Bloody Sheets

Let your thoughts penetrate my open mind.

Oh, Lord, sow your words in me like a seed.

Just a small seed of truth that you will find

Grows once inside, to fulfill my deep need.

It might hurt at first, but I will not die.

And this slight pain will grow to deep delight.

Euphoria more than any drug’s high

As the belt which constrains me is untied.

I’ll lie back, relax, let it sink in

Let the rhythm of your words set me free.

I will absorb them again and again

‘Till they are a light by which I can see.

Faith will pour, as from a wound as it bleeds.

And the blood will be ink, to darken these sheets.

Bloodloss

There are a few pricks that can penetrate
the chinks in my armor; rip me apart;
expose me; cause me to exsanguinate;
pulsing red passion from my beating heart.

For one, to question my integrity,
or give me orders like an underling,
or if someone critiques my family,
or if someone disrespects my calling.

But even more than this my daughter’s voice
sweet, and innocent; she has done no wrong.
But I see my own wrongness of my own choice
sung back through only a purest love’s song.

Then I see through fog composed of my pain
my pride holds the razor that cuts my vein.

At The Crane River Inn

An Extra Special Bitter Beer seems sweet

When mixed with waters from the fountain of life

In the headlights of a new city’s street

In a virgin pub on a summer night.

The bubbles rise to the top of my glass

Like my spirit rising up from the tomb

And emerge in my mind to tear off the past

Like a new life would emerge from the womb.

It pours down my throat to wash out the pain

Like the gutters are cleaned out in a storm

And just like the air is after the rain

I am perfected, refreshed, and reborn

            And in this escape where there is no strife

            I look and find that I am still alive

Another Poem About Coffee

I sometimes make coffee just for the smell

It is a warm, and dark and pleasant scent

Like winter mornings when fresh snow just fell

But under a quilt is that morning spent

Mixed with milk it smells of old Autumn morns:

As a child I would drink if fast when I must,

Hurried to pull on a coat to stay warm

And rushed to join all my peers on the bus.

Mixed with tobacco it’s late college nights

Intense conversations in quiet cafés;

Where mere words showed with beatific light

How one could jump from sehnsucht to faith

Just by itself it smells at its best, I think,

It is vivacious, and wholesome, and good

It smells like a Siren’s song “Come and Drink”

I smell the song and obey, like I should.

An Angel with a Black Guitar

An Angel with a black guitar

Starts to reawake my soul

Calls back the dreams that wondered far

And maybe starts to make me whole

Is her voice a virgin Sacrifice

To still the dragons who haunt my pen?

or a narcotic that feels so nice

but leads to a darker dragon's den?

The truth is that now I simply don't care

Because in this moment I feel so clean

and so brave that I simply cannot Scare;

Not by a dragon no matter how mean

But what will I do when the Angel's song

Is no longer there to dream upon?

Will I arise astride my inky steed

And ride my pen to sate a greater need

Or will I just sit on this chair and drink

And smile as her song reminds me of “good?”

Will I smile slightly and start to think

That this is how I would be if I could?

For I know my dragons can’t be slain

Without also killing bits of me

But for now their fire brings me no pain

As they sway to beats of reverie

In this dark cave I know so well

Where my dragon torturers are

I gain a glimpse from darkest hell:

An Angel with a black guitar.

Accusations Bound in Seven

The music doesn’t hurt as much as list’ning to my mind.

I play it loud to drown thoughts out but they respond in kind.

Screaming my inad’quacy to make it through the day

without a breath of sweetest death to kill my pain away.

They nag me like a ten year wife or like a dripping sink

without a cup to catch it up and take a soothing drink.

They don’t offer a solution but only a critique

of things I’ve made and games I’ve played to make my future bleak

And I have naught to answer them but just to say I try

to be all tough but its not enough what’s more it is a lie

It’s a second accusation that they can make of me

I have to laugh but I still have to admit that I’m not free

For everything that I can do is not but spit and mud

All I can give to help me live is someone perfect’s blood.

About You

Whitman sang of himself, arrogant fart,

And of the leaves and of grasses and dew.

Ovid sang the ways to woman’s (hem) “heart.”

But I just want to write poems about you.

Frost seemed to write about walking a lot

And Elliot seemed to like walking too

Poor Edgar Allen would write death and rot

But I just want to write poems about you.

About the way you make your nose wiggle

And how you seem to make each moment new

The sway of your hips, sound of your giggle

See, I just want to write poems about you.

The other poets can do what they do

But I just want to write poems about you

Dr. Benjamin J. Cline

10/30/05