Thoughts From the Head

Thoughts From the Head 

 As I sit here and contemplate 

My dreams, my goals, and yes, my fate. 

I think, "How great a man am I 

To try so much, to reach so high. 

To give to others such concern 

Asking nothing in return." 

And yet, these things I have not done 

Not three , not two, not even one. 

Any fool can weave a dream 

And fit himself to every seam. 

On this stool where I now sit 

GAll I can really do is shit.

The Day I was Laid Low

The Day I was Laid Low

Oh! Remember! Could I forget?

That fateful day of woe.

Yes, I'll recall, as I do yet

That day I was laid low.

The sun broke cold on evenings chill.

The air was dry and cold

Not far behind the first birds trill

I rose quiet bare and bold.

The stove was cold, the fire gone.

I lit the morning fire.

The coffee pot I readied soon

The temperature rose higher.

And proudly then, as I surveyed

My mornings efforts working,

I warmed myself, calm and staid

Not seeing danger lurking.

And soon my bride resolved to rise

And risk the morning breeze.

I never saw the twinkling eye

Of her intent to tease.

And as she raced toward the heat

I stood there unaware

of danger in her pattering feet

Of any need for care.

And then she bent and teeth flashed out

Aimed at my bare behind.

Reacting quick, I gave a shout

And jumped away in time.

Alas! Poor fool!  I'd jumped in haste.

Why couldn't I have turned?

The searing flesh rose from the waste 

of the appendage I had burned.

Oh! Remember!  Could I forget?

That fateful day of woe

Yes!  I recall, as I do yet

That day I was laid low.

A Note From the Author's Wife

A Note from the Author's Wife

This is not one of Ben's poems.

As we read through these poems during this very
difficult part of our lives, both of us were deeply moved
by what we had shared.

We don't have a lot of money but we are the
most wealthy couple I know, because of the love
between us.

Brain cancer (Gliomablastoma Multiforma) is very
hard on the whole family.  Ben's brain no longer
functions properly.  He often cannot understand simple
commands like "stop" or "wait".  Reading these
poems to him has stimulated him to write more of them.

I can barely read what he has written but I read them 
aloud while he tries to fill in the parts I can't understand.  
He has written over 12 poems in one week. 

The above note was written late in 2003 while he was still alive.

Today is 7/22/2020 and as I read this post this morning I flashed back on the day I brought the poems he'd given me over the years out into the living room.  I was reading them while my daughter Heidi was typing them into the computer.  

When she read the first one, Ben was listening closely.  
"That's really good," he said, "Who wrote that."
"You did," I said.
"I did?" The tears ran down his cheeks as he pondered that.
"Bring me some paper and a pencil," he demanded, "I'm going to write some more.

He was serious about that and he did write some more.  Mostly he wrote "I love you".  He wrote on top of what he wrote.  He wrote sideways down the page.  He wrote off of the paper. But he wrote and he wrote and he felt joy for doing it.

I printed out his poetry in little booklet form and in card form ETC.  It was fun.  He was going to sell them at the Christmas Bazaar in 2005 but he died in October.

Perspectives

Perspectives

Sometimes the world

Seems such a vast

Unchangeable

Receptacle

In which I am lost

Shouting to deaf ears.

I am alone

In hopeless flight

From emptiness

To emptiness

Pride smashed to fragments

Who is there to care?

And then you look

And you see me

Recognition

Dawns in your face

Filling the spaces

Between eternity.

I'm not alone

The world is small

And can be pushed

Inside a cupboard

Making room to play

Matchless harmony.

Windows

Windows

I see her face

In the window laced

With ice from the cold outside

I call her name

Through the window pane

But she cannot come inside.

No one knows the joy and sorrow

Waiting for us each tomorrow

Who knows how we feel when we're alone?

All of us are separate beings

Looking out our windows seeing

Someone looking at us through their own.

God, I wish that I could be there

Looking through her window with her

Lord, I know that she wishes the same

(But) all my efforts to be near her

Never bring me any closer

Than the width of that cold window pane.

If only I could break that window
Hand in hand we could walk into
Some place where we'd never be apart
What a heaven we could live in
If these windows weren't wrapped
Around our hearts.

I've searching for you so long
You're the words to every love song
I think you were sent from up above
There's nothing nicer, nothing sweeter
Than what I feel each time I greet her
I think this is something they call love.

Written on 8 x10 paper, mostly clean.  Some words scratched out.  Some ink got wet; sweat, tears? A greasy thumb print.  Folded to fit in his wallet.

To the best wife in the whole world, on her eighteenth birthday

To The Best Wife in the Whole World on Her Eighteenth Birthday

Eighteen you are

Now come of age

A woman

By the law.

Eighteen you are

And always are

My woman

And my cause.

Eighteen has come

You've passed that mark

A woman

Now for sure.

Eighteen has come

And loved you are

My woman

Ever more.

Love and kisses

More kisses

More

More

More

-Ben

Truth

Truth

Mirror, mirror on the wall

Do you have no shame at all?

No one has the gall but you

To show me what I know is true?