Weeds of Heart
Weeds
are such
impatient
creatures.
And like
time and tide,
they wait for
no man.
They often
make demands,
beset in hearts
of men
Who do not
care, or understand,
or tend to
the garden.
©️ Benjamin Thomas
Weeds of Heart
That Wedding Day
For today’s prompt on Dverse we are revisiting Emily Romano’s Mementopoetry style:
Poetry Rules:
- 2 stanzas
- 6 lines per stanza
- 2 tercets (2*3 lines) per stanza
- syllable count per tercet: 8,6,2; 8,6,2
- rhyme scheme abc, abc
Poetry Theme:
a holiday or an anniversary (formal or informal)
Helpful Links:
- We’re revisiting as Grace gave us the Memento prompt back in January 2023
- The memento poetry style – Shadow Poetry
The wedding day came and went
like the Fourth of July
fireworks
Bride and groom explode—intimate
like the Fourth of July
fireworks
Man and wife light up the night sky
like the Fourth of July
fireworks
Two kids later and we still fly
like the Fourth of July
fireworks
Benjamin Thomas
Come visit at Dverse Poets.
My Counselor Says
My counselor says I need to process the old
encumbrances hushed away in the closet.
Like unopened malicious gifts biding their
time to take a bite, weigh me down.
My counselor says I need to experience
the old maniacal memories hushed away
in the closet. As if I need to reopen old
wounds with fresh swords gilded with hope.
My counselor says I need to acknowledge
and accept the old tedious ways that left
me broken. Like telling an injured man
to accept a broken femur after the
sledgehammer makes contact.
My counselor says I need to feel all the old
scabs that have taken root. It hurt like hell the first time around, so I’m not sure
I’m up for seconds.
©️ Benjamin Thomas
Minding The Closet?
A string of three haikus.
Not sure why I need
to acknowledge the closet
of horrors. I’ll pass.
Some skeletons will have
their pound of flesh—It’s better
to keep them at bay
Than running ashore
killing the green pastures and
strangling the present.
©️ Benjamin Thomas
SUGAR BABIES AT SEA
We commence human life as nescient,
handheld sugar babies nursing amply at the breast.
It is there, at no behest, we indulge ourselves–basking in
the flow of the nipple with impunity.
With mother at the helm–It’s a fool’s paradise. Peaceful,
sunny, warm with an endless supply of copious milk,
there is no cause for concern.
Until an indifferent storm settles upon the bow, shakes the
crew, shatters the stern. All hands on deck against
the insufferability of a horde of waves.
The tender softness of breast is replaced by a cold
calloused hand. Hands that once assured an inviolable cradle
have now become a battering at sea.
Man overboard! Man overboard!
There is no one at the helm. The captain has not gone down
with the ship. They have not perished with the vessel, but we
have been left here alone.
Waterlogged with the heavy burden of grief, we aimlessly drift about.
Tasting the briny bitterness of life as it splashes us in the face,
it speaks to us a hopeless abandonment at sea.
© Benjamin Thomas
This is prompt provided by the poetry site Dverse Poets.
THE RANT OF THE KING
Although the sword of the king rang cold with fury,
it wore the warm carmine blood of his enemy.
His heart thumped, was proud like his weapon,
at the behest of his own revenge. Beating his chest aloud,
he exclaimed, I am victor o’er my adversary and the
grave! Who shall come against me? I have the fortitude of
a hundred men! I would have learnt to love black days like bright
ones. Who dare stand against me in the day of battle? My feet hath
trampled the wicked. My arm hath stricken the feeble
warrior at his doorstep. My eye has seen the fields ripe
with the blood of the challenger. I have inhaled the breath
of the assailant and exhaled in mighty triumph! I am slave to no army,
ha! As the king spoke, a random arrow struck him in the heart.
Benjamin Thomas
The Writing Train: Join the locomotion 