What misery supplies is often met
Not by cure, and much less by solution,
But it's by injury our pains get wet –
With tearful demand, comes absolution.
Like a stroll on the beach I see them come;
One care pushing the incoming beneath,
By the weak undertow, the strong grow numb,
And bathe the tides in shallow points of grief.
Yet the heart returns to a hunger bold,
And old woes sometimes new wail decries
Not letting new grief luxury in old
The way hope often better-sense denies.
.
Coming Out, and "The Closet"
An historical review on the semantics of the terms
This piece cannot be as extensive or elaborate as I would like, for I lack further resources to research the subject, however, in preparing the seventh and final screenplay for The Secret Melville series, I once again encountered the phrase "to come out" in a clear LGBT context in that author's work.
I wonder if straight people are even aware of it? Aware that there is a massive current of denial
Sorrow is like a black hole,
It can crush the fabric of reality Into what is impossibly dense – A Rip that sinks to
never rise
But
One that
demands constant feeding,
So it drains all happiness as well Into the other-side universe Where all is sadness and hope.
How many are the springs
That feed our lamentable place
With the tears and joys
Of our mirrored home in the universe?
My brain is a mire, where every day I sink
Into deeper regions that seem only fit
For less than subtle minds, and only think
Rock bottom's a place it will never hit.
Which bonds are the strongest ones we make? –
Those of shared compassion, or like-felt pain;
Which dearer to lose, or stronger to stake;
And which one to turn, when neither is sane?
If I have faith in but one thing,
It's that I might be loved by the stars,
And that hope might struggle to sing,
Knowing in me, I know all her bars.
So like a grand calliope,
The ethereal steam leaks out,
And thus muses music that be
Gaily festive, or sadly devout -
Yet, cold are the strokes of the stars,
That strain-by-strain mete out the blows
To sear inner worlds with tough scars,
Or sing tuneful hope before she goes.
Sonnet No. 18
[July 16th, 2013 – 10:53 am]
Fear is a blind thing – hands before the face –
Black velvet rippling through a starless night;
Which way up; which way to a state of grace –
How dependent we grow upon our sight.
Yet sometimes I think worry is a gift,
Given to sharpen joy to a focus,
So that even from the darkness we lift
Ourselves with our weak hands from the abyss.
I know you have fears that I long to calm,
And they call out to me in clarity,
Like David's voice entreat
Sonnet No. 144
[January 5th, 2014 – 7:05 am]
I am but a man against the flow of Time,
And after I am dead, others will label
What they see in me with words that are not mine,
And homophobes will give full reign to their libel.
Even now, the 'H' word is jammed down our throats,
As Wikipedia gives haters free roam
To define us with a word that gets our goats –
As if Blacks were called 'negroes' in that tome!
What I call myself is the all-important,
Because I do it with love, and t
Sonnet No. 142
[December 31st, 2013 – 2:21 pm]
As it ticks its arbitrary passage,
The new year's countdown makes me think of them –
All those young men, and the time they bridge,
For their beauty stays, though the years condemn.
And you and I? – How will we remember
The fullness of this vanishing moment,
From the vantage of many years' number,
Together for the lifetime that we've spent?
Youth may fade, but perennial as New Years,
The fresh-faced count replenishes like grass –
The
Sonnet No. 141
[December 31st, 2013 – 8:09 am]
Like a curtain of scintillating sheath,
The ones and zeros of reality
Matrix themselves flatly in our belief,
Then settle in forms of finality.
Hindus conceive of all experience
As being set down upon the pages
Of Akashic knowledge that we may reference,
If our hearts are pure enough for the ages.
And so in living code I have writ you
Large in the great book with its sacred seal,
Whose transparent veil can only be seen through
With t
Check out this really cool page from the good people at the Dictionary. It is hilarious, and way, way 'chizzy!'
http://www.merriam-webster.com/info/favorite.htm
Sonnet No. 101
[November 4th, 2013 – 8:16 am]
Sometimes the draw of this paper is all
I have to pull me out of bed, and think
My lonely snow-white sheets will take the scrawl
Of my restless hope spilling out into ink.
I imagine Zhivago, and the ice
He had to chop through to get to his desk,
But – the unfrozen chamber must entice –
For at its center, lays love picturesque.
Alone with my sheets, I draw you out too;
I write your name at the top of my heart,
And allow icy blood the in
I'll admit it. Punch seems forever relegated to our grandmothers' generation of teetotalers, but there is a reason why our great, great grandfathers called it Punch - the real stuff packs a wallop!
There are hundreds of recipes for both boozed-up varieties and virgin ones too. But, the thing that is true of every punch is its sweetness. In the 17th century, sugar was a luxury and saved for holidays like Christmas. One of the best versions, whose recipe dates back to the 1690's, is Fish Ho
Sonnet No. 120
[November 19th, 2013 – 9:14 am]
Before the Supreme Court stood – Edie Windsor –
On her breast, her wife's diamond 'ring' still blazed,
Forty-six years after Edie was first dazed
That the woman she loved was proposing to her.
A private woman, the press she would endure
To end bigotry, and all were amazed,
Telling a great love story, she was not fazed,
For it was time for justice to transfer.
Love endures, thus diamonds are the symbol –
Tough too, like Edie and
Written as lyrics for Mendelssohn's Song without Words, Op.30, No. 3 in E Major. Some recapitulation is necessary to accommodate the couplet. Listen while you read.
Sonnet No. 113
[November 13th, 2013 – 7:10 am]
Mendelssohn wrote his lovely Songs without Words,
Where harmony alone carries content –
And this vibe from a cold sleep came by thirds
To wake with its pulse by ardent intent.
Sometimes feeling alone is the message,
And word following word just lets it flow;
Like
Sonnet No. 104
[November 7th, 2013 – 10:52 pm]
The other night, when you teased me and went to bed,
Did you really think I'd prefer my TV show,
And not trail you to where your pettish footsteps led? –
Oh no, from the bedroom doorway I watched you go,
And settle yourself like a leaf upon the sheets;
One moment, eyes to the light, the next gliding down,
For every inch your body a graceful arc meets
When your head finally makes my pillow your crown.
But, it was the smile that you turn
Sonnet No. 105
[November 8th, 2013 – 7:54 am]
Bundled in grayness, clouds become your coat –
You step out into the autumn's day and
Cast eyes skyward; tug a scarf 'round your throat –
For here conserved warmth takes the season's stand.
I love to see you prepped, just like a child,
Going out for a day of harvest work,
With clothes rigid, but with expression mild,
For apple-picking time we must not shirk.
And later, with our fruit and our labor,
Sweet cinnamon will lace our pies and
The First Thanksgiving (and the Second, and the Third…)
by AC Benus
What Thanksgiving is Not
An amazing holiday like Thanksgiving must have an amazing history, and it does, but it's probably not the history you think.
I've seen them. We've all seen them: the articles that spring up this time of year as abundantly as roast turkey recipes. They are usually titled with holier-than-thou disdain: "First Thanksgiving had No Cranberry Sauce!" or "First Th
