Selected Poetry


Dreams (To Dad)


Your face rests in me
on the side where hers isn’t
where my wings sleep...
where the colors of my semi-
forgotten dreams lie mingling...

Your eyes are not always closed–
You still smile
And the colors of my dreams
are finding new life
from pale to vivid
they are taking shape...
And you are blinking
and smiling
and waking up
Not the you that you became
But the best of what you must
have been.

The face of sleepy days
in newspaper hats
Cuddling with your small daughters
The smaller of whom
was me...
Am I?

Is it silly to wonder if
you hear my thoughts?
If thoughts were like sounds
in another plane?
Is that the plane you’re flying, Dad?
I still love you.


Grandad

I want your eyes to smile at me
Like I wanted your big, pipe-stained fingers
to put in my mouth
to suck in the sweet skin
feel its roughness on my tongue,
soften it.
And you let me,
sitting on your lap.
Maybe my brown eyes cheered you,
small and wide.

I smoked your pipe once–
out, not in.
That may have been wrong.
I couldn’t taste your sweet, scented air.

And then you let the flowers disappear
from the picture frame
on the coffee table, where you once stood
a boy of two–between tall parents.
You wore a white lace dress
And sniffed the early 20th Century sky...

It happened one year later.
You fell upon your back porch steps,
scrambling to the kitchen
where mother called you in to dinner,
and for the rest of your life
had one glass eye.

Now I sometimes see them both when I least expect–
but wiser than they must have been back then
as they peer,
into a Russian grammar book,
or Marx and Engel’s philosophy
or even me.
Sometimes there is a glimmer of you
in the boy that I love.
Glancing, Peering deep, Laughing–
Both your eyes intact
again, Grandad.

(2nd place winner of Henry Taylor Poetry Prize)


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Sand Mandala

The mandala's background was flavored of green apples
I could almost taste it
as I watched Tibetan monks painting music
in the shape of intricate, vivid dreams
The fine sand whispering of their lost homeland

-written on 1-6-07




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God is Everywhere

Though God’s voice may seem silent at times,
It is deafening.
Though God is invisible to the naked eye,
He is more blinding and brighter than the sun.
Though God may seem nowhere to be found,
You can smell him in every flower in the world.
Though your tongue may never call out to him,
You can taste him in every fruit and vegetable,
every nut and grain.
And though you may never consciously know his embrace
At every moment he is holding your hand.
His touch is softer than your cat’s fur or a gentle breeze
Yet stronger than a charging bull.
God is gentle yet firm,
Ephemeral yet everlasting,
Seemingly nowhere to be found,
yet everywhere–infusing every atom
and every particle of dust.
You say you do not know God,
I tell you look around,
open your eyes,
listen,
take a deep breath,
and you will notice that every
sight, sound and scent
is God.
Every time you eat,
notice how the Source of Life
tastes to you.
And before you take the hand
of a beautiful child,
Know that you are about
to touch the hand of God.
For God is everywhere
in all things
above all things
around all things
IS all things.
God is Love.
And Love is all there is.

(Featured in the Fall 2006 Edition of Chapel News)

©2007 Robin Bensinger
All rights reserved