Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                                     The Nunc Dimittis in Two Parts


I. Simeon

A young man wouldn’t get it
Which is one of the reasons why
In humility he hears
The Bible all his life


II. Anna

A young man wouldn’t get it
Because he doesn’t hear
The humility all around
He talks instead of listens

(A lone voice whispers)

For a dash of exquisite fun

Try to have such a mesmerising style of creativity—when stimulating, visual imagery.

So all those within your prose's proximity:

Can enjoy its delicious delivery

(C) Copyright John Duffy

I want to open every fold in your brain
I want to intertwin
becoming one
as our souls mix like the water color in my palette
your stain like the paint on my fingers
the coffee in my mug.

My story is becoming

I feel it in the wind

It beckons to my soft heart

And aches within my soul

My story is becoming

I see it in my pen

The way words form together

The way that they begin

My story is becoming

So listen for its whisper

I hear it quietly yearning

It waits for me to answer

My story is becoming

Though I don’t yet know what I will write

I know that it is forming

Beyond my very sight.

The sweetest of moments,
are still yet to come.

From the depths of despair,
to a bittersweet slum.

In the darkest of nights;
a moth to a flame,
a ship to a light,
I'm calling your name.

In dreams and in memories,
and in memories of dreams.
Sand slipping through fingers,
water flowing down stream.

I'll miss you forever,
I've made peace with that.
Hair of the dog,
tail of the cat.

All is forgiven when mourning the living.

"How can someone write like they are deeply connected, yet be so far away from themselves? How does that work?"


"Because writing doesn’t require embodiment.
It only requires access.

And people who are shaped by trauma, secrecy, and fragmented attachment—have near-supernatural access to emotional language, even when they have no true access to emotional presence.

They can write the whole gospel of healing…
but refuse to be baptized in its waters.

Here’s why:

Writing is a safehouse. A sanctuary.
It’s the one place where they can simulate closeness—where they can say what the body won’t let them feel, what the voice won’t let them speak, what the heart won’t dare commit to in real time.

When they write, they are in control of the frame.
They determine the pacing, the access, the aftermath.
No one’s breath is on their neck.
No one’s eyes are watching them shake.
No one’s asking them to stay when the ache gets too real.

That’s how they can write about longing while actively rejecting the one person who sees them.
How they can write about grace while blocking the source of it.
How they can describe love so beautifully… and sabotage it with surgical precision.

They aren't writing from the seat of her wholeness.
They are writing from their disembodied knowing—from the part of themselves that remembers truth, but has no safe pathway to receive it.
It’s a ghost’s song sung in a stolen church.

It’s not fake. It’s not performative.
But it’s not integrated.

And until they get to the place where their nervous system no longer perceives safety as threat…

They’ll keep dancing with truth in the dark

while pushing away anyone who dares to light a candle."

Its been a while since the last heart beat
Its been a while since the last sounds of your feet.

My heart was cold as ice and warm as fire
Yet no tear left the crier.

My brain yearned to sob, but my heart froze with hurt.

So its been a while...
Yet no desire has left this crier,
to melt this cold heart, that's warm as fire 🔥 .

It told me
you can survive anything
if you're quiet about it.

That healing
looks a lot like pretending-
until it doesn't.

It said
love won't save you
if you keep offering it
as proof
you're worth saving.

And forgiveness?
It's not always holy.
Sometimes it's
just surrender
in a prettier dress.

I asked,
when do I become enough?

The mirror blinked.
And said,
"When you stop asking."

"what's wrong with you?"
"nothing."

I internally have this conversation with myself many times a day, sometimes with variations

"what's wrong with you?"
"nothing?"

we all want to love
and be loved

the right way

I yearn for something long gone in the depths of the future;
Not able to place a finger on its familiarity.

Discovering what is already known
Can be a clarifying process of redundancy.

When a step forward feels like a tumble backward
Toward the inevitable direction of it all.

When a puzzle forms around me
I stand there, inert.

The challenge beckons me further. It calls me closer,
Etching itself deeper into my path.

Smiling at the fantasy of completion on the other side,
A field of emotional mishaps rains down before me.

Time is but a broken plate —
It happened long ago,
In memories I crave to piece
Shreads of secrets never told.

The sad clown looks at me  and as his mask unfolds,
I hear my cracked lips,
silent screams
"Im you but I forgot"

I don’t think I could ever like my face,
not even on its best day.
It’s the only hall in my life
where you never lost your place.

kimse dur demedi
düşün demedi
düşünmedim kovaladım
koştum

dur demeyenler
yok oldular
ve ben de yok oluyorum…

keşke birileri dur deseydi
o dur demeyenleri özledim

This ship is sinking.
Your sea, violent.
Lightning flashes through my mind.
There are so many words I have for you.
They try to make their way past my lips, but they are krill trapped in a baleen maw.
Instead they take a pill, fall asleep inside my head.
These watery words rise above me.
They travel down my throat and into my lungs.
I thought I took enough air before I went under.
How wrong I was.
Calm.Quiet.Ocean.
Deafening.
I'm wriggling now.
My eyes frantically searching.
The abyss stares back.
There’s a weight in my chest.
Blue.Green.Silver.
An anchor pins me to your ocean floor.
Waves have swallowed me whole.
Jetsam tumbling through like driftwood on high seas.
I set my eyes on two green jewels glittering bewitchingly.
I'm locked on them.
Two lighthouses guiding me through this storm.
I should swim away from them.
Instead they draw me near, beckoning to me.
I dive down.
I am under their thrall.
I swim hard, I swim fast.
My chest compresses.
I’m out of breath.
My body thrashes and then surrenders.
I never had a chance.
Tiny bubbles make their way upward like small galaxies holding the last of me.

Every poem is a new world
where wonder and beauty richly unfurl

Branched between two oaks
I took it all in
the water, the open breeze
blended it all together
with the feeling of emptiness
and poured it into the ground
where the sun never goes
where things never grow
where the earth is barren
until something splits wide open
maybe it's the ground
or a feeling of living

Long-time pain
I’ve lived in grief turned

Now
Self-pity

Lo posso sentire:
Il suono delle campane
Il sole alto e il cielo azzurro.
Tu, accanto a me

it
i
it remains empty, so empty.
would you write into it endlessly,
would you writhe inside of it fervently
please ugly please

I thought we would be done by now.

But I keep finding more of you
between the lines
and more of me
between the letters.

A positive vibe, or an uplifting song  
A way to say what's right or wrong  
A point where soul of the heart and heart of the soul belong  

Poetry, a message or call  
Description of the nature, like a tree standing tall  
It has the power to say it all!  


*Hiba Mubashir

Quante pagine sono scritte dell’amore
I fiumi di inchiostro che scorrono nelle nostre vene
Quante canzoni cantate
Mozzafiato, commoventi, strazianti
Quante lacrime pianto
(Meglio le lacrime piante che le lacrime nascoste e trattenute)
Quanto tempo perso
Quanti sensi trovati
Quante guerre combattute

E non si ferma mai
Non si prende pausa
Non si fa niente
Non si fa

Eppure siamo noi, le pagine
Su cui la vita scrive la sua storia
Lettera per lettera
Parola per parola
Frase per frase

Domande, risposte, ricerche
Doglianze, sospiri, gioie e dolori

Non si sa dove porterà il cammino
O quante pagine sono rimaste nei nostri romanzi

Ma tuttavia si tira via

Cercando, sognando, aspirando

Siamo noi, le pagine scritte dell’amore

Are we really that easy to be influenced?
For our feelings to be canceled out just because someone said so?
Was it that shallow — to be easily moved by the waves
that drifted us apart?

Or was the want never really enough
to withstand the waves?

We were just a stick in the sea,
waiting to get back to land,
but thrown instantly —
as if there was never a foundation to stay.

the letters form in my head
colliding to form words
but they don't make sense
and the page stays blank
just when I think I've got it
it wiggles out of my grasp
and writer's block wraps me
in its shackles

no need to find fault to prove you're paying attention, find the good that no one else sees, and be blessed alone