Joseph in Nazereth

Each flame in fire dances different,

each piece of wood provides its own rhythm,

each movement makes us wonder where it went

while we watch as the ashes burns through them.

Early morning, somehow the calm sunrise

opens its eye and banishes the moon;

breakfast hearths crackle as a rooster cries.

The difficult decisions come too soon.

There’s nowhere to go to escape the fear.

I am told they know our names and faces.

We’ve sheltered with friends but we can’t stay here,

they look in all the usual places.

The news is noise: sound without true meaning,

everyone talking with full conviction

all at the same time, about the same thing,

as if they would know how to take action.

What do they say about what’s happening,

who’s opinion matters and should I care;

 if I could run, what do I have to bring?

Denying the choices is easier.

How much does Mary suspect and shouldn’t?

I heard a solemn voice commanding me

because it was still fearful I wouldn’t:

authoritative without subtlety.                         

Ben Gage
Merry Xmas

The World Turns

Explosions have not been heard from the bomb

they reported everywhere yesterday.

Words on paper become things thrown away,

please continue on your day and stay calm.

The world's an alien place not like home

with strange languages and exotic food.

How can anything different be good?

There must be a limit to who’s welcome.

Power creates the might to be a fool.

Who makes right has the right everywhere.

I’m blind but I can still see it from here.

My guess: this is business as usual.

Adults decide, we are the girls and boys,

disaster surrounding us just makes noise.

Ben Gage

Blues

She's the single reason for the blue note,

the naked ink brush black line gesture wash,

the only sonnet Shakespeare never wrote

of love's eternal eventual loss.

We heard the f-holed guitar cry baby,

saw the figure in that damn drawing dance,

mesmerized by a magical maybe

with a gambler's once in a lifetime chance. 

Listen to the plaintiff sad song lament,

quietly portrayed with tender beauty,

unembellished on love's bare instrument:

a small forgotten folk tune's melody.

As  I awake from the spell I am under,

I will miss what I cannot remember.

Ben Gage

The Musician

Speak of small things quietly to yourself,
nod if there are any answers, smile
spontaneously for no reason while
you wait like every book on a shelf
to be opened for the lines to escape,
new images and symbols are our hope.

Stay in tune as if a loved instrument,
a saxophone or guitar in its case,
available for music anyplace
whenever the sounds of song are absent:
beautiful melodies we have not heard
are freed, a story with each note a word.

Ben Gage