Hank Besant is a poet based in the Chicagoland area. Hank believes poetry is necessary for the journey home, and enjoys remembering his voice as much as possible.
Instant pleasures never last, Infantile puppets of the past. Life is an arrow, he is the tip, The wake has never driven the ship.
From silence comes sound, One cannot know something more profound. One sows now and reaps later, Trying his best to refine his behavior.
I am action, I am change, I have the power to turn the page.
Left, right, up, and down, screens spitting data all around. Is this my thought, his thought, her thought, their's? Kids glued to tablets, nobody cares.
Media has grown too chaotic, Screens are growing more hypnotic. In order to be less robotic, I need to unplug.
Achieve things and go places, Touch milestones and leave traces. Sing your song and make your mark, Prove to all what sets you apart.
Stamp your name across the sky, Embody passion, reaching high. Live each day with firm intention, Leave a rich and bold impression.
Crystal, azure water lies within a bowl. Stirring irritates the liquid, Disrupting the whole.
Have patience, Don't let the water feel restricted. The ripples slow in cadence, Just as I predicted.
Every night, Before it's time for bed, I imagine a shelf, Just above my head.
On this shelf, I place my concerns. Leave worry for tomorrow's me, As today has adjourned.
I'd rather be idealistic and hoping than realistic and coping. I'd rather be original and wishful, Than be an archetypal, cynical, Stereotypical individual.
I'd rather be a slave to dreams Than a slave to money. I'd rather write a story on a mountaintop Than be a cubicle monkey.
The motion of a moving mission Can magnetize, mobilize, Magnify, and multiply Good people all around you— This can carry you the distance.
The smell of a wet sidewalk, The gentle tapping of glass, If these little drops could talk, I wonder what they'd ask.
The wind stole my breath today, Wrapped my face in a shroud. Misty remnants whisked away, Condensed to a runaway cloud.
He was gentle. He spoke softly and I felt safe. He saw me as his grandson and that makes me feel important. That is something he tended to do, a lot. Make me feel special.
Even when I felt otherwise, a whisper from my grandfather reminded me things are going to be alright. Notions of what it takes to be a man tug my mind one way and my heart another. I want to grow up to be strong.
Luckily, I had my Pop. His kindness was so overwhelming, I couldn't begin to imagine the strength it took to construct.
That strength is something I wish to share with my own grandkids one day, but nobody could ever give back rubs like Pop.
You walked through life piecemeal Only to be put back together, needle and thread, By your own undoing.
You found yourself carried by yellow butterflies and mourning cloaks Ornately interwoven through the fabric of your being.
Now you speak butterfly language to caterpillars Your words with wings and their ears with legs, That run to and from truth.
At night, little brother goes Walking under street lamps Plucking words from within the wind.
These words he knows aren't his, But crickets give them anyway As little brother walks, Grateful they chose him.
And suddenly flannels turn wiper blades at sunrise Train horns carry hymnals And a nomad receives another round of spinning reminders of How small he is and how That's okay.
Fan blades circle worn out songs Airing blurry visions of street corner flowerpots, high school girlfriends, hot air balloons, nervous ticks, and sports he quit.
A nomad lay sideways on his bed The wall on his heels Wondering if it's time to move again.
And slowly, Rest renews What will could not And a nomad looks ahead.
Banjo strings bounce off bluff faces, Aurelia dances through the trees.
Her song crawls over ridges, Her echo drifts across the fen. She swallows footprints. She swallows memories.
In her valley Is a nomad, With no instrument But a beating chest.
“A gift for you,” he tells her. The breeze leans in to listen. The brush hugs his boots.
“This time, I walk with you through your valley. I do not run and leave too soon.”
He hums, whistles, thumps his chest. Paints her leaves with even breath. He waters her roots with stories. Speaks Word into her wind. The nomad finds himself Spun in gold, held within.
And when the pair arrives at valley’s edge, A man walks into the clearing.