Bird Song

At dawn I hear the robin's first call
Clearing the clouds from the edge of the blue shot sky
Beckoning the bulbs to stir in the warmed earth.

By midmorning cardinals are singing in the pines
A sparrow's song trills from the apple limbs
Damp branches glistening with the palest green.

By noon there should be jays,
But were they there?
To my ears every bird would have cried out,
Did the wood still carry echos of
the thrush calling from deep within the forest.

Golgatha sounds like a crow's cry
or worse. I can not bear to imagine.
or was there only silence?
Had all the birds on earth stopped?
Like a held breath, mute and static.

When a heart breaks, is there a sound?
Surely, I have heard it.
A low, hollow tolling D.

And then?
My soul
A mourning dove.

The Avowel #4 - Denise Levertov (from Breathing the Water 1987)

God's wounded hand
reached out to place in hers
the entire world 'round as a ball,
small as a hazelnut'. Just so one day
of infant life remembered
her mother might have given
into her two cupped palms
a new laid egg, warm from the hen;
just so her brother,
risked to her solemn joy,
his delicate treasure,
a sparrow's egg from the hedgerow.
What can this be? the eye of her understanding marveled.

God for a moment in our history
placed in that five-fingered
human nest
the macrocosmic egg, sublime paradox,
brown hazelnut of All that Is -
made, and belov'd, and preserved.
As still, waking each day within
our microcosm, we find it, and ourselves.

___________________
I first read this poem during a summer program at Thomas More College in Merrimack, New Hampshire after my sophomore year of high school. I carried it with me to college and through my 20s... then my yellowed and tattered and stained paper disappeared in one move or another from some apartment to another. But I've never stopped searching for it. Finally, I found it tonight. #grateful

Stardust and Songs

In a quiet room off a grey hall,
the heavy wooden door is closed,
and the bed is not empty.
She is not there.

In a silent room full of windows
the city crawls under street lamps
and the river slides by through night
She is not there.

In a little house with her beloveds
the blankets pulled close about their ears
and the orange leaves pulled aground by rain
She is not there.

In a native forest where hides the moon
the ancient trees gripping the mountain
and the lake which drowns all its secrets
She is not there.

In a farmer's field alighted by bonfire
the smoking logs and the friends silhouetted
and crackling flames and the lowing cows.
She is not there.

She is the heart that beats and the ears that hear.
She is the pulse of the streets and the flow of the river.
She is the house that shields and the rains that tear.
She is the trees that grip and the water that overwhelms.
She is the fire that cleanses and friends who love.
And she is fearfully and wonderfully made of 
Stardust and Songs.

Jennifer D. Behnke, October 11, 2012 

The Fortress

That first blow
Rocked us to the core
Smashed the stone and gravel to dust
And the fears that were so long dreaded
And perhaps secretly desired
Were upon us.

The first blow
Blinding and blistering
Shoulders torn and jaws wrenched
Knees bent and bloodied
And the tears that were so long guarded
And perhaps willfully suppressed
Sprang forth.

And there was pain
And a dying off
A shredding of tenuous comfort
Of grasped innocence.

But the breaking was necessary
for the evolution, the re-creation of the barren terrain.

In the space of a breath
we were crushed
and remade.

March 7, 2013

Odds & Evens

Even though I dance before you
Odds are my legs should not support me.

Even though I sing a song of hope
Odds are my voice should have been silenced last year.

Even though I have dragged myself up a thousand times,
Odds are my toughest battles are still yet to come.

Even though you think you can beat me,
Odds are you have never encountered a being as strong as I.

Even now, I am changing the odds.
Even now.
Even now.

Jennifer D. Behnke - March 6, 2013

I wrote this today. It has been 6 years since my last back surgery, and I had to undergo some routine tests, having just been told by my neurologist that he still doesn't comprehend my recovery.

March Rain

Drink deep of the rain
silent earth,
slumb'ring bulbs
halted growth.

Frosted dust be quenched
worry not
frozen soil
parched plot

The rain will scatter
loosened grains
dried leaves
buried things

Unlock your secrets
Face erodes
Surface scarred
Shield corrodes

Yet clears the pathway
fields are hewn
cliffs soften
hope from ruin. ---- Jennifer D. Behnke 2012

Winter Sun

Pellucid, still
quiet, not shrill
Beckoning
Alluring
yet no comfort enduring.


Brightening days
Deceitful rays
Blazing vice
Mured in ice
Enshroud me with febrile chill.

Jennifer D. Behnke January, 2012

This is the first poem I shared with my good friend, Eric Hunter.
Eric set the piece to music and we had the great fortune of having it featured in a cabaret performance in January 2013. Heather Meyer premiered the work with Eric at the piano.
The video of the premier can be found here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a8MKHIVygGE&feature=youtu.be

Mission Statement

I am creating this blog as a digital record of my projects, poetry, thoughts and dreams.

Honesty and beauty are givens, I can not promise much else. Here be dragons.