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
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).
“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
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
“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
rejuvenatement - not retirement
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The Writing Train: Join the locomotion 
Inspired by “There is no frigate like a book” – Emily Dickinson
THE WORLD WE KNOW
There is no frigate like a book
that sets sail on boundless sea
transports carriage of heart to heart
champion, writer, and me.
I’ve traversed the wayward winds afar
wandered green lands to and fro
no distance can set us apart
pages, and pages, the world we know
Benjamin Thomas