Upon the bank of a trail coils she
In the rising light gleaming bronze and white.
She betrays no warning; A compass her,
Attuned to knowings pulling point to pole.
All aligned into astrolabe angles,
Her tongue tastes what the scrub whispers hotly,
And her head turns east; approaching are
footsteps.
Joseph Byron Bennett
“Six more weeks of winter still”
Sighs Grandpa Groundhog
As he does
Every.
Six.
Weeks.
My, he must be warm in his hidey-hole
While we shiver in the blizzard of his proclamations
But Spring’s trembling light strikes yet
And the first green shoot pierces
His house.
Joseph Byron Bennett
That a man can be strewn about Santa Monica Boulevard
and the Angelinos divert in the elemental mode of
water circling a stone.
Then the hostess calls for me with a stenciled smile:
I am at the front of the line
And should forget the broken ride.
Joseph Byron Bennett
Sighting ship starboard, we raise the spyglass.
Mastless, she floats at the whim of the waves,
Her mates briney bailers feeding green glass,
Mangy like flea dogs, begging to be saved.
“What a woe,” says the Captain, turning port.
And the wind carries our ship swift from view.
Some sailors condemn with chortle and snort:
“Hoisted sail in a gale, ignorant few!”
Tragedy a fair wind for merchantmen,
The crew in the forecastle is full of cheer.
Disaster dreams do not their sleep offend.
Were but a one man amongst them a seer:
For storms blow west beyond the edge of sound
And it is plain these are no laughing clouds.
Joseph Byron Bennett
ants
marching to war
little
do they know
today
is Laundry Day
Joseph Byron Bennett
When will smooth skin turn to wrinkled robe?
Will I see the browning of autumn leaves before fall or
Does this winter skip down on lithe legs when I sleep?
Shall I realize my dreams of yanking loose teeth?
(Gums purpled, salivating)
Might age roll up in an unmarked van, and disgorge men in black suits?
Can the fortune-tellers allay with the drop of cards or
Does the snap of scrying bones demand a literal translation?
Would I dine comfortably if I could see those dogs who await their share?
(Eyes yellowed, salivating)
Joseph Byron Bennett
My current plan is to post an original poem every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. These poems may be at various states in their life cycles, from fresh sketches to irksome survivors of multiple revisions. You are less likely to see my most polished work here; the aim of this website is to help me work, not to showcase. My best work, one hopes, will be available through more official venues.
My pen name will at the bottom of each poem as a signature, and should not be considered part of the poem itself.
Prose may make an appearance at irregular intervals.
Comments and criticism welcome.
Bennett Diction 