Upon the bank of a trail coils she


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



Joseph Byron Bennett

“Six more weeks of winter still”


“Six more weeks of winter still”

Sighs Grandpa Groundhog

As he does





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

Sighting Ship Starboard


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

When will smooth skin turn to wrinkled robe?


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

In Which Several Salient Points Are Enumerated

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.