Tag Archives: Brendon Behlke

Kings of the Sea

Lobsters, I’m told
have no natural ending.
Back when they were frowned upon
not worth the water that would cook them
they’d become so large they’d horrify
the mind.

But somewhere
someone said,
 “delicious.”
and quickly,
we found the strength to overcome
building giant machines to scoop
them off the seabed
like clams from a shell.
We subjugated them
harvested them
until nothing of the monster was left but
these tiny little things you could pick up
one hand.

Now, bigger ones,
unimpressive youth in the shadow of their ancestors
are kept safe
on pedestals
where we can catch
a glimpse of those past monsters
through a cage of glass
beneath fluorescent lights.
A circus thing
alone and delicious.

Love

Major Briggs intones his greatest fear,
tortured, tied up and drained,
“That love is not enough.”

Love is not enough

More is left unsaid than is spoken.
Consider now this mystery,
invoke those dead words.
What shape do they take?
Are they answers or questions?

Perhaps love became too much
and when the heartless could find none within,
they manifested it
a product of those things they could wield.
Wealth, power, fame, control
all the monsters love was meant to shield
instead empowered.

Here now, we retreat- overwhelmed;
our love too hard to bring
en masse against their replacements
Reduced and redundant
in a world that suffers only the effortless to survive.

Major Briggs is dead,
as well as the actor who played him
but his fear is still there in me.

Anticipation

Your keys on the table waiting
or wallet lost in a strange place.
The sound of alarm from your phone
or the shower shutting off suddenly.
Noises from the bedroom when I’m up early
or the door opening when I’ve slept in.
Nail polish lined up like soldiers
or clothes laid out on the bed.
A phone call on the way home
or a message with three short words.
That first wakeful moment
or the last before I succumb to sleep.

A great life is found at the end of anticipation.

Tom Waits

The keys greet his fingers like an old dog
and together they make music,
strung along by a leash
though neither know who holds what end.
He speaks to his companion as he plays
an ancient fable that carries them away
to a far off place
filled with vagabonds and dreams
while we all,
                      the all of us
sleep better
with beautiful maladies painted
over the canvas of our fears.