The Grains of Truth

Posted on by Benjamin Thomas

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

Posted on by Benjamin Thomas

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

Posted on by Benjamin Thomas

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

The Sense of Inspiration

Posted on by Benjamin Thomas 

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

Under The Moon Of Reflections

Posted on by Benjamin Thomas 

This poem is dedicated to those who lost their lives in the Tulsa Massacre 100 years ago. R.I.P. 




UNDER THE MOON OF REFLECTIONS



The night lamp hung tight;
the yellowy vibrant glow 
of suspended moon-rock
riding the night skies—

Casts no light of its own,
yet it owns the sure fire ways 
of blazing sun. 

Its shining is resolute,
bearing witness to and exposing
the sins of those who shed blood. 

She tearfully remembers—
the dark deeds of those 
are written on her eyes. 

Her moonlit tears,
streaming down are wet with grief;
pondering the voices of those 
crying out to her. 

She knows them by name,
their escaping last sighs, and the heart wrenching cries of orphaned lost children. 

Her light danced across 
their little faces—but they would no longer see the faces of loved ones.  


But of strangers, 
they would come to know 
the face of bitterness, 
and the countenance of death. 


The night-lamp held her breath,
taking in the harrowing 
account of lives lost. 


She always sees—
the nightseer, and always delivers
the hushed misdeeds of the spoken night. 

Because there’s still,
an inflamed material witness
when they turn their back
on the way of the light. 

Even though they may move
about in the darkness—
no one can escape the revealing eye
of the open moon. 




Benjamin Thomas


Poetry Prompt #323: A Patchwork of Sorts/Beware.

Posted on by Benjamin Thomas

Poetry Prompt #323 – PLAYING FAVORITES #6

from POETIC BLOOMINGS

 

“Playing Favorites” is as simple as choosing a favorite poet/poem (world famous or just famous in our own little garden) and picking a line or title of one of their poems and using it as an inspiration for your new piece. Incorporate the line/title into your poem (remembering to credit the source and poet always).

 

This is a two part poem inspired by Mary Shelley, author of Frankenstein.

 

“It’s alive, it’s alive! —Frankenstein, the 1931 film.”

 

Part I

A PATCHWORK OF SORTS

 

I am
a Frankenstein
of sorts.

A
patchwork of abuse,
neglect, and pain.

Of
rugged terrain
acreage of mines and egg shells.

A
land where thorns
and thistles flock.

A
dichotomy of
love, enmity.

A
contradiction
of wills.

A
lab’s creation–
world’s abomination.

A
composition of
concert, disharmony.

A
string of psalms,
weeping, and wailing.

A
composite of strength,
and weakness.

A
spine of a beast,
nerves of a laggard.

I
am Frankenstein—
It’s alive, it’s alive!

 

Benjamin Thomas

 

 

Part II

“Beware; for I am fearless, therefore powerful.” – Mary Shelley Frankenstein

 

BEWARE

 

Should I embrace, or brace
for a kiss or assault?

An incoming hug
Is a knife to the heart

Why do the people fear
what you have created?

I have sown abundant kindness
yet my hands reap mockery

The soil is now unsuitable
breeding a harvest of vanity

I feel the weight of emptiness
the ineptness of my laboring

I taste the wicked fruit of anguish
drunk with the aged wine of anger

I pause, step into the day with boldness
sauntering along simplicity’s rhythm

Beware for I am fearless
therefore powerful

 

Benjamin Thomas