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 Grains of Truth
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
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
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
A Poem: In The Name of Love
Poetry Prompt #323: A Patchwork of Sorts/Beware.
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
The Writing Train: Join the locomotion 