Sunday, January 15, 2012

Tonight, while we sleep... (for Ben)


while we sleep,
our blankets will tug at the foots of our beds;

threatening to
(all at once)
fly skyward through
half-opened windows
& block out the stars.

The bucket fountain
in Cuba Mall will cry
a few more joyfilled, sad tears
before morning.

The tiled streets that you called your home,
they are a littler emptier now.

Can you hear
the Capital's wind singing
just for you
a long overdue

song of redemption?

May you find a new street corner
in the fiery heavens,
just below the Southern Cross.

Here, the Maker
will weave anew
for you
a new blanket
out of comets' tails,
& bleeding constellations.

Kia-Kaha, Ben.

Rest easy now,
forgive yourself,

and know
that while you made these
streets your home,

You were
a King amongst men.

- For Ben Hana, 'Blanket Man'.

(c) Brent M Harpur, 15/1/2012.

"Much of your pain is self chosen: It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you
heals your sick self. Therefore trust the physician, & drink his remedy in silence and tranquility:
For his hand, though heavy & hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen,
And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the
Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears."
- Khalil Gibran.

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