Works by Ben Balazs

The labor of love If it were ever a chore And not a warm sensation, May appear as a shotgun wedding. Pew pews arranged like a courtroom, The jury of leering peers, The case already lost, The only defense a pool of tears upon his cheek. Objections in the form of wedding gifts, Rental dresses, and lukewarm cake. The honeymoon as sweet as Saltine crackers can be, Without water to wash it all down, Or money to wish it away, Must be swallowed by the mouthful. The children whine because their mother's milk Tastes bitter, and the flavor of breakfast eggs seems lacking and bland, Compared to the dry aroma of a house Built upon the debt paid by a Husband and Wife.

Fleeting, I would describe that ghost as flitting across a screen. A shadow by all means, but a Person, certainly; I could not surmise what end They would meet, Should the door be opened, The veil unveiled, The screws loosed, Prying a board from its floor, Only to reveal a stained-glass window, From which appears a depiction of  Jesus, or some other saintly face Bright enough to illuminate My rights and wrongs.

The silence bowed graciously before me, Including in its curtsy a foreboding sign, And folding into itself as I lay, Roared louder than its petty size ought permit. And although it was quiet, Cold, and lonesome, The mossy walls implied their pleasure By clapping furiously at the shades. So I lay wondering, indecisively, Whether that audience was there for Me, Or if all the music playing until now, Was my own desperate fiction.

Beady greens peeking over the curls Of my toes, Whispering to me about the acquired taste Of morning dew, And in wondering if I paid attention, Tickle at my soles. Those harassing earthen hairs Mercilessly reel me down, Such to reach my inner ear, So as to say, in case I missed it, "Good morning, and good night."

Seaside walks season my chin With salted air, And by the time I have found The knotted ends of the coast, And there are no more people, Or fish, Or coves, And I have absorbed all the spice of the ocean, That I felt ready to dive, To bask in and marinate with The lapis laguna that lures me; Perhaps I shall be served up, Limbs, mind, soul, And all, To the gods residing above, Whose irises reflect in the water below.