The water, calm or rowdy, comes in, slowly.
Swarming tides soon become too much,
Drowning me-
And I remain motionless,
As I fear nothing or, am paralyzed by fear,
No, the real movement comes when I am lost.
As I try to find my way time and time again.
Begging for the waters to return,
For true motion to return,
And for my tears to freely flow into the water once more.

Soothe songs clear my way.
Winds continue to whimper on,
Clouds cuddled together in the sky,
The showers start,
Water weeps,
And puddles prosper.

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

              The Power was Out, the Road was barely Passable,
                                   a Man Wore a Glock

The dawn was hot and wet and sticky and still
In quest of a coffee and a croissant
I stowed a chainsaw into the four-wheel-drive
And dawdled into town, clearing windfall from the road

The breakfast buffet at the Valero, and then out
Some men blocked the door, swapping pills and cash
I begged their pardon and walk through their deal
One wore a Glock on his hip; they all glowered at me

The dawn was hot; the paper-cup coffee was warm
I drove home and got my old generator to work

I love
that I don't hate myself,
but I hate
that I don't love myself.

I feel like I can’t truly call myself a poet
If I haven’t used the word “petrichor”
In a poem before
So here it is
My official entry
Into the poetry “industry”