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How I See

This cruel world we live in, you need be wise
They speak of "beauty" but don't be surprised
To find it's all founded by the "father of lies"

They'll tell you that your skin is too white
So strap yourself down under some ultra violet light

Your hair is too oily, or snarly, or dry
So there's a dozen products you'll for sure have to buy

Your hips are too wide, you have "thunder thighs"
But with one small procedure it'll all be disguised

Your lips are too small and your chest is too flat
Yet Botox and implants will easily fix that

Now if you look too common and want to be "your own you"
Just add a few piercings and some gnarly tattoos

If after all these touch-ups you still look fat
Try a new diet, 90 days will solve that

NOW, PLEASE

Don't listen to this madness, disregard all the chatter
Take some time to think about what really matters

The solution to this vanity appears easy to me
Stop changing how you look, start changing how you see

Ben Arkell
June 2010

Through a Child's Eyes

I'm learning how to see again
When I look through my child's eyes


I hold my child close to me
He is mesmerized by the world around him

Each sight is a wonder, each movement full of awe
He is my lens, as I now see what I thought I saw

I'm learning how to see again
The grass is greener than it's ever been

A fluttering bird, the dripping rain
Sunlight upon me, will never be the same

For all's full of wonder
There is no commonplace
Every scene is a marvel
As I consider my child's face

I can see a new world
Once simple, now great joy
All when I look
Through the eyes of my boy

I'm learning how to see again
I'm soaking it all in
Nothing is taken for granted now
I see the world through him

Ben Arkell
May 26, 2010

Father's Day

To another I've entrusted the privilege of your care

Yet I still remain close beside, no matter when or where

*

To another world I've sent you as part of the gospel plan

But my work is to see you fill the measure of a man

*

I find it quite ironic you'd not think of me today

After all, don't we wish a "Happy Father's Day"

*

You mention all your daddies and buy them silly ties

But do you remember The Father, who watches from on high?

*

For I am your Creator, a King upon the throne

But always as your Father I wish to be known

*

To my precious children I make this desperate plea

Next time you think of Father's day please remember me

Receive, as if from mine own mouth

I chose for them a watchman
A seer upon the tower
Then man became infected
And pride did make him sour

I built a brilliant lighthouse
A beacon in the dark
But this has been rejected
Just as Noah and his Ark

I sent the world a Savior
My hope, My Son, The Way
But man became offended
And took his life away

I called the holy prophets
To make my will be known
And man thinks this an insult
Then casts rebellious stones

Have all been so corrupted?
Do all reject my plan?
When I offer it extended
Will any take my hand?

I will thank thee Father
For that prophet and that seer
Whose words with the angelic tone
Do make the path as clear

I will praise thy name, Oh God
And with humble heart obey
All that thy chosen vessels
To thy children do convey

Do not think it blind obedience
Do not give it ignorance’s name
For in me the fire of the covenant
Burns with unquenchable flame

I will kneel before thy altar
I will ever Thy name confess
I will drink of living waters
I will call thy servants blessed

Ben Arkell

Oct 16, 2008

Sing Along

The other day I got excited to call and talk to my Dad about the Red Sox. I then realized he wouldn’t be able to talk, even if I called--because he’s gone. He’s been gone for four years now. Every now and then I forget.

My Dad was a police officer for 32 years. His bulging forearms were the size of my thighs. His biceps were not very defined--they were just blocks of muscle. My sister and I would often try to pull him down as he would kneel on the floor but all our efforts were useless. He couldn’t be moved. He would just laugh until his face turned red. He had short, strong hands that could crack walnuts on Thanksgiving while watching football like no one else. Like most men, he didn’t wear his emotions on his sleeve. I only recall seeing him cry a few times—at his mother’s funeral, at his son’s funeral, and in church on occasion when we would sing “I Need Thee Every Hour”.

I paint this picture of my dad, with only a few strokes, because I want you to understand one characteristic of my dad. He was tough--his whole life. But the last time I saw him he looked weak. Leukemia had taken over. Hands once strong were now thin and fragile. Arms once powerful now consisted of sagging skin. This once intimidating officer of the law now could barely get out of his chair.

The last image I have of my father will forever be etched in the archives of my mind. He was sitting in his nice comfortable chair—eyes closed, arms resting on the arms of the chair, head back—and he was singing as his head rocked slowly from side to side. Not only did he sing, he felt something-- understood what the music meant--perhaps for the first time. He was humming along with Erroll Gardner, his favorite Jazz pianist. As I watched my father in confused awe, I saw tears stroll down his face. I think I realized then he was coming to terms with his imminent death. He looked pathetically scared.

I had never seen my Dad listen to music. I didn’t know he had interest in music. His life didn’t allow him the luxury of listening to music. He worked so hard, he never had the chance to sing along.

When life was fading away, he wanted to experience it. When his body was succumbing to illness, he wanted to feel. When his voice was about to become silent, he wanted to sing. There was something about that moment that was so innocent, so heartfelt. Seeing your hero become weak is a very humbling thing.

While the day is here and you have your voice—listen to your song and sing along.

Tribute to a Prophet

I dedicate this poem to President Hinckley and to Gina, my inspiration, for it was through her beautiful brown eyes that the idea for this work was conceived.

The Empty Chair

My neighbors came and broke the news

Our prophet dear had died

I felt a peace and calm within

No tears flowed from my eyes

I stood in line and braved the cold

To see the prophet sleep

"Surely this was a prophet of God"

But I had no desire to weep

The tributes and the memories

The testimonies borne

Of this great prophet did not bring

A cause for me to mourn

And on the funeral morning

My sorrow with none did I share

Not until between two counselors

I saw -- that empty chair

For it was then I realized

My leader had been lost

And never would I again see

Him rise from that chair to talk

I’ll miss you President Hinckley

We’ve lost one of our own

To many saints around the world

You’re the only prophet they’ve known

But all is well, we shall go on

With your memory and a prayer

For God will give us the best He’s got

And place him in that chair

Ben Arkell
February 2008

Rejection #1

Before success, most people have many, many failures. For that reason, I was actually kind of honored to receive this email in my inbox yesterday.

Dear Author:
Thank you very much for sending us your submission. It is a pleasure to see new material. Every piece received is individually reviewed by the editorial staff.
Unfortunately, we will not be able to publish your work. Because of limited magazine space and the increasing number of such submissions as the Church grows, the Church magazines are able to publish only a very small percentage of the many good items received. We regret that the time it takes to process hundreds of incoming submissions does not allow us to make comments about each one individually.
Please accept our thanks for the time and effort put into your work. We know that submissions like yours are goodwill offerings in support of the Church. We hope the work that has gone into this one will be a benefit to you and your family.
Sincerely,
Ensign, Editorial Staff

A six year old boy

When I think of the Prophet Joseph Smith’s life, I am overcome. There are so many instances and events that were filled of so much emotion. One such event is in D & C 122:6, where we learn of Joseph’s 6 year old boy clinging to his father before he was taken to Carthage.

“and thine elder son, although but six years of age, shall cling to thy garments, and shall say, My father, my father, why can’t you stay with us? O, my father, what are the men going to do with you?”

I have thought a lot about the little 6 year old boy and what he was thinking and feeling. This poem is written from his perspective. Please try to feel the emotion of this poem.

I’m probably just too young
That’s why I can’t understand
Why some people say that
My daddy’s a bad man.

He hugs me and he holds me
He takes Mom by the hand
It hurts inside when people say
That he’s an evil man.

My daddy is kind and loving
He gives away clothes and food for free
He’s offered strangers his own bed
And gives up time he could spend with me.

He tells me bed time stories
When we’re sick, he has power to heal
My Mommy sure does love him
He cleans and even cooks meals.

Most folks call him Brother Joseph
A modern day prophet they say
He even knows the Bible real well
Grandpa read it to him every day.

My daddy had a vision
He saw God and Jesus Christ
I thought that was a nice thing
But he’s been hated all his life.

Some men came to my home
They took my daddy away
I hugged him really tight and asked
“Daddy, why can’t you stay?”

He looked me in the eyes saying
“Son, God has a plan”
He waved goodbye and then he said
“I’m going like a lamb”.

“Mommy, where will they take him?”
“To Carthage he will go”
I hope they bring my daddy back soon
I need him; I’m only six years old.

I’m trying not to be scared
Mommy says we must be strong
I just want to tell those men
That my daddy’s done nothing wrong.

We asked God for help
I know Daddy will be okay
When he comes home he’ll be so proud
When I tell him how much I prayed.

----------------------------


It’s a few days later
I’ve done nothing but cry
I’m not sure what this means
But my daddy died.

Some bad men rode through town today
Laughing, “The prophet Joseph is dead”
I don’t know if I’ll sleep tonight
Daddy always tucked me into bed.

I saw him, asleep in a wagon he laid
It was moving slowly through the streets
I asked my Mom when he would wake
She’d just shake her head and weep.

I guess I’m too young to understand
Why some people see what they see
But all that really matters is
That daddy was loved by me.

Ben Arkell
October 2007

Joseph Smith

I have thought a lot about Joseph Smith and the impact that his entering the grove had on his life and the world. "One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind" could be applied here as well. I have this image in my mind of the boy Joseph waiting to enter the Sacred Grove, a little scared, a little timid, a little excited. He couldn't have imagined how magnificent the outcome would be as he took that first step into the grove. Hours later, as he left the grove, the course of history was changed. I hope this poem reflects to you these thoughts I have had.

"One Step in the Grove"

An innocent youth, an unlearned boy
Seeking wisdom from on high
A course of life forever changed
With one step in the Grove

A boy’s first prayer was uttered there
The seeds of faith were sown
God descended his mighty throne
With one step in the Grove

A calling issued, a mantle given
The gospel to restore
A loving Father revealed his hand
With one step in the Grove

A dispensation now rolled forth
Glorious truths to be revealed
Cumorah’s Hill would soon be known
With one step in the Grove

With wondering awe and gratitude
All thanks and praises be
To the man who communed with Jehovah
With one step in the Grove

His name be had for good and ill
Prophet Joseph the world would know
He sealed his fate to a martyr’s end
With one step in the Grove

Ben Arkell
October 2007