poety by Adam Benjamin
photographs by Lita Mikrut

Adam Benjamin was surprised he could write; he thought he was a math person. His words found many outlets: poetry, songs, fiction, late night talks, random jokes. He is currently working on a young adults fantasy novel. Write to Adam at adambenjaminmusic@hotmail.com.

a poem for a poet

the newness of familiarity
a memory of days to come
a dream of waking up
a moon to spell the dawn
a sun of darkness blooming
a sea of burning sand
a winter of beginnings
and a sword of sleeping love.

a shadow of our substance
a mirror of our backs
a house of many strangers
a kingdom made of kings
a letter to its writer
a window looking in
a mansion for a beggar
and a prison keeping others out.

a parking lot of heather
a telescope of blindness
an angel full of lust
a thought of nothing ever
a phonograph of swallows
a name that has another name
a clock of swinging branches
and a feeling just above your heart.

a poem for a poet
a storm of perfect shelter
a song that won’t begin
an apple of returning
a maiden with a cigarette
a key to open walls
an anchor to the wind
and a slingshot for a meteor.

After having moved over 30 times, Lita Mikrut’s location is transformation. If you are trying to toss a paper ball into a trashcan from where you are standing, she believes you will make your shot. Her favorite word is rhythm. litamikrut.com

Noon

Noon is a bad time.
There is really no escape from noon.
You can’t go backward,
toward the safety of sleep.
And it will be a long time until you are almost done.
And noon is watching.
There isn’t much you can pull past noon.
You can’t sneak through shadows.
You can’t slink through the mist.
You are there and so is noon.
Windows may as well be eyes.
Faces are honest at noon.
They show things they shouldn’t.
It’s hard to act casual at noon.
Noon is a hill.
But you are somehow still climbing.
Already at the top.
Climbing up, but getting no higher.

Savior of sorts

Somewhere out in the obvious.
Somewhere far from the fun.
There lives a savior of sorts.
He is expected.
He is daily.
He is known to himself, but not usually.
He is saving things.
He is saving papers.
Poems.
Pens.
He is saving reasons.
Doubts.
The shells of what was.
He is saving himself.
And those around him.
Most people don’t stand out.
And neither does the savior of sorts.
He is right where he would be.
Right in the thick of it.
Saving coffee.
Saving souls.
Saving blades of grass with his memory.