***Does your heart bleed for me

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there is a bitter cold that fills this house once again
despite the efforts of a warm heart and steady hand
best intentions laid to waste for the sake of a journey’s end

I’m greeted this fine day at dawns creeping
by my symphony of frogs and crickets
only they sing a song my heart truly hears

who will capture this painter of words and whim
and why? Why not just set him free…me…
or just throw me back to the wolves
whence I came.

a burning fire of hearts desire
fuels these borrowed bones
of shakes and quakes and little yellow
pills, give motion to the stone face of death.

Of lions breast and raven crest
with flaxen hair that shows some
wear from the ages that have been unkind

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Greet each day with the joy of a child and the wisdom of an elder for with a child’s heart you may play

and with wisdom you may just still learn from it.

Namaste

Benjamin

2013

 

Who is that fine Irish lad??

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http://youtu.be/1X3PWBFdFIY

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I just got some photos from my step mom. Sigh my daddy from so long ago, note the painting behind him, that’s one of his!! Yay.

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Me, with stuff on my face, Sheesh somebody wipe that boys chin. :-)
And the we tiny one holding me captive would be David the youngest of the boys. See I used to smile.. I’ve never seen these pics. I’ve shared so much of my life with this WP community many of you I consider dear friends. So again today thanks for being part of my journey.
Sincerely
Benjamin

iuvenes amore*original post oct,27,2012

As the sun rose I’m left with traces of you
Glimmers of my past, a sweet taste of love long since changed by time.
My heart takes me to that place where we used to meet, thorns not thickets and petals soft as silk.
We were just children then
I remember the taste of your cherry gloss kisses
And my boyish smile , so brave so bold.
Nights of house and let’s pretend
So many what ifs
Now all grown with family’s of our own
Time has changed it all, except one small place in my heart where the roses always grow.

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Small words

Ode to the past
On the longest night and shortest day
all the things I’d like to say
Of things gone by, hope and dreams
And all the things I haven’t seen
To live like children,
Full of hope and wonder.
Languid sky and winters thunder.
Sunset beaches and icy peaks.
Rolling rapids and secret sneaks
Tennis shoes and bowler hats
Bubble gum and baseball bats
First tattoos and masquerades
Spin the bottle and play charades
The brightest stars on moon lit nights
Party girls and stupid fights
Oh how I miss being young

Another life-another time ** from journey 2

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1/7/13 2:32a pst

Ok I’m up not sure if I’ll stay up, but I’m here. Kitty decided I need love so he came to my sleeping couch to make sure I was fine… Thank you kitty :-| it’s oddly nice outside right now, there’s a breeze and you can hear the neighborhood wind chimes. It’s chilly also which I really enjoy, with winter comes a whole new set of natures textures to observe. And well I have a thing for textural things, even with food. I like crunchy, smooth, spicy, creamy cool. Ok food I like to cook, not so much into the eating part but I love to cook. What seems another life time ago I bar tended at a very upscale jazz bar, Mel Brown, Leroy Vinegar were amongst the musicians that played often. Plus any touring big boys would stop it a do sets unexpectedly. That’s how I met Harry Connick Jr. Whole bunch of celebs would come and dine as well probably because it was really dark and you really could just blend into the darkness. Cool jazz, amazing food and a whole lot of anonymity. I didn’t care who they were as long as they weren’t jack asses and tipped well they could sit at my bar and I’d let my empathic talents go into action, writers, painters, CEO’s professional athletes, they were all just people with stories to tell and it was my job to listen so I did. Actually got voted in the top 3 bartenders in PDX that year. I never did see the article in the paper just had one of the local guys tell me. I thought huh, no wonder were so fuckin busy all the time. The chefs used to come and unwind at the bar after they were done tell me about the line that night, cook me what ever I wanted for dinner, literally whatever I wanted because I controlled the booze and they new it. See this was the type of place that after the restaurant closed the bar keep became the big wig. Not that I cared, it just meant that if shit hit the fan I had to clean it up. Anyhow I treated the prep team like kings, see I knew who had the real power, chef and sous may have the title but it was the little guys that did all the work so I would keep the coffee flowing for those guys, maybe sneak a hot toddy back on a birthday that was forced to work. So these guys taught me everything, knife work, sauce, techniques for desserts you name it. So ya I like to cook. I guess I’ve always had an affinity for the night I like the bridge time between when the crazies go to bed and the normals start to stir. I’ve always like to observer stories unfold, one of the day/night that didn’t end on time and the other of one that just started. As I write this I think what a gift that time of my life was. I was painting and showing, bar tending and doing far to much drunken spoken word poetry. I mean picture me at 3am white vintage dress shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, black merino wool slacks and classic Allen Edmonds wingtip shoes. Hair slicked back like young Elvis or Frank. Tie loose around the neck. Up on stage reading out loud the same kind of stuff I post here. Yep good ole days. Anyhow thanks for letting me ramble about another life another time gone by.

Bring out your dead

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***town crier***
Send out your dead your dyeing,
Send out your mild and meek
for it is your broken I seek.
Give me hands that forgot how to hold
Give me your backs as they grow old.

Send out your sorrow and sick
Send out your borrowed and bricked
For I will build a new soul for you to shape
Give me your twitches and itches
Give me your swollen and fake
For it is your despair that I take.

A band of misfit girls and boys”land of misfit toys” how can it be that so many are broken and with out mend
So many tortured by sorrow or followed by grief.
So many broken and in need of relief.

Send out ……. Your dead……..

~~my words have found me~~

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**Lost and found**
Eyes of almond, be still my heart for your voice
has returned to this world.
How not a day has passed that I craved not your tender
voices echoing these halls, of shaky ghost and broken muses of the past.
Such rich tender words drip from your hand
Linger languid long on my heart
does pitter patter like that of a child in your world.
My first of this plane, o crush of words, of northern chill, and lips stained of wine.
I will stand quiet on afar mount range and speak not your name
but hold you softly above this madness,
oh my first..welcome..

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**the art on this post is not mine, pulled from tumblr artist unknown but worthy of note