A flower grew in the warm ground
With the other flowers of the garden.
One night it learned the dark secret
Of how to turn inward upon itself
And pull itself up by the roots.

In the morning the gardener,
Seeing it withering,
Threw it among the ashes.

"How wonderful it must be to be free!"
Said the other flowers of the garden,
"And to travel."

Arden Benson © 2002

Success at last!
The rainbow
Is turned inside-out.
Red on the bottom,
Purple on top.

The Pot
Of rare and simple gold
Is scattered.
A little on each blade
Of grass.

And it ain't gonna rain
No more.

Arden Benson © 2002

Well it really isn't a very big Universe,
The one we live in.
Not when you think of the really BIG
Universes
Out There.

Anyway it seems there was nothing,
No Thing at all --
No Space, no Time, no Matter --
In our little corner of a corner
Of a corner.
Just positive and negative nothing.
They touched each other,
And some infinitesimal sparks
Flew.

We call 'em galaxies
And systems of galaxies
Today --
And we are impressed
By their magnificence.

Arden Benson © 2002

We wondered, that day,
What it was all about.
But we came.
In his hut, he had a bright fire,
But no meat.
He sat there for a while,
Watching the fire.

Then he said some words.
He told how it felt
To drive a sharp stick
Into an animal --
The red blood.

Then he told
About being that animal.
Seeing that man, that sharp stick.
Feeling it come inside.
Dying.

By then the fire was out.
We walked away.
We listened to far-away howls,
And we looked up, at the moon.

Arden Benson © 2002

HEAVEN was spelled out
In pearls and opals
Glowing from within.
Below that, the Gate itself,
Intricately wrought in gold,
Stood open, and
There was curious music.

The carvings were of Flowers, Mountains, Horses,
Abstract compositions, and Saints.

Why was there a gate at all?
Were there fence-posts?  Yes.
The fence stretched out, it seemed,
To infinity.  It was woven.
Woven in meaningful patterns.

Was it there to keep the evil ones out?
Or to keep those, bored with Heaven's goodness,
Inside?

I asked the Keeper of the Gate, and he said,
"Yes, my son.  You may go back.
So I returned
To Earth.

Bring me a beer, honey.

Arden Benson © 2002

Methought a thousand thousand micro-octopi
Upon my back did cling, and bite and sting --
Or else that orb`ed fireball in the sky
Did scourge me for that oceanic fling.

So what?  Next time I brave that breaking wave
I'll innocently let my sunned-on back go red
Again, right glad that I'm no longer slave
To urban pleasures  -- books and e-mail, or to bed.

Arden Benson © 2002

St. Francis Kachina stands alone
              on the sacred mesa, far away.
Patterns are painted on his face.
Feathers are in his hair.
Sorrow is in his heart.

Thunderbirds fly past --
Some of them land at his feet.
Some of them perch
              on his outstretched hand.
Then St. Francis Kachina sings.

His song is of the people.
His song is of the land.
His song is the sorrow in his heart.

Arden Benson © 2002

What do we wish for you, at Christmas-time?

That in your closet you will find
     a coat of wool, right warmly lined,
And give it to the poor and cold, at Christmas-time.

That in your cellar you will find
     a store of vintner's pride, a rich red wine,
And give it to the cold and poor, at Christmas-time.

That in your pantry you will find
     both bread and meat, all foods sublime,
And give them to the hungry poor, at Christmas-time.

That in your city you should find
     an Inn, with rooms both clean and fine,
And give it to the homeless poor, at Christmas-time.

That in your hearts you'll surely find
     both Love and Peace, the ties that bind,
And give them to the world, at Christmas-time.

                                  Arden and Lilian Benson © 1990

Before I succumbed to the ultimate temptation
(Unable to hold attitudinal negation)
I knew that if ever I'd buy a computer
It would eliminate all of that brass, bronze, and pewter,
Pencils, acrylics, Tempera, oils,
(Unicorns wrapped in mermaids' bright coils) --
From my life.  Indeed, from my world.
Only the cyber-flag would be unfurled.

Well it happened.  Now only the typewritten word
Can be seen, can be sent, can ever be heard.

Even the trips to the Oregon seaboard
Yield to the lure of that wonderful keyboard.
(I stop when that aching in back of my eyes
Dictates sleep.  I'll get back to it later, when I arise.)
I am smitten --
But
What gets written?

Poems and stories, letters by e-male,
(Most of them to that far-away female) --
Was it worth it?  I guess so.  My heirs and posterity
Might cash in that file-case, and find prosperity.

                                          Arden Benson © 2002
                                                  October 22, 2002

Did God, then, set the whole design
Of evolution into motion?
No.  It's really tough; it's not benign,
That naturalistic notion.

Eat and be eaten, reproduce, survive!
When did it start?  What was first alive?
When the first war?  Attack!  Defend!
What is it for?  When will it end?

Could it be true that there really is no plan;
That in that first Big Bang, all the seeds of life began?
(Energy condensed is matter; that much has been clarified.
Could the "Spirit of Life", and Gods, be energy that's rarified?)

And what would that mean?
It would set a new scene
For rational thought --
Or at least, it ought.

September 9, 2002
Arden Benson © 2002

Going out to feed the birds, along about noon or one,
Is O.K. for all of us nerds, but it isn't very much fun.
The sea-gulls and the pigeons, that make the park so pretty,
Have found their secret hiding-places, somewhere in the city.

They will be back, much later in the day,
Or in the early morning (do they come out to play?)
Then I bring them seeds and bread, and maybe chunks of bagel,
And they come to me in flocks, just as if they, too, had cable.
(What's that honking?  Will wonders never cease?
Here comes a flock of V-formation geese!)

03 September 2002
Arden Benson © 2002