In His Own Words

nights of glass

past reflecting future

visions and dreams

interweaving

sounds

poems by

benjamin p. lindgren, jr.




strolling down an orchard walking through a meadow pretty soon i’m rollin’ in clover misty haze i gaze beyond the tree tops upward in meteor-streaked skies the universe spins in tune water-filled images bubble-burst before my eyes breast-filled blue jay raise your beak and paint the skies blew blue beyond bald eagle calls in a glide round the meadow that i lie in utmost space-attention the wind plays branch concerto a leaf takes a solo in down ward flowing motion i like the way butterflies flutter from flower to flower and ladybugs crawl across my thumbnail as a rattlesnake coils, uncoils and slithers along his way, om on his way home om, om, om

mountain builder, mountain mover aiyee mountain mover, mountain builder o om ah, such a gentle mover such a powerful builder aiyee o om aiyee om there is peace here the air’s so clear love begins here love ends here not the same as the lowlands the place of man where dust hangs low and men grow old and cry and die ah, take my hand or grab my robe for i must go where the wind would have me go o om aiyee aiyee o om om

thunder, lightning om great dense, intense rolling clouds with clear, open spaces and sun shining through onto trees in earth their dance reflecting on a mountain lake full of laughing ducks the rain falling on leaves and water make sounds like monks with their cymbals lily pads are pacifist stumps guard the peace may you enjoy his peace

night messengers stony beach at sunset noise of scolding seagulls my mustache and nostrils bitter with salt the splash of waves like cymbals crashing on the rising shore probed my transparent consciousness the magician and i crouched behind a great trunk of driftwood passed a joint then lit cigarettes our hair blown wildly collars up against the fitful, piercing wind the old collie, blue who had led us since morning stood a few feet away furry coat a tapestry of color profiled, turned, stopped it was getting dark rapidly soon only his outline was visible darkness... night... suddenly, the eastern sky burst forth a light from beyond man’s thought or power a heartbeat later light filled the edge of the western horizon in answering glow in bewilderment i wondered if men were meant to see those beams our cigarettes smoked it was time to leave our shelter of twisted wood black night but the seashore was illumined around us as we walked the small pebbles shone like jewels the magician, blue and i seemingly alone i instinctively perceived myself exposed on the naked side of the veil

the noise level of this comedy is high, at least "life in the barrel" is as they say those older and wiser than i with my thirty year past there once were lands in ancient times when man had a seemingly different set of problems and as time became more detailed complex to our present crowded intensity insanity in the barrel and my life is represented in the patterns of these words however meaningless my physical reality is a reflection of my mind's thoughts at times unnerving to the point of maddening emotion and i escape into seclusion, music, paint and for a brief moment i transcend my hungers and passions unraveling myself finding an instant of peace this is why i smear paint this is why i've chosen to be an eccentric these are the barrel blues and they seem to go on and on like the turning of a screw

people fightin' for their freedom down in el salvador people caught in the crossfire on the viet-nam border i feel sorry for the children of the hostages and kurds it's a waste of life all over the land, the animals, and birds now that the french have tested the neutron bomb volunteer armies are all done they won't be happy 'til we're all gone that ought to finish up the job blood splattered pope at the vatican one more jerk with a hand gun he can't help no more the pain is real and makin' it to america's shore ain't no good no more

john lennon ambushed at home outside his door he couldn’t go anywhere day or night now does that seem right? no! no! who should we blame and who should we praise for what is so now he’s gone where did he go? that’s what i’d like to know all my heroes my heroes are gone now all my heroes are gone now

to become more abstract and more beautiful to become more free is where my art is at to me to get really good and show you what i see watched the eagle circling, soaring up above my head on a cascade mountain top my soul dug that communication no stagnation movin' everfree favors, braxton, coltrane, diz, monk, presley, lennon movin' everfree

midnight transformation so how ya doin' today? did i hear you say that you can't take it no more and you've blown it for sure don't know what's right or what's wrong can't stay in one place for too long it's the start of another lost weekend and i'm beginning to see what you mean here comes that feelin' of dread it's building up in my head and i can't go to bed you're bugged and me, too yeah, so what else is new my midnight transformation was blue someday we all gotta die 'til then we try to get by we can't always get high meanwhile you come and you go and never bring me some blow where ya gonna run to next? new york and check out the chicks can't take a bus and it's too far to swim hey? you've got no where to go man, i tried to tell you so

cry lebanon for all the dying you've done from all the bombs and the guns smoke hiding your sun cry lebanon bombed-out luxury hotels swimming pools full of shrapnel economy shot to hell jews ringing your bell your children sleep in the street no shoes on their feet and nothing to eat where human life is cheap dead commander in chief heat on the street watch out where you meet uniforms that are torn no place for new born daylight at night city of fright cry lebanon city of terror and bombs

floyd/floyd stepped out of the car walked inside and stood at the bar lit a cigarette and ordered a beer back outside outside in the heat the world was tired because of the wars back inside floyd pulled his cigarette deep and drank the cold beer while carving his name at the bar punks in the parking lot were stripping his car floyd/floyd said a voice in his head go home and climb into bed and make love then catch a few z’s floyd/floyd paid for the beer stepped outside inside they could hear him cursing while chasing the punks up the street he lost them they were young and too fast except for one floyd/floyd kicked his ass walked back to the bar he was so pissed ‘bout his car threw down a double shot of whiskey and chased it with a beer no way to walk sober out of here floyd/floyd staggered back to his car and slid behind the steering wheel smashed his fist on the dash too numb to feel it but his knuckles were smashed ‘bout then up drives the heat and arrests him for being drunk in public and a loaded handgun underneath the front seat floyd/floyd now what you goin’ to do said the uniform in blue floyd/floyd fell in a heap in the backseat of the squad car and they pulled from the curb into the night heat

4 thoughts on “In His Own Words”

  1. Wow! Interesting stuff. I randomly read some of these upon receipt…..need to go back in and go through all of them. What a nice tribute to your husband. He had a lot going on…..such a renaissance man!

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  2. Hey Ella,
    This is wonderful. I had no idea there was Ben Lindgren website. It’s really great to see his work, read his words and remember a wonderful man. Thanks for keeping his spirit in our hearts. All the best to you and Estin.

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  3. Hey Ben – You,ve done it again – word – sound – image – your riffs take me off the cliffs of my mind sailing through uncharted space – Thank you Ella goddess – forever – love

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  4. Thank you, Ella.

    Wonderful to feel Ben’s presence again, and so vividly, though I often think of him: his warmth, his wild, incredible wit, the great soulfulness of everything he did.

    I remember I felt a need to touch him once more, lightly, as he lay in his coffin, looking–as he always did–cool. Decked out in a black leather jacket, wearing his wedding ring, and with his harmonica near by for whenever he might need it. Wow.

    The night before Ben’s great friend Glenn Spearman died, Glenn’s wife Shantee asked, “Are you dying?” Glenn answered, “No.”

    The same is true of Ben.

    (I remember that the priest who presided at Ben’s Russian Orthodox service said this: The Pagans thought of the body as a prison, and the Jews too thought of the body as corrupt. He felt that where his faith parted company with both the Pagans and the Jews was in the belief in the resurrected body. As Jesus had been resurrected in his body, so too would the dead be. The priest insisted that though he “didn’t know how,” we would “see Benjamin again.”)

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