Saturday, December 18, 2010

Joseph’s Doubt

The journey was harder than expected,
his early optimism disappeared,
each step burdened as they plodded ahead,
with an unknown future to be feared.
He heard an unbelievable story
with strange pictures and difficult feelings,
by the woman he loved uttered purely,
honestly and he believed her: truth rings.
But tomorrow is always different
then yesterday’s final preparation.
“How could I know what the miracle meant?”
he asks, his heart aching with the question,
ashamed of the apology he spoke,
as if he were newborn and just awoke.

Merry Xmas
Ben Gage

Wednesday, June 30, 2010

Song for a Lost Child

I see her everywhere
in every child's place.
I  am her father
drawing out what I cannot erase:
the fragile beauty of her face,
her body full of grace
and now the hollow of the empty space.

Perhaps before I awake,
while I am unaware,
unharnessed from all that I can take,
myself stripped completely bare,
I hear my child's laughter
soft in the arms of her mother
and I have no fear.

Ben Gage

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

The Oil Spill

What is buried is not what we are of,
now this: the drilled earth opened and bleeding
dark, crude, thick blood, as if it were weeping
from a deep bottomless well to above.

The punctured skin opens an artery,
the cut wound spills into the old ocean,
the wide gulf between us asks it's question
over and over," Why, mama oh why...."

There are tears you cry, unexpected tears,
uncontrollable, for the loss of love,
whatever you try, nothing seems to solve
with all our might our worst fears.

Memory is a bandage just because
what's left might still remember what there was.
by Ben Gage

Sunday, May 2, 2010

I Once Knew a Girl from Texas

I once knew a girl from Texas,
she rearranged my axis
and I was turned upside down.
I stood with my head on the ground
begging for more:
love is a scar.

She's a red haired six foot girl,
a flame about to curl,
who burned me good,
as if I were wood,
and still I want more:
love is a scar.

Tell me how the story ends,
does a dream stop when the eye opens,
or is everything make believe,
people come and then they leave?
What is this feeling for?
Love is a scar.

Ben Gage

Wednesday, March 31, 2010

The Great Art Handlers

In the beginning there were 5 great art transporters,
each had talent and practiced the art as if it were an ordinary act,
humble in the action of a fact,
unaware of the value of their endeavors.

They were all peculiar of course,
lived apart in separate geographies
studied opposite philosophies,
aiming towards a similar source.

The differences in technique and opinion
described the range of the great art handler,
difficult situations brought out the master,
it was obvious in their personal presentation.

Now they’re almost forgotten,
split up by the business of natural selection,
the opportunity of personal evolution
and the end of an unreasonable passion.

Ben Gage

*I earn my living as an Art Handler, when I started, I learned from a great group of friends, I thank them....

Sunday, February 28, 2010

For the Last Artist

The moment before I heard you were gone,
and in the shattered moment thereafter,
the difference I wished I'd never known,
each day in me begins to grow clearer.
Is it always so fragile creation?
I know the madness described inside you,
the drawings on your arms for protection,
the ideas you aspired to make true,
in some else's imagination
will slowly fade and lose identity.
What becomes of the world we leave too soon?
Of all that has been seen, what may we see?
If it's true that what you've lived lives in them
your future may now be another's dream.

Ben Gage

Sunday, January 31, 2010

The World is on Fire

The world is on fire
and it has ever been so,
if anyone tells you no
they are a liar.

All our plans and wishes
are paper balls thrown in the blaze,
I can see tomorrow behind the smoky haze
burn brilliant bright before bursting into ashes.

The fiction of innocence
is suspended. Our lost faith
describes the truth
of a life without consequence.

Is the end of days this sad?
Like being alone forever
in perpetual fever
for the love you never had:

the wind blows your hair in a cloud around your face,
a wild web crocheted cloth of thread
softly dances about your head
while your eyes peek through the lace.

Ben Gage