Poems written by me in a former century

A retrospective

I am in the process of reviewing my folders and notebooks of prose and poetry written between 1956 and the end of the twentieth century. As I get it organized, I think I will copy sections to the blog I recently started. Trying to get things organized a bit.

“The Far Voyage”
By Elizabeth “Lizl” Bennefeld
Inspired by Andre Norton’s The Stars Are Ours (1954)

At rest at last upon a foreign soil
that never knew the step of man before.
beneath the rocket’s fins,
red sand and rock stretch forth
to undergird bright, glistening azure seas.

Beyond their landing place,
up gentle, rolling hills,
far travelers, lost refugees
from Earth’s perpetual wars,
survey vast, untouched fields of grain,
their purple tassels swaying in a breeze
that also brushes golden fruit,
which hangs, sun ripened,
from the bordering trees.

A welcome haven, this new world,
to shelter those who fled in fear
before the waves of senseless hate
for all that’s different,
those who would not bow
to serve untruth or cruelty.

With gathered driftwood,
fires are lit beside a newfound sea,
to warm the bodies and the hearts
of those who now are free.

And as the night descends,
moons race across the sky.
And, one by one, new stars appear
in constellations that will light
new nights, new hopes, new dreams.

Before their weary eyes,
new shapes they seem to see-
a lamb, a dove, an olive-sprig wreath,
all signs of eternal peace.

Are they the promise of a new beginning,
or just a cruel mockery?

My first poem, 1955/56.

this poet’s mind
is like a sponge
it’s empty
under pressure


when I feel your hands
sweep over me
when I feel you, warm
against me
when I hear you
I love you
the dream becomes reality
reality, a dream
for just a


moon beyond the clouds
placed in its path by cold winds
winter’s thin-blown shroud


Vision clouded, noise drifts in
to fill my picture of the world.
The drinks I’ve had don’t isolate,
but merely shift the focus to the sounds…
less easily avoided than the sight.

If I were sober, now,
I’d shut it out—that senseless murmuring
but here I sit, inertia-bound
and listen vainly
for the echoes of my mind.


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