shades defining.
now I have to say that I usually like
the colour as items, yet maybe not
as entity.
I face the slate
grey
and bleed red

I stepped foot into a forest,
And all the trees looked at me.
I tried to run away from it,
But there was nowhere to be.

And the ground below me faded.
And stared did the trees.
And I slowly became engulfed,
Their stare pierced straight through me

The ground was redly painted,
Stil staring was the trees.
Their leaves were deeply stained,
By the blood of what was me.

For a tragedy happened,
A ****** of my own self.
Of which I am the culprit,
And the victim as well.

machines up till now never complained
Ah but soon if complaints are not met with satisfaction
- the machine may well take things and change them to suit their thinking.....  and pfff nothing will ever be the same again.

If I were a bird
You would be my nest.

You are the bed
When I need rest.

My ears had heard
But now my eyes see.

I come to know the depth
Of what you mean to me,

Life and love, and breath.

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com


                            The Last American Westclox Baby Ben

                                                         (Maybe)


It ticked into my heart at the Goodwill store
Two dollars’ worth of Americana
A charmer in a battered metal shell
Hiding behind a tired plastic face

The tick, the tock, the talk of Peru, Illinois
The clock that woke America each dawn
For work and study, and to meet the Chicago train
For a century until time ran out

It clicks and clanks and ticks and tocks and talks

All-day dutiful hands, a jangling bell -
How long will this old clock last?

Only time will tell

monsters unleashed I fear
light might freeze on our faces
and what a rush to be generous
an eden of objects, a living emptiness
all in the name of christmas
merciless the geopolitics of hatred
this is not a poem but sheer rage
when streets explode under our feet
exhausted by words turned into death sentences