Drifts

Whispers of winter

Drift over pearl dunes and dry cheeks.

Under sun dogs and over black bears.

 

Sleeping giants.

 

Rushing into the windows of a smoking traveler.

 

Pitch black.

 

Screams and whistles and moans.

Subzero scowls and hot coffee night owls.

 

Protest- then drift away

To the cheeks of farmers, cursing the winds of this January day.

 

 

 

The Weight of The World

When as man chooses to stop learning

Is the day that he truly dies.

 

The herd of the mundane

Ridicules the fires of passion as insane.

 

And so the man suffocates it.
The embers smolder, crackle, and hiss.
He has destroyed comfort and direction.
He is now cold and blind.

“You did the right thing.”
The herd offers its petty assurance,
“At least now you’ll have health insurance.”

But it is still so dark,
The man lays to rest
He’s toiled and troubled today
for someone who doesn’t know his name.

With eyes closed, he smiles.
He sees
That roaring flame that used to be.

Planes

As a boy, I would look up to the clear, blue skies
mesmerized
by the screaming white lines and triangle silhouettes.
Miniature and mysterious.
White and grey.

Crawling through the abyss
in slow motion
at blistering speeds
they march,
at altitudes as high as my ungrounded dreams.

 

My head in the clouds.
The pristine cerulean brilliance, once arrogant in its own awe
is now cyan. Tainted by envy.
I longed to pierce the heights, to damn Nature’s law.

 

My head in the clouds.
Someday I would be there.
I would be on one.

One turned to two.
Two became three.
Three.

And many more.

Daydreams of worldly travel died with long, sleepless nights and Oriental Mix.
An international hub of shysters, sore feet and dicks.
A bustling city of the dead. No one stops, no one lives. No one rests.
Creativity thrives amongst thieves and franchises,
demanding inconvenience as the price for the convenience.
Tired, hungry, and drained
forced to fight a war
versus an army of employees
who need to get laid.

BE THERE TWO HOURS EARLY!

They say,

To be two hours delayed.

 

Despite the delays,
the maze,
the twelve hour days
and the employees who need a lay.

Despite it all,
Tell the child in me that I made it,
that the beauty of the flight is worth endurance of the locusts.
I now look down at the billowing, majestic clouds.
Light as a feather,
moving anciently, as if woken from a millennia old slumber.
Flexing, lumbering, and blustering like the authority of the Earth that they are.

Respect is found in my heart,
my true size revealed in this wild tube ride.
Mesmerized
by the yawning white behemoths below,
and their black silhouettes.
Majestic and mysterious.
White and grey.

 

The Birthday Poem

The skeleton dances ’round the sun again.
It dances with the sword, the mat, and the pen.

“Happy Birthday” creeps me the fuck out.
Standing loved ones surround me,
my heart resounds with anxiety.
Delusions of immortality fade into doubt.
I look around, it’s too uncomfortable to stare at the smiling people.
They sing off-harmony, they sing off-key.
They sing from the heart, they sing with glee.

“What an archaic tradition,” I mutter to myself.
A great, white ball of fire is before me,
ready to be extinguished,
ready to reveal a singular prophecy.

The loved laugh.
My love is by my side.
“What an archaic tradition,” I mutter. “But I guess it’s not that bad.”
Annual lifetimes have brought change, sorrow, toil, and laughter.
Twenty-seven trips- some were triumphs and some were disasters.
I laugh, I think, and I shed a tear.
“What an archaic tradition,” I mutter.

“But I do hope to do it all again next year.”

Fishing

The water is calm and careless
as virgin glass
shimmering like countless diamonds.
Nothing is wrong,
emails and deadlines and phone calls are nowhere near to harass,
aluminum beer cans stashed in an aluminum diamond,

glistening in mounds.

Rocks are weathered, wise and smooth
from the constant caress of the shore.
My brother swears, can’t see the beauty
only sees a chore.
As he misses the forest for the trees,
I admit that they are impossible to miss.
An oaken, birch and pine army watches on,
Tall, dark, and legion.
A stoic reminder this world is not mine to do as I please.
Winds whisper news from the Arctic, they sway and they soothe.

With a flick and a plop
my line hits the water.
In this waiting game I pop a top,
light a cigarette, sit back and relax
to talk meaningless trivia and pop culture facts.
Did you know that the Biebs is engaged to Stephen Baldwin’s daughter?” 

Bended urgency cuts riveting conversation short!
An aquatic wrestler writhes and convulses
guilty of only following instinct and a yellow 5 spotted lure.
I cuss and swear, it is becoming a chore.
C’mon, you dirty fuckin’ whore!”
The line is up, my reel whirs, I cannot hear it over a rapid pulse
Flashes of silvers, emerald and a torpedo contour
I am aided by the closest helping hand, through netted support.

Stripped from the water, a rude awakening like birth.
The wrestler becomes a gymnast
bending, leaping, contorting to impossible angles
to escape the anglers, scorching in the sun, or drowning on the earth.
In the plastic box it goes. A live well, a death row cell.

Back to shore we clean, filet, cook, then celebrate.
Eat as we have been eaten by mosquitos and gnats.
Our hearts full of love, our heads full of joy, our bellies full of beer and fat.
Off to bed in bunks, ignoring sounds of buzzing intruders and death rattle snores.
The sun’s curious oranges peek over her celestial fence.
She is excited, too impatient and tense. She does not know her own strength
her radiance pours.

Steam from black coffee rises from porcelain and sand.
One more cast off the beach then I’ll go for breakfast, I tell myself.
As I cast off again and again.

Goodbye, Copper

Hello, readers.

Thanks again for viewing my work and all of the likes and great comments I’ve had on it so far. I will be adding a new, exciting portion to this blog that I hope all of you enjoy, as well.

But right now I want to share something a little sad. Recently, my parents had to put their dog down. He was a beautiful coonhound/bloodhound mix and a super affectionate, loving dog. Unfortunately, he was also an anxious and scared dog, which caused him to bite people unexpectedly, myself included. I was incredibly sad not only for his loss but also for the loss of all of the joy and companionship that he gave my parents, who now live alone. I hope that you enjoy this poem, and I hope it expresses how I feel adequately. My plan is to revise and edit this in the future but knew it was important to get my feelings out.

Thank you,

Ben Charles

 

Goodbye, Copper

by Ben Charles

I remember the day I first saw you
peeking to the open fields on my iPhone screen.
You were in my father’s arms, full of wonder, content in his plaid jacket.
You were mischievous and devious and new to life,
impatient to unravel the mysteries of all you could see.

Tiny and nimble, you tore the world asunder.
You had new friends to make, new foods to eat and a coffee can that always needed a thrashing.
You were sweet, you gave love and were loved to bits, even when you spazzed and threw fits.

“Cute little bastard, isn’t he?” My brother asked at the Christmas party.
He was right, but you cared hardly.
You had a village of a family, a belly full of junk, and a heart full of joy.
My eldest brother mourns you the most, you were his entire world.
I smile remembering the days he’d bring you fast food and toys,
you had him wrapped around your paw, he knew it and he didn’t care.
He told me he has nothing to look forward to at home, now that you’re not there.

I wish I could have saved you, and please know that I tried.
I wish I could have told you how serious biting is, that you could understand.
The seeds of doubt were planted when you bit my hand.
Then you bit the drunkard and my mother cried.

Anxious and afraid, you chased ghosts and delusions.
While the townspeople whispered rumours, theories and illusions.
Some were true, most were false.
I loved how happy my parents were to have you,
their decision was not on impulse.

Do not be anxious, do not be afraid of where you lie.
When my mother went through with it, she cried and she cried.
I will always remember you, Copper. You left imprints in my heart and on my hand.
I hope that you find the peace that you never had in life.
I hope that is an end to your suffering and strife.

Goodbye, Copper.

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The Written Struggle, The Unwritten Rules

My struggle as a writer is that I only have two thoughts when I write. The Yin and Yang pull and push forever. The Yang says, “You are the greatest fucking writer ever! Emily Dickenson’s work seems as the work of a drunken mongoloid. The audacity astounds me that real people live on Earth and don’t realize my genius.”

The Yin is less forgiving. The Yang tugs to the Yin’s war. The Yang says, “What in the name of sweet, salty fuck are doing? The fact that you even consider writing your meaningless, narcissistic, and shallow trite. Every word that you put on paper is an assault on human intelligence. Even worse, you publish it for others to read!? You need to be stopped before you commit further atrocities on human literature.”

The Ying and Yang constantly battle. There is no room for grey in a mind of black and white. But, peace is found when I remember that I can never think in grey, let alone writing 50 Shades of it.

B.D. Charles