POEMS

From a novice poet:

// August Eve
On the  eve of August
there is more to hope for
than sopping sidewalks,
slogging sideways,
slipping side-eyes.
Thirty-one days to redesign
a life I'm beginning to love
from my head
down to my ten toes.
June and July were pregnant:
a friend lost,
a friend gained,
lots of Utahn miles ventured.
We close the door at night.
We even lock it, too.
Opening it again
when the sun rises.
 
Self-control makes the flowers
bloom and grow in wise places.
Marking a season delights like a frame,
contains the crazy-brain.
I always sigh at goodbye
but a good goodbye
breathes a glorious cry 
of a job well done.
Birth month, I'm looking at you.
It is time for something new.
 
// Equations
The water burnt my hand.
One tiny little spot,
Hurting, 
Hot.
My normal winter temperature
Chills me.
Every other bodily spot,
Hollowing, hyper.
Balance is a fool's driver.
One day of rest for every six
Worked
And maybe wrecked.
The mystery of order
Is that it requires reorder,
Not every other day, 
Every six.
Fever, burn, freeze,
Temperature swings
Over mattering me.
Which equations
Must matter
To me?
 
// Between Grooves
By the kitchen sink,
on the job,
in a home,
I scrubbed more than a bowl.
 
The not yet of plans and peace
melded, opaque
That dim flushing,
never fully crushing,
circling the drain.
 
The space between grooves on a comb,
teeny-tiny,
fragmented,
uniform, yet completely utilized to tease.
 
No longer bewitched,
momentarily bothered,
I can live with bewildered.
 
A city can be both sun-dusty and snow dusted.
A "season" can hold both winter and spring.
The Hawaiian bum is right:
our dreams are made out of real things..
.
 
// Between Grooves
By the kitchen sink,
on the job,
in a home,
I scrubbed more than a bowl.
 
The not yet of plans and peace
melded, opaque
That dim flushing,
never fully crushing,
circling the drain.
 
The space between grooves on a comb,
teeny-tiny,
fragmented,
uniform, yet completely utilized to tease.
 
No longer bewitched,
momentarily bothered,
I can live with bewildered.
 
A city can be both sun-dusty and snow dusted.
A "season" can hold both winter and spring.
The Hawaiian bum is right:
our dreams are made out of real things..
.
 
// Between Grooves
By the kitchen sink,
on the job,
in a home,
I scrubbed more than a bowl.
 
The not yet of plans and peace
melded, opaque
That dim flushing,
never fully crushing,
circling the drain.
 
The space between grooves on a comb,
teeny-tiny,
fragmented,
uniform, yet completely utilized to tease.
 
No longer bewitched,
momentarily bothered,
I can live with bewildered.
 
A city can be both sun-dusty and snow dusted.
A "season" can hold both winter and spring.
The Hawaiian bum is right:
our dreams are made out of real things..
.
 
// Between Grooves
By the kitchen sink,
on the job,
in a home,
I scrubbed more than a bowl.
 
The not yet of plans and peace
melded, opaque
That dim flushing,
never fully crushing,
circling the drain.
 
The space between grooves on a comb,
teeny-tiny,
fragmented,
uniform, yet completely utilized to tease.
 
No longer bewitched,
momentarily bothered,
I can live with bewildered.
 
A city can be both sun-dusty and snow dusted.
A "season" can hold both winter and spring.
The Hawaiian bum is right:
our dreams are made out of real things..
.
 
// Between Grooves
By the kitchen sink,
on the job,
in a home,
I scrubbed more than a bowl.
 
The not yet of plans and peace
melded, opaque
That dim flushing,
never fully crushing,
circling the drain.
 
The space between grooves on a comb,
teeny-tiny,
fragmented,
uniform, yet completely utilized to tease.
 
No longer bewitched,
momentarily bothered,
I can live with bewildered.
 
A city can be both sun-dusty and snow dusted.
A "season" can hold both winter and spring.
The Hawaiian bum is right:
our dreams are made out of real things..
.
 
// Between Grooves
By the kitchen sink,
on the job,
in a home,
I scrubbed more than a bowl.
 
The not yet of plans and peace
melded, opaque
That dim flushing,
never fully crushing,
circling the drain.
 
The space between grooves on a comb,
teeny-tiny,
fragmented,
uniform, yet completely utilized to tease.
 
No longer bewitched,
momentarily bothered,
I can live with bewildered.
 
A city can be both sun-dusty and snow dusted.
A "season" can hold both winter and spring.
The Hawaiian bum is right:
our dreams are made out of real things..
.
 
// Good Mourning
This morning
I said thanks
For a man
That isn't
In my life
Anymore.
 
Being without
Is sometimes having -
Peace, ease.
A marvelous means,
Costing a lot
A long time ago.
 
But this morning
It weighed nothing.
The mourning
Was meaningful.
I am waking
To felt freedom..
 
// Imperfect Resolution
When I look back
as I often do
dreams clouded me
too crowded to let in reality.
"No more."
No more room to store
fantasy.
 
As I look ahead
I see a new winter
darker still, and newly dark
inquisitive, and newly probing
nothing known.
 
The prayer continues:
A new year
for clearing out
to really listen
to the One who calls
me and you
to less
and not less compassion.
 
I resolve today
and day after day
(spirit willing, flesh so weak)
to take my dreams
to page and stage
fleeing those mental play-pens
Neverland cages.
 
To wake to every moment
present in real time
is my quest,
my imperfect resolution..
 
// Not Unspoken
 
I don’t know how to speak

The abstractions I seek

The runaways inside of me

For fear I’ll gush, leak

You’ll judge me for insobriety

 

My poetry class

Told me I’m too abstract

A truth that glitters like gold

To learn that I mold, a mask –

Concepts hiding my soul

 

One concept I can uncover

Is one of a Son’s love discovered

At table where servants become friends

Peace given and Shepherd recommends

Suffering that joy transcends

 

I don’t know how to speak

About a table long ago

Where I come as invited guest

Shining at the behest

Of a loving Host – My life’s ostinato

 

A table always open –

This abstraction is real

Whether or not we feel chosen

Surrealism can satisfy like a meal

Passing us over in blood

Prompting us closer in love

Pulling our spirits above

Symbol, reality, mentality

By words of witnesses thereof

Leaving my soul not unspoken

..
 
// my mildenhall
 

On the side of an old country, I arrived in ‘96The baby of five, still shivering from the Dakotan fridge,

I adapted real quick.

Though buttons seemed “greasy” and jean “kirts” my pickiest pick,

I bobbed my hair and wore flowered Doc Martins as kicks.

 

Unfurling through fields scattered with sheep,

Sprawling alongside brooks,

Feeding the birds, enjoying triangular sandwiches,

Adoring all the nooks,

 

Finger painting alone in the garage,

Getting muddy, drinking tea,

Playing dress-up for hours,

Being formed by the pace and that British subtlety,

 

Driving all over Europe in a van,

Attending pre-school in a bar,

Training-wheels be gone in a cul-de-sac,

Insisting my dexterity (hear me!),

Always looking back.

 

A brother born, a Princess died,

No longer the baby, I took my tears outside.

I frolicked beside a stone wall,

Ditched those woes and some clothes,

Laughing naked for a while.

 

I couldn’t tell you how I felt,

But I wanted you to see.

Standing there at twenty-five

colors in the unmissable carefree.

 

A perfect ply clots the mind in the best of hues –

A sturdy, splendid grey of greys,

Overturning and reclaiming what’s misconstrued.

Yet even a loose string caught in the sway

grants a sugar cube of true.

 

Those many emotions that backyarded me outside,

UK clouded, though reflecting the meaning of green,

My little height, a reticent will, eyes glaring past the wall,

Every dream cascading me into and beyond that freedom field –

a chapel call.

 

Though age grants the growth of synthesis

No childhood memory remains frivolous.

Twenty years later I have words for that whirl of a girl,

Her feelings of being behind and betwixt,

the grey in her day, disenchanted/enchanted suspicions.

 

Seeking to be understood requires a lifetime of understanding,

Yet it is only God who lands, surpasses and still cherishing

Reveals pathways for human-to-human compassions

That carve a space in the soul for the warmest cuppa tea.

|@2019 Abigail Benke