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
“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).
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
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
“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).
“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).
I shall be telling this with a sigh,
so pinch my cheek and slap my thigh.
Should I be me? Or who I’m supposed to be?
I gather you want me to be that guy,
with a spring in his step and a lively eye.
Are you simply vying for the best version of me?
I get the impression that you wonder why,
when there’s gloom, sorrow, and happy lies?
Yet every beauty of the earth weathers the storm.
I am a skilled knight stuck in fraudulent armor,
but with the dogged love of a diligent farmer.
I pray, you see the effulgence through the rain.
I shall be telling this with a sigh,
It’s not all sunny, balmy, or blue skies.
Gardens emerge from assurance of love, and toil of pain.
Benjamin Thomas
They bound me without consent.
I moved with the weight of the world upon my shoulders,
each extremity shackled like a slave.
Hunched like a frail elderly man; I attempted to move about,
all the while under the suppression of guilt,
shame, and condemnation.
Shackled by wounds, I writhed in agony
as they brought me down to the pits of darkness, a land of creeping shadow.
It was there where I was blind to their desire to devour me.
Fallen prey to the animalistic appetite to consume every shred of hope—
Until I came into the light.
Under the shining of the light, I was appalled at their stronghold against me.
The illumination of their strength was all too unsettling.
I couldn’t bear the sight of them.
They surrounded me like a wild forest of Oaks, mocking my every step.
A multitude of tears sought urgent release, to spring forth,
evade the depth of my unconsciousness–but I could not allow them.
Yet there in the light was my salvation.
There in the light, their power over me would heal.
It was there I welcomed glorious liberty.
One like I’ve never experienced before.
The rays of jubilee were before me.
No wild forests to cast a shadow,
pits of darkness of oppression.
No shackles, bonds, or crushing burden.
Only life, light and liberty.
A DANCE WITH THE DAWN
The soul of the oppressed can rest against the dawning
of the new day. For as sure is the rising of the sun amidst
the celestial crowds, the pains of the former day dissipate
into distant shadow.
Hope is set upon the steady train of her golden rays,
as they dress and display those famished of her
liberating brilliance.
A golden touch penetrates deep beyond the former
ephemeral skins of superficiality. Her touch is warmth;
dazzling the coldest of heart, adamant glacial minds,
and illest of will.
Dance in the buoyant embrace of her comforting wings
and pleasure in the majestic breadth of her expanse, as she lends
transcendent song against belligerent earthly pangs.
rejuvenatement - not retirement
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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