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Darius Benhaim Poem
… after Langston Hughes
You know how they do. They say that
we run, that we fit descriptions, but justice
ain’t blind, she just sees who she wants. Is
it any wonder we hold our breath? A
body ain’t a body when they label it a threat. Blind
fold her, watch her peek, call her a goddess.
Watch her drop the scales. Watch how balance is
a myth chased between our nana’s prayers and a
judge’s gavel. They got this thing
for claiming fear while standing over bodies. To
serve, to protect—who? Which
way to run when history's got a knee pressed upon the we
aried? Red light, blue light, a flash, a name gone black.
Mothers wailing thru the street. We are
n’t new to this. My father knew. And his father wise.
Still, she won’t look. Her
hands steady but the bandage
doesn’t stop her from peeking. It hides
but we see it slip. MLK's two
Americas on display. Wounds keep festering
and this country born of scars and sores
struts like a wayward siren. That
same scream, same prayer, same fear. Once
we thought time might change things. Perhaps
we were fools to hope. Seems we were.
Though standing here. Still, we look her in the eyes.
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Copyright © Darius Benhaim | Year Posted 2025
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Darius Benhaim Poem
needs no introduction,
no permission
to be anything.
He does not ask
to reach heaven.
His words are unmoored—
they drift and change,
remaking things
before the world can see them.
His hand—
a gesture held
between sleep
and what it reaches for.
His mother would send him out
into the sun,
calluses and dirt
ground beneath his nails—
not this boy
who writes with nothing but air.
His imagination drifts
like smoke
through the dark.
She sees his future
in labor,
where hands harden with sweat
and men are measured
by muscle,
not the weight of thought.
“I see no future in words,” she says—
her faith crusted like dry ground,
certain it will not break
what it holds.
Notebooks in hand—
if only she knew
where he wandered,
what he wrote
while the sky waited outside.
“You must be lost, son.”
But he wasn’t.
The words are the map.
The ink, a compass.
The boy who writes
has already gone somewhere.
She once set his notebooks aflame—
fire ticking through the pages
like Shachath,
living words thrown
into oak-fed heat.
He breathed the smoke on purpose,
did not yield.
Ash bent beneath
the weight of his need.
She invoked the farm
as if the earth lived in her veins,
asking more
than her hands could give.
But none of it reached him.
Not the scent of hay,
nor the dust
from the tractor’s turn.
This was not meant for him—
not for the boy who bends to soil,
but for those who bow
as if the land owns them.
The boy with the pen is elsewhere—
where ink runs faster
than the creek
he once skipped stones across.
His feet are made for roads.
His heart beats in cities
he has not yet seen—
rooms dense with words
still searching for a place to live.
His mind does not ask permission.
It flies—
unburdened
by ground,
by the sweat his mother hopes
will set him free.
Her love has edges.
His words do not.
She used to ask,
“What will you be?”
He never answered.
He wrote.
He writes for those
who cannot yet write—
the ones waiting
to breathe beyond
what they were born into.
He writes the world
as it might become.
The boy writes alone,
not because he is fleeing,
but because the world
has not learned how to see him.
And when it does,
it will be in a language
forged from coal and gut
and tears—
from that space
where thought is born
before the world can name it.
He writes because, in the end,
his words will build the place
he was never allowed
to walk in.
Copyright © Darius Benhaim | Year Posted 2025
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Darius Benhaim Poem
In a weightless state of tranquility,
paraphrasing relentless thoughts of motion
in my head into words, which 'til now
have laid dormant in unsung verse, waiting
for you to shine brightly upon them.
Freshly painted impressions mark
the beginning of halcyon days, where gulls
hover just above waves that barely
kiss the shoreline, burying tiny toes
beneath the coolness of wet beached sand.
To what shall we compare thee or can
your effulgent beauty be measured
by metered stanzas of verse taking form
on rice paper and egg shells so that the yolk
slips out draining lucent into the earth's core.
Your wisdom surveys the high seas,
coursing through cavernous veins that harbor
quietly in safety channels, as zephyrs
challenge moist underbrush among youthful
lips, blowing innocent kisses in playful semblance.
Oscines sway in sync beneath heaven's domain,
bathing in rays of sweet luminosity,
as sun-drenched fossils rise, reborn,
reclaiming their gaiety to shine unobstructed,
teething along crevasses of incandescence.
Embrace these Sun days, reflecting
on fireside chats and old storybooks,
reciting euphonious tales that burn mellow,
rising to greet the eyes of omnipotence
with chants of celestial song and dance.
And to this place we call rapture,
let wings of sober doctrine reveal
where grace resides within Sol's castle,
waiting for the children to come forth
with clasped hands in joyful unison.
Such days will greet warmth openly,
without hesitation, so the orbiting
star becomes ever more pliant,
allowing whatever name you choose
to objectify it, to stand always...
Bright, within itself.
Copyright © Darius Benhaim | Year Posted 2024
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Darius Benhaim Poem
Unable to sleep or pray, I stand
by the window looking out—
at moonstruck trees a December storm
has bowed with ice.
White Oaks and Maples concede
beneath the crystalline weight,
their branches falling brittle upon
a frozen tableau of memory.
Love—that old revolutionary road,
veers sideways toward scrutiny;
where I've wandered, reliving moments
at the long junction of unease.
But make no mistake—
The trees themselves, as in winters past
will endure their burdening; broken thrive.
Am I less to You, my God, than they?
What does this have to do with love?
I shatter a mirror just to glimpse
the shifting umbra that lurks behind,
searching for the source of wholeness.
I hear it—the mutability of love in stead,
its voice, cutting a swath through leavings;
worn, blessed, shaped by earth
while rising out of what was lost.
I pull thread by thread, at memories lost,
as if to weave them back together;
but each attempt reveals the tear
in every promise once coveted.
Is love then, nothing but a gap—
a space we fill with longing,
a promiscuous fire lost in the cold
leaving us searching for its light?
The trees, staunch, their silence deep,
and in their forboding, I see more
than in the frantic rush of hearts—
they bend and splinter yet carry forth.
Love is not the comfort we expect,
rather the oscillating tension
that reveals even in ruination, there
is life's will stirring in the dark.
Copyright © Darius Benhaim | Year Posted 2024
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Darius Benhaim Poem
To be clear...
I’m not asking you to love this.
I’m asking for you to meet me
where the words land hard—
where syllables ignite
like the last coin
burning a hole into your palm—
spent, but still cursing
what you could’ve claimed,
what you’re still pretending to chase.
I know...
you didn’t ask for this.
The ink staining your thoughts
like the memory of a tattoo gone bad—
the weight of metaphor,
that friend who never knows when its time
to leave even after you’ve abruptly shut the door.
I’m not here to make you believe
in anything more than the obvious:
the moon still shows up unabated,
the sun fades to an overhyped memory,
the world keeps spinning
because who needs a break, right?
However...
allow me to offer a word,
dew tap-dancing sweetness
against humbled slabs of rubble—
the way it burns like
that spliff smoked
in the backseat of a car
with no apparent destination.
You don’t need to love it—
I’m not asking for your devotion
just your pause,
your ear tilted toward the rung
of what might mean more
than either of us can say.
I’m not here to sell you
on the holiness of rhyme,
or to argue that a line can be
both prayer and weapon—
something churning in your soul
as you disappear into a crowd
too loud to notice.
I only want you to see
how language, this worn & battered thing
is the closest we’ll ever get
to a mystery worth chasing.
It won’t show up in the ding of a text,
or tucked between constant notifications
buzzing like mosquitoes
too thirsty to leave you alone.
This talk won’t beg your consent
only your presence.
It hangs in the air
like incense refusing
to dissipate from sheer obstinacy.
You’ve spent too long
bulldozing its remains,
lost in the whirl of your own doubts.
So let’s meet—
in the space where words
aren’t source guides or Google maps
but the body’s struggle to speak;
the pulse you feel in your fingertips
blushing on the page.
I don’t need you to love this,
but I can show you how a sentence
becomes a river you never meant to cross
but can’t seem to stop wading through—
how it pulls you under
and still,
somehow
manages to let you breathe.
Copyright © Darius Benhaim | Year Posted 2025
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Darius Benhaim Poem
Amassed in tiny
droplets formed
on a windowsill
like virgin tears
of perfection...
the night-bird's
rendition of summer
rain behind the backdrop
of a trumpeter's smooth
grooves melting beneath
the warmth of
the enveloping sun.
That was when she
drifted in, unassuming
under a breeze
of melodic waves
like corners turn,
sharp and definitive
as a baby clef on
the musician's highest
notes shouting
I Wanna Take You HIGHER...
perfectly stained
on a sheet
tentatively titled
the Color of Eve.
Poised upon feathers
of song subdued
in blues she consumes
the world around her,
spiraling between
mellifluous rhythms
that sway her mind
where her body
dares not go...
there, soulful nectar
drips from her
brow as the sun
momentarily rests before
draping her in
a palette of warm
sensations under dusk's
lyrical awakening.
Her eyelids close
as she arches
back to feel
the cool sound
around her, becoming
conjoined within
it's many moods
of blues and hues
a denizen of
the moment embraced...
emitting a scent
so sweet
that by dawn
she leaves behind
a confectionery trail
of perfect notes.
Copyright © Darius Benhaim | Year Posted 2024
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Darius Benhaim Poem
...after Gwendolyn Brooks & Terrance Hayes
In this dim-lit hall, gathered close, we
Chalk our cues, faces worn but real.
Eight-ball in the corner, staying cool,
Brothers in the game, that's who we
Are. Schoolyard dreams we long since left,
Traded books for pool cues after school.
In this smoky haven loitering, here we
Find our place, amongst shadows we lurk
Quiet-like. Clock ticking, hour grows late,
But time don't matter much when we
Line up shots, aiming for that strike,
Playing it cool, playing it straight.
'Round the table, huddled close, we
Share our stories, raspy voices sing
Of life's hard knocks, fleeting joy, hidden sin.
In felt-green world, for now we're free, we
Hold on tight, though hope grows thin.
Raise our glasses, cheap whiskey, no gin,
To friendship lasting. Together, we
Make our music, spinning pool hall jazz.
Summer's ending, farewell to June,
We play on still, knowing in short time, we
Might not be here, where dreams can die,
Our final game coming too soon.
Copyright © Darius Benhaim | Year Posted 2024
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Darius Benhaim Poem
Somewhere between
stretch marks on my voice
and the lurch of wanting,
I left the comb behind.
Let wind speak.
Let the cowlick rise
as shrine.
Some revolts come hushed—
no banners, no drums.
Only the refusal
to be pressed smooth.
Mine was spiral,
tender.
Unyielding.
In photographs—
always at the edge,
eyes doubting the lens,
halfway posed
between certain
and unsettled.
They named me Alfalfa—
after a rerun on Channel 12,
my crown a stubborn herald,
slanted with knowledge
I was too young to carry.
It whispered
to wind and window alike: go.
Mother’s hands smoothed it—
Blue Magic thick on her palms.
The brush grumbled in the bowl.
“What kind of boy’s hair does that?”
I didn’t answer.
What language holds defiance
that sprouts from the scalp,
a swirl refusing compliance?
No shadow held me.
Not in the barbershop glass,
nor beside the field
where fathers raised their voices
like flags of demand.
Manhood—a thing trimmed,
gripped, endured.
What I recall most:
the pause before questions,
heavy as drapery.
Hands—mine,
uncertain of posture.
Too much wave.
Too much reach.
They warned:
keep your hands plain.
Fists, if needed.
Folded, if God called.
Manhood, they said, came in parts:
a belt’s cold buckle,
a coach’s growl,
a girl’s number smudged
on math-paper margins.
I declined the offering.
Marked my own rituals—
in glances,
in beads of refusal
rolling off strings
never meant for amen.
The barbershop—
each time, a quiet chapel.
Men in capes awaiting
judgment or absolution.
But I kept the tangle.
My minor crown.
The map drawn by refusal.
Each coil: a quiet psalm.
Now—
I walk, not straighter,
just truer.
A boy turned man
by the long arc of detour—
learning joy lives
along roads that curve away
from expectation.
Copyright © Darius Benhaim | Year Posted 2026
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Darius Benhaim Poem
First off—
you are not auditioning for anything.
No judges. No golden buzzer.
Just soap scum, mildew,
and me,
feigning deafness
as your voice argues with your own credibility.
You hit notes the way most of us
hit adulthood:
off-key, but confident,
hoping no one notices the wobble.
Bravado works—
at least until the bridge,
where falsetto reveals what you’ve been avoiding:
the student loans,
the job you don’t really love but still post to LinkedIn,
the enigmatic packages marked self-care
which, if we’re honest,
are little more than elaborate procrastination.
Here’s the irony:
in the shower you are free—
yet nothing screams captivity more loudly
than a breakup ballad
sung into a loofah.
Denial will not be washed away by water.
Perhaps this is all of us:
shampoo bottles as microphones,
carrying ourselves along on the theory
that noise is progress,
that rhythm is meaning.
Our decisions stream out in choruses—
the missed lyric,
lost potential;
the key change,
a career pivot;
the pause?
You—trying not to think about dying
before the conditioner sinks in.
I’d laugh,
but I hear my own life in your medley:
a remix of delusion and resilience,
equal parts tragic flaw and comic timing.
The joke lands because it’s collective.
None of us is really singing—
we’re all humming our apologies
into tiled acoustics,
hoping someone forgives the wreckage.
Your shower aria revealed more than intended.
Not about your voice—
but about the choir we’re all in:
off-pitch,
earnest,
convinced the steam hides us,
when really,
it only fogs the glass
long enough
for us to strike a final pose,
hit a note we can’t hold,
apologizing to no one;
unless—you count
the neighbor who just knocked on the wall.
Copyright © Darius Benhaim | Year Posted 2026
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