cold, rainy saturday

rain falling outside my window pane

glass fogged on the inside

outside tiny drops of water race each other to the bottom of the pane

as though they were competing in a nationally televised sporting event

i must be bored because i found myself cheering on

the one in the middle…the smallest one

he lost…came in dead last

maybe next time, buddy

it’s cold outside…not really cold

it just looks cold

cloudy, gray, with a hint of depression in the air

i shiver…maybe the sun will shine tomorrow

turning up the heater may help

a hot cup of coffee may do the trick

I think I will light a fire…the crackling sound always

chases away the blues…and i like the smell

winter is slowly conquering the world outside

home decorated for christmas on the inside

children all excited to hear the weather forecast

snow almost certain on monday…cheers

outside cars wiz by plowing the thin layer of water on the street

listening to music inside… micheal buble

“cause you are not alone, i’m always there with you”

funny how music can warm the heart and comfort the mind

even on a cold, rainy saturday

Remember Me

Will you remember me

If you don’t hear me laugh; if you don’t hear me cry

Or will you forget my voice as the years go by

Will you remember me

If you can’t see the wrinkles on my face

Or will my image from your memory someday be erased

Will you remember me

If upon your lips you cannot feel my kiss

Or will your heart resolve it’s better off like this

Will you remember me

If I cannot hug you or no longer touch your hand

Or will my memory fly away like the windblown sand

Yes, I will remember you

The joy in your laugh and the sorrows of your cry

I will not forget your voice as the years go by

Yes, I will remember you

I love those wrinkles upon you face

Your image from my memory can never be erased.

Yes, I will remember you

Every single time my lips felt your kiss

I have resolved to remember those sweet times of bliss

Yes, I will remember you

Your warm hugs and the gentle touch of your strong hand

I will pile your memories like a mile high dune of sand

Yes, Love, I will remember you

You are my life and breath

I will hold on to you till I close my eyes in death

Allen Bennett

For the living know that they shall die: but the dead know not any thing, neither have they any more a reward; for the memory of them is forgotten. 
Ecclesiastes 9:5

The Front Porch

Sitting there with sleepy eyes

They wait together for the sun to rise

Tender lovers old woman, old man

In the chill of dawn they are holding hands

They have a small cabin way out in the woods

Here they live because life is good

The front porch faces directly east

Where they observe daily all kinds of beast

But they faced it that way for in their last days

They knew they would rock and watch the sun’s rays

Drinking their coffee they look across their land

And gently they take each other’s hand

“I love you,” he says, “I know that you do…”

She says, “Do you know I love you too?”

Sweetly they smile old woman, old man

After all these years still holding hands

By: Allen Bennett

The Secret

This poem is a view of my own death in the future. It is not meant to be morbid or dark. As a matter of fact, I think of it as being rather positive. These events take place many years from now. It is not in the near future. I hope "The Secret" challenges each reader to carefully evaluate what he/she will leave behind once they depart this world. Finally, "The Secret" is written in the voice of my daughter Ary Anna.

My daddy died just the other day

Family came from miles away

To see him bow upon his stage

To turn his final page

Before he passed we all gathered ‘round

Each one stood up, no one set down

All were eager, yearning to hear

Some words of wisdom he’d learned through the years

We children pressed in to breathe of his breath

Before he closed his eyes in death

Hoping some part of him would remain

And as we breathed in we felt his pain

He opened his eyes and looked at our faces

Smiling to see us all in our places

Oldest to youngest, girls and guys

Softly I wiped the tears from his eyes

Over on the opposite side of the bed

My sweet, tender mother stroked his cool head

We were all there—every last one

Loving wife, beautiful daughters, handsome sons

Through the years my dear, sweet mother stood by his side

When there was no hope—no light in his eyes

She was his life. She was his breath

Now in sweet peace he could face death

My oldest brother—he is so bright

God gave him the gift to write

Years ago into the night sky daddy did stare

Seth is the answer to my daddy’s prayer

My next two brothers—not quite as old

Grew to be wise—grew to be bold

To practice medicine they both did strive

Now they have saved countless a life

My fourth brother went off to war

To help his uncle settle a score

“To the enemy,” daddy said, “you must not yield”

My daddy's son came home carrying his shield

My younger sister is Abby Jo

Bravely she treads where others won’t go

Just like my daddy—she’s almost fearless

But unlike my daddy—she’s almost tearless

My youngest brother—William Wallace by name

Didn’t seek fortune, didn’t seek fame

He dared to step beyond the church steeple

He gave his life to save a nation of people

Like my mother I’ve stayed by daddy’s side

When he laughed I laughed, when he cried I cried

I gave him wisdom, he gave me life

And now I’ve become a godly mother and wife

We all stood there as we recounted

The stories of our lives and the love that abounded

Then daddy quietly whispered, “Do you all see?”

“The secret to life… leave a legacy.”

With those words he breathed his last breath

His heart stopped beating inside his chest

But in each of us he still breathes

For we are his legacy

My daddy was first—he was a pilgrim

He and mom raised up godly children

So we’ll pass his breath to future generations

And daddy will touch so many nations

Daddy was right—it is up to us, you see

We each must leave our own legacy

Allen Bennett

Grave Stone

I dedicate this poem to two of my daughters, Julianna and Ary Anna. Julianna was still born in 1992. This December she would have been 19 years old. Our whole family misses her deeply, even those who were not born when she died. Ary Anna was my daughter, who at six years of age, stood at a grave in Little Bethel Cemetery in Duncanville, Texas and was moved to tears as she grieved for the parents whose child had been buried there.  

My daughter stood there all alone

Face to face with the old gray stone

Weathered and cracked by the hands of time

Chiseled on its face was this simple rhyme,

O blessed little sunbeam,
O child of love and prayer,
We give thee to the keeping,
Of the tender Shepherd's care

She pondered as she traced her finger round the date

What was the reason for this innocent child’s fate?

The carving stated September 22 to September 24

The babe had lived just three days; not a single moment more.

She whispered the word “sunbeam” and then “love and prayer”

She then began to wonder, “Does the Shepherd really care?”

At first it was just a single tear but then she began to cry,

“I don’t understand, God in Heaven, why did you let this little child die.”

There were no words from the clouds up above,

No magical answer on the wings of a dove.

So I came near; put my arm ‘round her shoulder,

Knew she just needed someone to hold her.

She looked up at me with sad, wet eyes,

I tell you I hate it when my little girl cries.

Through her sobs all I heard were the words, “Little child,”

Suddenly I choked on the answer I’d compiled.

She didn’t need some neatly packed answer

Some fantasy story ‘bout a reindeer named Prancer.

She demanded I tell her why were things so,

Softly I answered, “Honey, I don’t know.”

Her face turned to a smile as she pushed up her specks,

Saying, “I didn’t realize it was all that complex.”

“If my daddy, who is so smart, doesn’t even know

Then I’ll just have to accept that sometimes things are so.”

Her heart was still hurting for the mother and dad;

Longing to hold their newly born lad.

But from that very day her heart became tender

Now to the hurting the Shepherd can send her.

I, You, He

I

You

He

I love

You love

He loves

I love you

You love me

He loves us

I love you more

You love me more

He loves us more

I love you more than you will

You love me more than I will

He loves us more than we will

I love you more than you will ever

You love me more than I will ever

He loves us more than we will ever

I love you more than you will ever know

You love me more than I will ever know

He loves us more than we will ever know

I

You

He

died on a tree

By Allen Bennett

A Tale of a Proud Father

Several years ago I got a call from my mom informing me my step-father, Big Jim, was in the hospital and was not expected to live. Doctors had thought he had lung cancer. They treated him accordingly but then discovered he had been misdiagnosed. The inappropriate cancer treatments had actually destroyed his lungs.She said, “Son, if you want to talk to your dad you better call him soon because he is not long for this world.” He was in a hospital just a short distance from my home south of Dallas. I called his wife to ask her if it would be alright for me and my wife to go visit him. She assured me we would be welcome and that he would love to see us.

In our 20 years of marriage up to 2003 my wife Lisa had never met Big Jim. Though she did feel as if she knew him from all the stories I told her about him. Neither of us knew what to expect or what we would say upon seeing him but we were both excited to see the man I deeply admired and had so influenced my life. We carried with us pictures of all six of our children (William, our seventh, had not yet been born).

Upon entering Big Jim’s hospital room I was stunned. The man who had always seemed so big too me was wasted away to what seemed like skin and bones. His face was pale but his eyes flashed with excitement when he saw us. I said a quick hello and then introduced Lisa to him. He cordially greeted her saying, “It is so good to meet you after all these years.” Then he sat up a little and a big smile raced across his face. “Did Allen ever tell you about the first fish he ever caught?” he prodded. To which she responded, “Yes he did.” “But did he tell you how big it was?” he continued. “Why, it must have been this big!” he exclaimed holding out his hands in true fisherman fashion to indicate a fish at least 2 ½ feet long.

I said, “Dad, it wasn’t that big.” He protested, “Oh, yes it was…if not bigger. You were too young to remember.” Then ignoring me he focused back to my wife spinning his yarn, “Why, that fish was so big and he was so little, I thought for sure Allen was going to be pulled into the water. And he reeled that whopper ashore all by himself…”

He continued his praise for my fishing prowess for several minutes until I interrupted him with something more impressive…I was armed with photos of my children. He delighted as I introduced each one to him via photographic images. I started with the oldest and went down to the youngest telling their ages, interests, and accomplishments. He gave the appropriate “ohhs and ahhs” of a grandfather until I got down to a picture of Abby…our youngest. His face lit up as I revealed the picture of a cute, freckled faced, red-headed, little girl. He said, “Is this your daughter?” “Yes” I replied. “My granddaughter?” He almost seemed confused. “Yes” I affirmed. “She looks so much like your sister, Stephanie. Look at all that red hair.” Abby had clearly garnered my dad’s favor without speaking a word. She did bear a striking resemblance to my little sister who is 14 years younger than me.

Each time we changed the subject dad would find a way to bring the conversation back to Abby’s red hair. I don’t know if he was really all that taken with Abby or just missing Stephanie that much. My heart tells me it was the latter.

Eventually dad began to show his frailty so we told him we needed to leave. Lisa told him goodbye and headed to the door and paused waiting for me. I came closer to him as he lay on his slightly elevated bed. “Can I give you a hug?” I asked. He was clearly pleased I cared for him after all these years. As I leaned over and hugged him he grabbed my bicep of my right arm and squeezed. “Why, boy, you have big muscles,” he exclaimed. I quickly replied, “Well, they should be big. You made me dig hundreds of post holes out on the farm growing up.” He let out a weak but heart-felt laugh as he held onto my arm.

It is funny how a boy can grow into a man, marry, have children of his own, but still desire the affection and approval of his own dad more than all the praise of all the other people in the world. A dad’s few words of admiration can replace the endless accolades of thousands. I truly realized at that moment how much I really missed my dad and just how powerful his influence had been in my life. I became aware in that instant the power of a dad’s approval.

Big Jim…Dad… held the arm he had admired a moment before and looked me in the eye. With a scratchy voice he said, “Son, I’m proud of you.” A tear coursed down his face. He was moved. So was I. I said, “Dad, I love you. I hope to see you again soon.” Knowing all the while his prognosis was grim and he might not even live through the night. He smiled and said, “I love you too.” I turned to the door as Lisa walked out ahead of me.

She met me at the elevator just down the hall from his room. She pushed the button and then turned to me with a big smile on her face as I approached her. “You got to hear what you have wanted to hear all these years, didn’t you?” she said. Playing ignorant, I questioned, “What do you mean?” “Your dad told you he was proud of you. Every boy…every man wants to hear those words from his dad,” she affirmed. She got it. She really understood the heart of a boy…the desire of a man. His words of affirmation had ignited a fire in me I had not felt for some time. I purposed in my heart to be careful to frequently tell all my children I was proud of them. And to this I have been true.

I expected to get a call within the next few days telling me my dad had passed away. Instead, I got a call from him telling me he had been released from the hospital and was back home in Whitney, Texas. He invited me to come visit him. He was feeling much stronger and we had a lot of catching up to do. I went to visit him a few days later. We each had a grand time learning what the other had been doing all those years.

I had become an elementary school principal. He had become a professional fishing guide down on the Gulf of Mexico. I told him tales of the classroom and he told me fish stories that he swore were all true…but then, don’t all fishermen pledge their stories are reputable?

After awhile he had to visit the men’s room. His wife, Christine, came over and set down. She asked me frankly, “Allen, why have you not been in contact with Jim all these years?” I was stunned by her question but pushed out my explanation. “I knew you had a teen aged son when Jim married you. Jim had been a really good dad to me when he was married to my mom.  I didn’t want your son to be deprived of having Jim’s total attention by having me to compete with. And after awhile I was not sure I would be welcome.” Christine, kind and motherly, took me by the hand and said, “Oh, son, I wished I had known you felt that way. You would have been welcomed with open arms around here.” She continued, “Jim talked about you all the time. You do know he thought of you as his own son, don’t you?” As dad came back in the room she added, “Well, now you are back in his life. Make sure you and your whole family stays there, okay?”  I pledged that we would. How refreshing to know I was…we were accepted into Big Jim’s family.

After several hours of talking, showing pictures, and sharing dreams Dad began to fade. He needed his rest. We said our good byes and I headed back home feeling emotionally fulfilled. Four days later I got a phone call that Big Jim had passed away. He had lost his battle with cancer. But he had regained the heart of his son in the process.

My sister, Stephanie and I attended his memorial a few days later. The family was kind enough to allow us to be part of the arrangement process. It was very moving for the two of us to be alone in the chapel with Dad’s body as we reminisced about bygone years. It drew us a bit closer without a doubt. Spending that time with her it was easy to see why Dad adored her so. She is a precious sister and was a wonderful daughter.

I talked to Stephanie on IM tonight. She informed me that her daughter, Megan, who is a member of the Rider High School color guard, will be going to London in December…to play for the Queen of England. Dad would have been proud.