Tag Archives: Brendon Behlke

The Rain Barrel

Hard times like wine on the skin,
some blush between the discarded inhibitions.
Verdant memories soaking in slowly,
like ancient intercontinental trade routes;
the silent contents growing louder with history,
as too the benefits.

On sunny days, while grace shines upon us,
the vessel looks out of place.
Less than useless, an abuse of the time we have,
to remind us of the times we hate.
It aches in the light, becoming brittle planks,
on which our eyes will walk briefly,
and plunge into the depths of the day,
escape or drown, it’s all the same.

But on those rainy days they come to collect
all our troubles overflowing,
and they tell stories only the rain can hear;
thunderous applause after each quiet punchline.

It is dangerous to consume what the sky gives us,
for it may return our own gifts.

Sinking In

The mirror shattered to reveal a forest
aching for relevance in this reality;
whispering sounds of ancient purity
over the reflected light in the sink below,
collecting like lightning in a bottle.

I too was pooled there amongst those cutting edges;
echoing the world on stage before me.
Awaiting the curtains to drop and take a bow;
usher the lot of us out to the streets below,
where sirens still wailed incessant panic
and cars congested like dry autumn leaves
while pedestrians walk from a to b,
oblivious to the forest in 13 c.

Shadow Boxing

Come out and play,
          come out and play!

I hear you in the shadows,
            dancing through the darkness
                    like a sea cucumber in the current.
                            The absurd fun,
                                the jubilation.

Come out and play,
            come out and play!

I see the soft glow of your teeth,
        still obscured from the light,
                like the scales of a fish,
                    waving back through muddied water.
                            The subtle jest,
                                  the tease.

Come out and play,
          come out and play!

I feel your intensity,
        the primal tugging beyond the veil,
                like the vortex of a whales tail,
                      disorienting its prey.
                              The elegant guile,
                                    the hubris.

I am ready.
Come out and play,
          come out and play.

A Lament

I regret the tragedies that broke me,
the quiet moments after, parsing thoughts,
finding solace when I should have suffered,
and, at last, forgetting the lesson learned.

I regret mysteries I did not see,
those theaters of war where I should have fought,
the responsibilities I deferred,
and not recognizing what I had earned.

I regret not letting my anger be,
becoming the anxiety it sought,
not heeding the advice that was conferred,
and ignoring the peace that I so yearned.

I regret thinking time was like the sea,
capricious waves in which we were all caught,
a purity otherwise unperturbed,
and not an ocean, overfished and spurned.

Lake Champlain in Autumn

Sky over sky-
the heavens reflected;
mercurial madness
overcomes the water
in a fit of serenity
                      for who knows how long now.
                Hours are indiscernible from minutes,
                from time
                from deeply held passions.
Where the two suns meet-
there is fire.

Manufactured

A quick flip of the wrist,
metal spins until it can’t
in violent protest.
Send the hand back again,
the same blur reversed,
the same violent end.

An opening is made,
the way paved in rubber;
for the pummeling of power,
the ghost of distraught horses
now set to pull cages
on metal that spins
until it can’t.

In the summer of 98
at 4 am or thereabouts
I snapped the bar in half.
The drill press didn’t run for two days.

Nuance

Most of this is empty space;
the parts we recognize are our own.
Drawing lines to define the void,
make it digestible,
before it gets away from us.

All of it is exploding.
Omnidirectional fire
in a panicked escape
from itself or any purpose in its future;
circumventing speed for scale
while we just try and catch up.

What can we possibly expect?
Swimming around in noble gasses,
breathing fire and using the ash
to write equations or trace shadows.

When the mouth of the cave has closed,
all that we know will be darkness;
but most of this is empty space,
so perhaps there is still some truth in that.

Lawn Care

It grows.
I can’t hear it,
I can’t see it,
but it grows nonetheless,
and thus I must maintain it.

My bitter responsibility,
to give my community something nice to see;
make it clear,
I have things under control.
There is nothing to hide inside this home.

Ceaselessly it grows,
and to keep it healthy;
not just well kept but vibrant,
I must feed it.
Strengthen and hasten its progress.

It grows-
and I must do more.
I must give more,
to keep it level and clean.
Not let it overtake the stake I’ve claimed,

let this plot of land
become gnarled wild tufts,
unruly- lacking discipline.
A space that
reflects aspects of the occupants it protects,

else it will grow
an uneasy sense of threat.
The not quite right
of an unkempt lawn- empty flower bed.
It grows, and so I must mow, and mow, and mow, and mow, and mow.

Passenger Side

The radio is blasting static;
the sound is the feeling,
and a warm glow nearby
retreats from the cold outside
while I remain cool, congealed.

Broken is the world around me
        this is all that there is.
While the state of my mind
is two hundred yards behind,
because ignorance is bliss.

Suspended like a house of cards,
above all the fuel and coolant
just waiting for death to catch sight
of this lure that could not fight;
a bold offense to the brutal movements.

By the time my mind has found me,
there is nothing it can do.
Whatever this is, it won’t be fast,
suffering until at last,
I am able to join with you.