Tag Archives: Brendon Behlke

I, Father

When they were born, he was humbled quiet,
his heart taking seed in that fresh ground, quiet.

Much of the turmoil in his mind settled,
until even his feelings did sound quiet;

and when they were taken, to his own shame,
instead of protest they only found quiet.

The sapling he had been, grown in lush soil,
infertile now, withered with profound quiet.

Far too late, he begged for their love returned,
pleading tears until they were drowned, quiet.

This offense, his only true legacy,
Brendon’s mouth twisted up, bound. Quiet.

Desolate Dialogue

No window.
Just walls.
A wall of walls, none
of them matching,
even wanting to,
uneasy comfort among chaos –
chaos.

Breath takes, gives nothing.
Nothing is –
is

all that is left.
No window
or escape
for the false absence –
absence.

Deception
precedes the sunset
though
with no window,
who would know?
Know.

Lies as good as truth,
filling the void from wall to wall,
when all is unknown,
unknowable and alone –
alone.

Speak not to the walls,
when comfort is needed
they will sell you only
hollowed out mandates,
empty tidings,
sad husks of empathy,
your own absurd words –
words.

Transcendence

Beautiful you,
    I love you, for

    all your finality, for
    your outrageous irony to the banal, for
    your desperate questions, for
    your sober answers, for
    not caring that we don’t hear them.

Beautiful you,
    the compass of those abandoned
    the comfort for all great burdens
    the compromise to every cost
    the combative reply to injustice
    the end of all roads and the igniter of passions.

Beautiful you,
    oft I yearn for you to ease yourself upon me
    take me in your arms and squeeze,
    like laughs upon a deep breath
    as eager for the contents as their release;
    but I will not plead, not again.

Beautiful you,
    be always out of reach
    the distant sun that has set
    the word bound in paradox
    heard but maligned and unspoken, until
    at last,
    I have earned you.

Demolition

I wasn’t able today,
not for a few days.

They are so short,
while my troubles-
      long tired things,
heavy, hot breaths heaving
overcome the days with ever larger strides,
stretching shadows;
then fall-

like twelve stories condemned,
not pouncing, but plummeting on them,
the rest of the world obscured in billowing detritus.

The days buckle under the weight,
but they do not protest;
accepting the burden like responsibility. 

The troubles, wheezing, subsist through the nights,
just to wake me again.

Neither of us sleep well.

SS Daniel J Morrell

All that metal was more than steel beams,
born of dreams with sturdier seams,
a name whose history foretold of terrible things,
here too, here too.

A ship built of such namesake
could live eternal on silver wakes
but it’s moniker took no part, long since dead
he had no hand, no hand.

So when the ship was old and brash,
it breached tyrannic waters headlong into a clash,
abandoning the ideals of its progenitor
for shame, for shame.

As if possessed by more than storm,
the ship rose high and like rags was torn,
sending its crew scattered to the cold,
alone together, alone together,

their desperate hearts searched the sea of night,
dancing with terrible fury, they saw absurd lights,
a ship as brazen as they and cried out,
“rescue, we are rescued”

But that ghoul did not slow to greet them as a friend,
rather surged forward with rage against them;
twas the stern of their own ship come to finish the job
drag them down, drag them down.

And so it did, tossing raft to sky
and pulling them into the cold undertow
nameless faces for the fish below;
but Dennis survived, Dennis survived.

Palm Reading

When you work with clay
you learn to enjoy the dirt,
the silt feels like silk curtains
drawn on an autumn day.

You learn to listen to the skin,
hear all the whispers spoken,
and whisper back tender questions,
that teach of the two of you together.

When you work with clay,
you explore abstract places,
pursuing adventures of vulnerability,
to discover (not exactly create) truth.

You learn that truth, alone, is nothing,
without you to define and assess it.
You make yourselves a part of that truth,
and what you sculpt together is your truth reforged.

When you can no longer work the clay,
you instead knead the aches and pains,
worn, cracked hands rather than a bust or vase,
but a landscape of passion all the same;

where peaks and valleys boast of conquest,
scars and coloration sing of compassion;
nowhere is the silence of smooth skin.
With clay my hands have been broken in.

Marathon

An endless rhythm pounding against the ground,
echoed steps lost, never to be found,
Stop.
Let it all flood in,
thrashing against the coves of sanity –
white foam, screaming.
The gulls cry out for stunned fish
lying on the rocks
unaware of their consumption,
an endless rhythm pounding against the ground,
echoed steps lost, never to be found,
Stop, finally,
amidst the garland.
Are the flowers for respect,
or just the satisfaction
      of causing something else to die?