burning sunset flames
spewed out to whimsical petals—
edged and tamed by the guardrails of amber yellow.

True healing seems to be its abiding fellow;
burning away the dross of pain, anger, and torment
of hidden sorrows.

The true rapture of inspiration knows no tomorrow,
for the skilled nature of its artistry demands the here—
and now.

It is an alluring shield against the precise arrows of anxiety,
deflecting the anguish of a perilous state of mind.

If we would only labor to find, dig, for its glittering treasure,
marry the dimension of its true measure, and seek the gold—
of inspiration.



Benjamin Thomas



Prompt from Poeticbloomings.com

BOOKBUB: More Than Just Featured Deals with Mark Dawson & Carlyn Robertson

IT’S TELEVISION TUESDAY