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

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

 

 

Poetry Prompt #323: The Sound of Music

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).

 

Inspired by two quotes and a poem by William Blake.

“Flowers are the music of the ground.
From Earth’s lips spoken without sound.”
-Edwin Curran

“Flowers grow out of dark moments.”
– Carita Kent

The line: “Arise from their graves and aspire” – Ah! Sun-flower by William Blake

 

THE SOUND OF MUSIC

 

Flowers grow out of dark moments.
They suffer in silence, agony of season,
the sure atrophy of splendid beauty.

When its glory is rendered inert;
Its pride sluggish, withers,
and returns to the dirt.

Flowers are the music of the ground.
Isolated, their irksome path begins unseen,
not green, but a timid auburn brown.

Arise from their graves and aspire!
They yield to the calling of the sun.
Blushing together as they sing, as a journey has begun.

 

Benjamin Thomas