Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                               More Real and More Beautiful

          “This is still Narnia, and more real and more beautiful than
            the Narnia down below, just as it was more real and more
            beautiful than the Narnia outside the stable door!”

                          -Lucy in C. S. Lewis’ The Last Battle

More of the old family land is to be sold off
Forests of my childhood and happy fields
Where breezes still ripple the summer grass
Soon to be beaten and carved as lots and plots

The bales of hay, each barefoot day – all lost
And down the hill where runs a magic rill
My Sherwood Forest will be cleared of good trees
Its dreaming paths overlaid with sewers and streets

And along the fence little tufts of grass
Where all those noble dogs of long ago lie buried
My companions in all adventures
Awaiting my whistle to roam with me again

Well, I will pack them and all my childhood up -
And someday pour them from a golden Cup

Hurry up come quick and gather around, before I change my mind
To unfold the path of a tale unsung that belongs to the wizard kind.

Fetch your warmest sweaters or robes, and perhaps an extra cloak
For I heard that it is chilly inside, the enchanted timber wardrobe.

Behind the rags and hung up clothes, a luminous lamp post glows,
Turning the frosty floor beneath, into shiny velvet pillows.

One can only stare in awe, at the realm that looks serene
But not for long as soon enough, your journey will truly begin.

Be cautious and be wary of the ones you tumble upon,
Could it be a ******? or is it a fox? or a cozen witch paragon?

Pace your way through frozen rains until you reach the end,
Latch on to the red lion skin, do your damnedest to defend.

Myriad wonders of a world unknown, covered by wooden doors
Do you wish to leave or would you explore? The gamble is all yours.

The injured king comes to his feet, bewildered that he's been healed. His baby sister, one who is destined not to fight, saved his life. But not by herself, no. Behind her, with proud eyes, are not only his other siblings, but the mighty High King of all of Narnia. The lion who told the siblings they were special.

The lion, a great and honorable beast, came at the most opportune time. When the army needed his help the most, when there was almost no hope left, he came.

Around the children and the great lion, the army of Narnia breaks into cheers, happy to know that the long winter is over. The witch, who was as pale as snow itself, was no more. Her presence all but banished to a dark and forbidden place.

As soon as the battle was won, the army was made clean from their battle scars, the children were rewarded with a gift. As long as they lived; they would be the kings and queens of this wild, yet beautiful land.

With your sword raised high and body ready for battle, how could I not follow you? A spirited leader, in such a young boy. His every decision backed by the ever present lord of the realm.

But we are scared, even with such brave leaders. Against a mighty foe we will face. A powerful witch; as pale as snow and as cunning as a fox. Her mighty powers put fear in the depths of many and few have the courage to stand against her.

The brave young leader; his wild, blonde hair whipping in the wind... he is not afraid. He is willing to fight for those he loves and even fight for those he has never met. Anger, sadness, determination is set in his eyes. We will not lose, he says, for evil cannot reign forever.

With brave howls and saddened screams, we run towards our enemies, knowing full-well some of us will not make it back alive. But to know that we have fought a fair fight to protect those we love, is worth the price.

You need to change
You know it's true
But it's beyond
What you can do

But don't give up
Though you've tried and failed
Because God can take
Your dragon scales

I get so mad knowing you will never understand what I see.
You can’t see the pain,
the memories,
or the people who make up these images.

My mind works in such an otherworldly way,
I wish it wasn’t so far away.
I wish I could just share it with the world.
Even if the vulnerability hurt me, it’d be worth it to be less lonely.
All my thoughts could be appreciated,
and in their own light,
to the right people only.

I think in sentiment, so the clues of the portraits I create,
would communicate in clear secrecy, the truth they bear about me.
This unimaginable beauty,
that even I only see in glimpses,
would maybe a have a place,
could maybe be hung in a museum,
sold in an auction,
stolen for its value,
fought for to save.
It’s infinite.
the stream, the river, the trees, the forest,,,
the undetected particles in the air glowing in the ray of gold squeezed between the canopy from the sun,
the world of green and blue underneath the repetitive streaming and complicated designs that carry rainbow colored fish,
even just the emptiness of sound at the precipice before the greatest vastest canyons of our earth...
You can’t dare to frame a single one of these without spending every medium you can find.

And now I think I get it:
Art cannot contain the beauty we see and feel,
It is meant to be a crack of a window to the inside of what's real.
Art borrows a pinch of the beauty to show the others a glimpse to awe at,
And if successful, that small crack may bring one into the glory of it all someday.

the world
of course she didn't expect it to be small at all but it helps with the feeling of being able to breathe something other than London air and guilt
that's the strangest feeling in the end of all things and accompanies her like a dog during errands and hobbies and nights out curling in her lap in the dark of a too empty living room
you look so much like your mother
a generation can see a moment of a womb misplaced, a misstep in spring dances and the smell of grass and the feeling of white stone walls
dignitaries never expected a star to come from your brother's wife first
daughter of this not-eve never-eve
remember the ache in your own heart at your sister's cries
back arched like the curve of your bow
spine click and bones moving
organs
and another piece of the girl in old shoes by a lamppost spills out into their wardrobe world
you look nothing like your mother
not a queen but a body of two syllables heavy with teeth behind
red lips
she wears disappointment like lipstick and air and London fog
be magnificent
be just
be valiant
but gentle is only a slap in the face
and even God couldn't stop a war
a letter
a train

No wardrobe, no rabbit hole do I need
If it is to escape this world I look....
I just go to the library and read,
Where I can escape in a world of books.