You were making the weather, I think
when you found me alone, all tethered in sinuous seaweeds
You had brought the sky inside with you.
What else could you do?

Damascus steel, your snarl
Hard, beautiful, sharp, distinct. An art.
You let the rain have your heart, for a moment, didn't you?
What else could you do?

Your footsteps are music that I can't quite hear
But your face is a season of songs--lyrics screamed at God.
Tear me from my torpor, please, no matter the violence.
What else could you do?

Distance means more than one thing, I suppose; and separation
Of land. Of daring. Of intent and of want.

List holy places and honey their names...
Eden, Asgard, Avalon,
Camelot, Elysium (Aluminum! Linoleum!)
I'd settle for Akron if you'd meet me there,
or Butte, even.

Your eyes buzz and hum or retreat and freeze over
and I? I follow their lead when I see them.
I can do nothing other.

Whenever I wander, I think of your shape
or the shape of your thinking.
I can do nothing other.

This, then, is a prayer now.
I pray with your name, which I'm always whispering.
I can do nothing other.

My eyes, throbbing with agony,
bore through the window,  
desperately seeking the freedom of sky.  

To my surprise the crabapple tree  
possessed joyous magenta flowers,  
providing an unexpected  
jubilant assault of my mind.  

Lush leafy erratic branches,  
a turmoil of spring beauty  
stood in striking empathy of my silent cries.  

The afternoon sun pales the majesty of magenta.
As only love can pale agony.  
Memories live forever, is a haunting horrible lie.  
Unlike me, those magenta flowers don't need a why....

My love for her will never die.  
The majesty of those magenta flowers,  
if only for a moment, seizes and saves me deep inside.

Grief is a filled cloud,

vapor.
Limp.

  reaches

failed prisms.

are
easy when
night and day figures
debit
your

Balance.

my
Observation:
you

Gone.


Caroline Shank
April 15, 2025

All alone in an unhappy place
Where all the walls are mirrors
And ugliness is looking back
No matter which way I may turn.

There doesn’t seem to be a door-
Just only mirrored walls and ceiling.
The cold floor hurts my shoeless feet
As endlessly I pace in circles.

The crowd of people in the glass
Have followed me for many years
Behind the curtains - in the shade-
Never coming face to face.

But here they now encounter me
With looks of reprehension…
And all I have to offer them
Are bitter tears of sad regret
ljm

I am not The Last Spring Overture
My birth name was Spring, not Greig
And I am not the last of us
Although I soon may sadly be.
I gave my violin away
To someone who abused it
And died with it still in its case
And unavailable to me.
I loaned my autoharp to one
Who never gave it back to me.
My mandolin was somehow stolen
Off my wall during a party.
Years have brought me dolorosa
For the music I’ve not made
On instruments I never learned to play,
The voice that wouldn’t do my will.
My mind can play that Overture
And does it almost once a week
So maybe what I said was wrong
I am The Last Spring Overture
ljm

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

                               A Failure to Practice Caritas
                         for a Certain Fellow Human Being

                            "I have never wished a man dead,
           but I have read some obituaries with great pleasure."

                               -attributed to Mark Twain

When God's good time puts an end to that snake
And obsequies are read over that foul mistake
And the interment prayers are reverently spake
Oh, let us not forget the wooden stake