Our Games

As children we'd pretend we'd captured light
and held it as a funny thing to dance
or tole some darkness from the sky at night
and with the sunlight we could make it prance.

we'd imagine we held a bright blue sky
with a bit of white cloud off to one side
and with sunlight and darkness it would fly
whenever, wherever, we would decide.

As adults we pretend we capture light
that for a moment illumines a thought/
As if we could grasp ephemeral sight
or as if revelation could be caught

what we make are toys that we hope just might
remind other folks of darkness and light

6/13/04

Capture the moment

Not all of my poems are factual
some of them are, mostly
But I still try to grip something actual:
truth which is airy and ghostly.

To bind up in ink an eyeblink
and let ephemeral moments be captured
to hold and examine what I think
in the breath where my spirit is raptured.

6/13/04

Jennifer's Hug

When the music reached that one mystic loud,
you put your tiny arms around my waist.
When perception squeezed because of the croud,
you squeezed me until my fat old heart raced.

When the air smelled of cigarettes and weed,
I smelt your hair gel mixed with shampoo.
when the world swayed to guitar player's lead,
I knew that it lead me straight to you.

I caressed the smoothness of your shirt.
I heard the roughness of the singer's voice
when you held me so hard it started to hurt
your muscles pulsed with the rock and roll noise.

when fingers lingered as we pulled away,
the hug and the music made my day.

6/12/04

Note: I am retyping this in November of 2019. I have no idea who Jennifer was. I've known a few women named Jennifer. I have no idea what concert I was at in June of '04. My handwriting is always terrible, but it doesn't look like "I've been drinking" level of bad, so I can''t blame booze, although I am use at that age if I was at a concert, I was drinking. In some ways, the fact that I remember nothing about this moment but captured it in a poem makes it better than if I remembered it all.

Tylenol PM

Sorry, I can't talk right now
you see I took a pill.
I was hoping I could sleep somehow
but I am twinkling still.

I've been trying to shut down by brain
but the fuse will not burn out.
The wheels sparkle like a nitrous train
whose scream echos my shout.

My eyes burn like a desert sad.
More red but just as dry.
My back hurts from trying to stand
as my stomach tried to cry.

It would be best if you'd allow
yourself to go away.
sorry, I can't talk right now.
I don't know what I'd say

6/7/04

Evil and Idolatrous

A person sits in the middle.
Oil is poured.
Each of us places a hand on him
or her
and we pray.

My breath catches every time.
How is God going to move?
Is He going to move?
What will I do if He moves?

I'm scared,
scared of God,
Scared He might confront me with his existance
in a way it might take me weeks to explain away again.
and sorta hoping he will.

Evil and idolatrous, I seek after a sign
or at least wish for one
so I can doubt it
or explain it away

5/11/04

Like a Real Man

I sometimes complain that people don't see

that my living is made by work, for real.

When I say "people" I mean me.

And I can't get past the guilt that I feel.

So today I did work that I understand. 

I scraped and I painted and I used tools;

got black grime and grease all over my hands.

Not all that weak shit I do for my school.

Soon I'll return to my school room and books

and live by talking about things I've read

and sort of feel like the works of all crooks,

"this aint really working," screams in my head

but I've had this moment to understand

that I truly can work, like a real man.

5/10/04

Nebraska Skies

You can see stars here
even in town.
I'm not just talking about a few constellations,
a few brighter stars, and Venus, and Mars
I mean all of them.

A sky so vast and star-filled
that the stars almost obscure themselves
constellations run into each other
and the milky way makes a road across the sky
that you are almost sure you can walk on.

Things are clearer here
and higher
and proof of God is in the night air
in the clean breeze and sweet breaths
that you'd swear is the smell of stars.

For those of us who have to leave,
we want to bottle it all up and take it with us
the smell, the stars, the revelation
we want to pack it in a memory or a poem
as if a bottle of glass or ink could hold it.

5/9/04

Nice town

I wasn't really thinking when I joked
"It's a nice town here. Nobody shoots you."
When he just got back from the fires and smoke
of a war I will never go through.

He'd spent nights exposed to the mortar shellls
and days expecting a rocket grenade.
My ghetto's a heaven to his hardened hells
and my lost stereo's no looters raid.

he could have taken offence at my quip,
for I realized my error too late
but instead a bright smile came to his lip
and laughing said, "I know, aint it great!"

Instead of anger at my flippant tone,
I just saw a man so glad to be home.

5/8/04

Alliance Rivendell

It's been too long since I've rested
and given my heart a chance to heal
rubbed oil into my calloused soul
and let my tender places feel

Now I return to Rivendell
where my torn heart will always stay
the place my spirit longs to be
from which my body's cursed to stray

Here I take off all my armor
and I wash clean my grimy skin
and put on a soft clean robe
and breath a safe breath once again

Here my deep woulds will be treated
and here I will not have to grieve
except for the tears that will come
when my quest compels me to leave

5/07/04

Control's illusion

Sometimes it goes so smoothly. It's like you're in control
and everything just falls in place
and there's Peace within your soul

Everything is right on track
your spirit rides on rails
you don't miss the things you lack
an nothing you do fails

Then sometimes you hit a wall
and everything just falls apart
broken dreams explode in you
like shrapnel in your heart

The smoke from burned out hope
stings your watering eyes
You think if nothing folks do works,
how come anybody tries?

And when you think objectively,
there's a scary thought to face:
When things go smooth or things break down,
Where's God in either place?

5/5/04

Your Pain

There's just something that I need you to hear
but I don't want you to listen, really.
Just let the noises penetrate your ear
and nod your head as if you can feel me. 

Sometimes I simply need to crush your soul.
Sometimes I want to humiliate you.
To touch your lips with a hot glowing coal
but you know I'd never violate you.

There's just something that I need you to see
But I don't want you to pay attention.
Pretend it's smoke and mirror ecstasy
Freaky thoughts for now, not for retention.

Sometimes I need to sit and watch you die.
Sometimes I want to see your walk falter.
Sometimes I wait until I hear you cry
to change pain that I could always alter.

Do you believe I love you even still?
Do you understand this pain hurts me back?
Do you know that blood cries for blood to spill?
Do you see the love behind my attack?

There's just something that I need you to know.
But, for now, your tired mind must let it slide.
It's a secret that could help you to grow
It's a hope that, you see, must be denied. 

Sometimes I laugh when you attempt to leave.
Sometimes I let you make it out the door.
Sometimes I will allow you to believe
that you won't come crawling back, like before.

There's something I need you to understand
But I know that it's too big for your mind.
But it's something that your heart will demand
When I make you seek it, then you will find.

Sometimes I need to see your heart broken.
Sometimes I want to scramble up your brain.
I want to give you a piece you will choke on
and let you live with the lingering pain.

Have you gotten it yet that I love you?
That we are tied together at the soul
And all this stuff I need you to go through
Makes you come back to me to make you whole.

Word

Once, it existed we knew in our minds

Once, it persisted but just in our hearts

In the myths and the poets deepest lines

Hiding in the knowledge a seer imparts.

Prophets spoke it, but could not understand.

Philosophers thought it, but could not see.

Dreamers longed just to hold the concept ‘s hand

And sorcerers screamed at it to come free.

Holy Wind made it more than conception

Power-mad Kings feared their own power’s loss

Through false shepherds and serpents’ deceptions

All of man nailed all of man to a cross.

            Once just a word, then a word and still more

            The word uttered now, the world to restore

cc 2000

Benjamin J. Cline

Why not conform?

More than most ever are, we were alive

Wildly dancing in hot ancient moonlight

Naked, we ran faster than angels can fly

It was enough just to love with all of our might

We drank pure droughts of living water’s blood

We let the clay of our substance be stone

We looked at the world and saw it was good.

It was a perfect place in which we belonged.

But we saw the promise of a better life

And the sweet fruits of civilization

We did not know about the future strife

Or hear future groaning of creation

We gave ourselves to the serpent’s black call

The serpent was raised because of our fall.

Benjamin J. Cline

6/1/2000

While you were out . . .

Ev’ry now and then, while you were away,

and I was doing my own work at home,

and was playing the music that I like to play,

and was doing my things in a way of my own:

talking to myself without feeling odd

and fixing my eyes on the plain white wall;

drifting between thoughts of language and God

and deep brooding thoughts ‘bout nothing at all,

there’d be a small whiff of you in my nose

that you’d left behind early in the day

in a blanket or in some of your clothes,

gentle reminders of your recent stay,

and a sweetness would sneak down through my chest

saying alone is good, but with you is best.

Benjamin Cline

7/12/05

When The World Was New

On Sundays after church we would take turns cooking.

None of us were gourmets, but we tried.

We would excitedly tell the others about a new spice,

Tarragon, or rosemary, or something else that was only new to us;

Something that real cooks had always known,

But to us, taste was something new.

We would lavishly praise each other “great recipes”.

And the one who did not cook would bring the wine.

Maybe it was all just an excuse for the wine.

On Sundays, after church, we would drink wine.

None of us were wine experts, but we tried.

We would excitedly tell the others about a new wine,

Chardonnay, Merlot, Riesling, or something that was only new to us;

Something that real wine connoisseurs had always known.

We would talk about the “good wine” to each other

And we would relate the beauty to philosophy.

Maybe it was all just an excuse for the philosophy.

On Sundays, after church, we would discuss philosophy.

None of us were philosophers, but we tried.

We would excitedly tell the others about a new book.

By Aristotle, or Kierkegaard, or someone that was only new to us.

Someone about whom real philosophers had always known.

We would talk about the “great books” to each other.

And we would enjoy being together.

Maybe it was just an excuse to be together.

That’s probably what it was.

Benjamin Cline

4/28/03

What I Want Right Now

I want to hear a sad, sad song

about how much love hurts even when it's good

I want to watch a movie

where bad guys die just like they should

I want to read a book

that makes me think magic is real

I want to just do something

where I still like what I feel.

I want to teach a class

that can make them understand

that love and hope and joy and feathers

are the safest place to land.

I want to write an article

that will clear up all this mud

and cure this affluenza

that is coursing through their blood.

I want to watch the sunset

and feel the warmth I used to feel

I want to go to Wal-Mart

and not feel the need to steal.

I want to taste my dinner

and know that it's enough

I want to stand up to my captors

and show them I am tough.

I want a glass of poison

that will kill me for a while

and wake me when the pain is gone

and pleasure is in style.

I want a gun that shoots the evil

but leaves all the good in place.

I want a spaceship with a harem

to have orgies out in space

I want a knife made out of money

So I can cut the sky

And watch it bleed out sunshine

I'll laugh and watch it die.

I want hypnotic powers

from puke-green jewel that binds

all those who see it to me

so I control their minds

I want to rule the world

I want to make the rules

I want to be in charge

I want to stop the fools

I want a the power of the bomb

and the power of the purse.

I want to make things better

But I would make them worse.

1/30/2009

Walking Back from the Art Film

Cold mist beads and drips off my long black coat.

Drops sparkle in the streetlights like small stars

I pull my collar up over my throat.

I ignore the warmth of cafés and bars.

My hands stuffed in my pockets, I walk fast.

My breath puffs up like steam from an old train.

Warm coffee shops beckon but I walk past.

The mist grows up to be cold autumn rain.

Two blocks past the stoplight is my small space

where I have hot-chocolate and all my books.

I also have blankets and a perfect place

to hang these cold, dripping clothes up on hooks.

But now I must feel the icy rain’s bite

Walking and puffing through frigid wet night.

Benjamin J. Cline

October 4, 2003

Twilight Conversations

We would walk in the glittering twilight.

And Talk on the edge between spirit and soul.

Newborn stars would brighten the sky’s light.

And in the light of that night, we were made whole.

No star seemed to fall too far out of our reach.

The water was deep but we could not drown.

We had each other to study and teach.

And groupies of angels all standing around.

A shining mirror that never could crack:

We would watch God glow between each other.

In that Perfect Lightness reflected back,

We’d add one weighty thought to another.

Somewhere singing sweet in my memory.

These old conversations still speak to me.

5-13-2000

To Adrian

You are in the sunrise when I stay up all night.

You’re the stars in my eyes when I get in a fight.

You are in the pinkish skin left there by a scar.

You are the sparkling glass broke by a crashing car.

You are the slightest pleasure that lives inside of hurt.

You are the clearest water flowing through my dirt.

Within you I find that one ounce of surety,

A place amid the chaos where one can be at peace.

See, somewhere in that mixture, there’s still purity:

The center of the wheel, where motions seem to cease.

Benjamin Cline

04/26/03

This Morning

The morning air still smells so clean and cool
from yesterday’s downpour when I had come,
a skin-soaked, drenched dress-shirt and khakis fool,
waterlogged walker arriving at home.

I peeled off sodden clothes like shedding skin
Pulling off soaked socks and wet shirt and tie
‘til wearing only what I was born in
I chose sweatclothes which were thick, warm and dry.

But the morning air, exhorting my nose
speaks of obligations that are unmet
that will not allow these comfortable clothes
and further require I rise from my bed

And go out to walk in that world once more
that tried to drown me just the day before.

9/11/2007

The Yelling

It can happen any time.
When I’m doing something right.
When I’m doing something wrong.
If we’d been arguing, or if things have been okay
If it happened the day before of if it hadn’t happened for months.
There is no way to predict it.
There is no way to explain it.
But it follows a common pattern.

Sometimes it begins when I hear cursing
Often, however, it starts right out with yelling.
The yelling goes on and on.

I try to apologize.
The yelling goes on and on.
I try to understand.
The yelling goes on and on.
I try to console.
The yelling goes on and on.
I try to explain.
The yelling goes on and on.
I try to be silent.
The yelling goes on and on.
I try to defend.
The yelling goes on and on.
I try to stay calm.
The yelling goes on and on.
The yelling starts accusing.
The yelling goes on and on.
The yelling describes every mistake I’ve made.
The yelling goes on and on.
I am crying. I try to apologize again. I try to apologize for all those past mistakes.
The yelling goes on and on.
The yelling belittles me, says I haven’t “gone the extra mile” or “taken initiative” or “really tried.”
The yelling goes on and on.
And I ask the yelling to stop.
The yelling goes on and on.
And the yelling makes no sense, a cacophony of in double forte.
The yelling goes on and on.
And I ask it again to stop.
The yelling goes on and on.
The yelling become empty, crazed uncomprehendible accusations, insane inflictor of torture.
The yelling goes on and on.
The yelling becomes like burning coals in my soul and I beg it to stop.
The yelling goes on and on.
The empty, meaningless yelling overtakes me and I drop to the floor.
The yelling goes on and on.
I cower and I cry and the yelling stands over me.
And the yelling goes on and on.
And I’d do anything to make the yelling stop.
And the yelling goes on and on.
And then I yell. I yell back at the yelling and I scream out from the depths of my soul and the pain that the yelling has inflicted.

And the yelling stops.

And I know I was wrong to yell back.
And I know that what I yelled was hurtful.
And I know I shouldn’t have done that.
And I look out for forgiveness,
And there is none.
And I look out for compassion
And there is none.
And I look out for a gentle touch
And there is none.
And I look out for some sort of acknowledgement.
And there is none.
Because I am nothing.

And the yelling has stopped.
But I haven’t stopped it.
I have merely given it more ammunition
next time it wants to destroy me.

11/15/2012

The Peek

What do you do when you’ve looked down her shirt

And she caught your eye in that ogling act?

There in between you is both lust and hurt

That can’t be denied. It’s there. It’s a fact.

And your civilized mask is blown away

When the sensitive guy you try to be

Is revealed as predator to the prey

And conqueror from whom she can’t be free.

Apologize? As if that is enough

For your half-second of unconscious rape

Or smile in her eyes and act like you’re tough

And cage her so she could never escape

Pretend it’s not there is what most will do

Safe ‘cause she wants to be civilized too.

Benjamin Cline

5-7-05

The Damned Cry Out To God

Underneath plaster skies I wait for you

Beating against the solid horizon.

I scry in toilet bowels so wet and blue

For a realness that my soul relies on.

I am cleansed by the warm rain in a box.

I am freed by a thousand micro-slaves.

I am set apart by unholy locks

From the pain, the cold and even the grave.

Have I lost you in the electric earth;

In the disinfected world I have made?

Do you dwell in a wild sow’s afterbirth

Or the pond scum in which frogs egg’s are laid?

Or are you omnipresent, like they said

And it is not you, but me, who is dead?

The Artist

He walks on society’s razor edge

Where genius and madness are purple shades

And that razor cuts him feet to head

To splatter red blood as paint on a page.

And this blood, like Able’s cries out to God

“Lord, bring back your yellow flowers of hope

For green grass withers and proves itself fraud

Rising up from the orange embers as smoke.

He reaches to Heaven for something true

A bite of manna so we can be clean

And somewhere beyond the sky so blue

Are the visions of God that he has seen.

But just like the prophets that came before

He’s crucified, stabbed, or stoned on the floor.

Talk

In smoke-filled all night cafés

Over bottomless cups of black coffee

And at back-tables of bars

Over amber, bubbling, beakers of beer

We would talk.

We talked about nature.

We talked about the truth of nature

And the nature of truth.

We talked about the beauty of nature

And the nature of beauty.

We talked about the beauty of truth

And the truth of beauty.

We talked about the goodness of nature

And the nature of goodness.

We talked about the goodness of beauty

And the beauty of goodness.

We talked about the goodness of truth

And the truth of goodness.

Sunburn

O Sunlight hewn of the purest white flame

Burn me with repentance without regret

Then return to the sun from which you came

Hiding me as a virgin silhouette.

From ashes I’ve come; and to ashes I’ll go,

When the hottest flame has purified me

Pure gold of my thoughts will be all I know

When I put all my blackness behind me.

Then white as lightening that pulses by

And clear as rainwater will be my brain

And as open as the Nebraska sky

And I will float far above all my pain

I scream out for this perfection nightly

And now I wait for the sunshine to strike me

7-8-00

Benjamin J. Cline

Step Outside

We’re comfortable with the agony

Of being free to do what we’re told.

The Beast walks now among us

Spitting out silver and eating our gold.

We’d sell our souls to serve him more

But it’s already sold

Rising from the Euphrates

Are the weeds we’ve planted there

And in the mountains of the North

Our hirelings seek their share

And in the vacuum of Suburbia

There’s no one who will care.

I’ve seen the sky is falling

And for a while I cried

But New Heaven and Earth are calling

So I think I’ll step outside.

I’ve seen the shepherds lead the lambs

To the stock-house where they died

I’ve stood in that line to go be damned

But I think I’ll step outside.

We were disillusioned

But we’re illusioned once again

We’ve seen our tallest towers fall

And used that for our sin

And when the water got too deep

We didn’t learn to swim.

We sang in the temple of Dagon

Tied the champion to our poles

We’ve watched Jericho from Ai

And built walls with bigger holes

We gave our ass to Balaam:

A prophet perfect for our souls.

I see the mountains rumbling

All the cowards soon will hide

Their caves and castles crumbling

But I think I’ll step outside.

The false signs all say “no smoking”

But I can see they lied

Everyone around me’s choking

So I think I’ll step outside.

Rebellion’s out of style

Since the first rebel became king

We fight to hear the freedom bells

But chains are all that ring

And whores and love are all the same

In all the songs we sing

We hear the call to arms

From the servant of the Beast

Who speaks in evil prophesies

Of bombs and war and peace

Calling us to fight for liberty

Who sadly is deceased

I hear his blasphemous calling:

His arrogance and pride

And I think that fire’s falling

So I think I’ll step outside

I’ve been inside with all of you

That cannot be denied

But now nightmares are coming true

So I think I’ll step outside.

Spiral Stare Case

Stare in awe at the perfection,

at everything both great and small,

in a spiraling direction

of the one who made them all.

The hurricanes and galaxies

and our DNA and snail shells

the vapor that a mystic sees

and all the stories that he tells:

They rise to God in perfect form

ascending Jacob's spiral stair.

Make order of the chaos norm

to sing sweet worship at his chair

Coincidences, so they seem,

but as each one does its duty,

they fall as the Creator deemed

to become a thing of beauty.

The flaws or errors one might see

when veiwing through the veil of doubt;

the wrinkles that there seem to be

will perfectly be ironed out.

Despite confusion in our hearts

things go just as predirected.

For thoe things that we know in part

will all one day be perfected.

cc 1999

Benjamin J. Cline

Special

She is special. She knows it, but she is wrong as to why she thinks it is her sickness. she thinks it is her addictions she thinks it is her abusive upbringing she thinks it is her excessive weight. She doesn't even know realize that these things are not really her They are the moss that covers the tree of her being. They conceal her even from herself and make her blend in. She clings to them and they cling to her as though they were one. But they are not one; they are not really part of her. They just conceal her from herself and the world. They hide the fact that she is special. She is special. She knows it, but she is wrong as to why. It is her steadfastness. it is her courage. It is her motherly love for those weaker and more hurt than herself. She doesn't even realize these things are her. They are the living oak core of her being. They are the light a bushel basket cannot contain. She doesn't need to cling to these because they are who she is; they are one. They are the true "her" and when they peak out from those things that try to hide her, it becomes so clear that she is special

Song of the Scotch Pines

Now, I’ve stumbled upon a sacred spot:

A grassy place in between three scotch pines,

Making a holy hedge where the wind stops

But where the sun can shine

These are ever-living and evergreen,

For they are a true trinity of trees.

A truer temple has never been seen

And so I settle down onto my knees.

With the trees, I quietly continue

Whispering that sweet prayer that never ends:

That silent hymn that always seems new,

The one on which the universe depends.

            The trees are my brothers, though they are made of wood

            We sweetly sing of beauty, truth, and good.

cc 2000

Benjamin J. Cline

Sin Lover

The preacher tells me I have a call

To be nothing less than a holy saint

But it feels like flying when I fall

So I lay in bed and caress my taint

That man of flesh that I just can’t deny

That idol that I hide beneath my tent

That secret I love that’s clothed in a lie

That part of the straight me that’s always bent

I love it although it darkens my sight

I love it although it loosens my grip

I love it although I know it’s not right

I love this hidden stone that makes me trip

So I try to fight but know I can’t win

For I am a man in love with my sin

She'll Meet me at the Car

She’ll meet me at the car.
“I have a present for you.”
Like I need anything.
The Lord is my shepherd I shall not want.

But she wants to give me something, I guess.
Some candy or some trinket purchased at a thrift store.
I say “thank you.”
It is important to her that she gives me things.
It is important that I like them.
So I try to.

I want, more than anything else, to make her happy.
But life hasn’t gone as we planned.

She’s working at minimum wage.

My better job can’t pay both student loans, but neither can my job plus hers.

We have no kids.

We thought we’d have kids by now.

Even the foster care agency rejected us as parents.

Bastards.

The car that just needed to get us through until we could afford something better has leaked gasoline for almost two years.

Now it’s leaking steering fluid.

The mechanic says it’s not worth fixing.

I wonder if anything is worth fixing.

But what choice do we have?

We’re going to drive this bitch into the ground.

And so I need to do things for her: make a decent dinner, mold clay bear figurines, mop the floors, clean the toilets.

And so she needs to give me things. This time it’s a cupcake she that was leftover because it was someone’s birthday at work.

And I say thank you.  And I love her. And I just can’t stop crying inside. 

Seeing God

Because I knew beauty would be perceived

By the two-lane highway I stopped my car

And the Holy vision that I received

Transcended all those that I had known by far.

Out somewhere in the Nebraska Sandhills,

A century of miles from any town,

Beneath a dark, frozen sky, all star filled,

The rush of wind is the only sound.

In all His splendor out there, I saw God

He was adorned in a black, star-filled cloak.

In His hand was a bright, Milky Way rod.

When something inside me awoke.

Half from the beauty, and half from the cold,

My eyes began to fill up with warm tears.

And through that veil I saw truths of old

And a hope that could aleve all my fears

Right there in the darkness I saw a light.

And in the cold I found something hot.

I groped for my notebook so that I could write

For I’m a writer and that is my lot.

The answers to questions were in the sky

For a philosopher, dreamer, and sage

But the blackness, the light that I saw by

Hid both the pen and the words on the page.

Then I knew all that I had seen

In that moment of transfiguration

That I could never express all I mean

When I returned to civilization.

Now all the things I write upon this sheet

Could never express all that came about

For in this physical light and this heat

What I can write is just a small amount

So while I sit and write with a sigh

That all my vision can never be known

Still my spirit could never deny

The mystical vision that I’ve been shown.

 CC 2000