Brooding, intense, with furrowed brow
Jeremy surveys his audience
Forty years on, still belting out the songs
That made him famous
With a touch of resignation he goes on
The first is up-tempo
He’s there to do a job
Conjuring memories
He gives them what they want
Throws in some new ones
To keep himself interested
There’s always an encore
Then he’s off

It’s his annual tour
Work he must
Given the royalties that diminish
Thank God he’s still got the stuff
That voice so powerful, so recognizable
The fans are stalwart
They keep him alive
He sings for their pleasure
He’s a pro who does strive
To give them a thrill
He’s still got the drive

It’s his life
His mission
His raison d’etre
An artist he is
Doing his best

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

          The Self-Anointed King of America, Greenland, Panama,
          Gaza, Canada, Ukraine, and the Gulf of America Turns His
          Sallow Face to Rome


                     “Lest our old robes sit easier than our new!”

                                          -Macbeth II.iv.37


All of us must pass, but here’s the thing -
Who next will teach from St. Peter’s throne?
I am very much afraid that our warrior-king
Will anoint himself the Bishop of Rome

Life is just this:
in favour
or not in favour-
which does more matter?

Inspiration
is fleet and fast
Look away for a second
and it has passed .

I care not
for the knots
the fingers
crave to touch

Like splinters
beneath the nails
are the grains of
my contemplation

Snowflakes
that flutter down
melt so fast
in the fires
of destination

The cradle is
the ladle of life
dishing out
the grueling days

We stack up
board feet
by the yards
to build a house of
cards

And when
the snow has melt
the springboard floods
wash it all away

but my doubt gives me courage--
I venture to do better

There's always beauty
but we turn away
we don't care to see
and inherit a dull and dismal day-

so ugly is the word 'busy'
it keeps wonders at bay:
life is lived in dreadful monotony
and all is but debris and decay

I hate pills and potions, they cloud my view,
In my quest for peace, they sometimes ensue.
The labels and bottles, a daily reminder,
Of battles within, growing even kinder.

I despise the reliance, the chemical bind,
Searching for solace that’s gentle and kind.
In nature and whispers, I seek my reprieve,
Finding my balance in the breaths that I breathe.

The pills and potions, they may have a place,
But I yearn for more than their cold, sterile embrace.
In mindfulness, movement, and moments of grace,
I find a serenity that no pill can replace.

I hate pills and potions, but still, I endure,
Seeking my healing in ways that feel pure.
For in this journey, both long and profound,
I uncover the peace that’s internally found.