I dreamt of our house, which doesn't exist...
I'll light a candle in it and greet the dawn.
I'll feel sad by candlelight. I'll be missed.
I want you'll be near me in our house for long!

I'll walk into the garden, which doesn't exist...
I'll pick white camomiles and make a bunch.
I'll put it on the table. It'll be my feast.
Just fly into my dream! I please you much!

We'll stroll in a forest, which doesn't exist...
I'll mass there an armfull of autumn leaves.
I'll throw them into the sky. They'll be a mist.
And they'll be falling slowly under the breeze.

I dreamt of our house.  And maybe is it?
It's somewhere over the hill, green all.
The garden is so very overgrown. I'll revive it.
I'll light the candle for you to come for all.

It's a different
day and age now.
I used to write my
poetry on scraps of
paper or napkins,
paper sacks, whatever
was handy.
One time, I wrote
a poem
on a paper plate--around in
a circle.
I get dizzy thinking about it.
They always got lost, or beer
spilled on them.
My girlfriend blew her
nose on a sonnet.

Now, I keep all my
poetry and short stories on
the computer.
A file for this.
A folder for that.
I have to use a password, and
PIN.
It has to be something important to
me or I will forget it.
Lower case.
Upper case.
Symbols.
Numbers.
It's enough to drive me
batty.
Actually, it's a short putt.
Summer is coming soon, so I
thought some golf humor would
be appropriate.

The things that used to be
important to me aren't anymore.
*****.
Drugs.
Having a woman around
constantly.
I like to think I've gained some
wisdom with age.

Passwords, ugh!
I can't tell you what's important
to me now.
You might hack into my
computer and steal all my
pretty posey.

Stop waiting on the stars
To open your dreams
Let light be
The source of
All your themes
Hide not behind
The moon
Letting lies
Be your doom
Open the letter
Life is just a
Postcard away
No postage due
Sunshine's still free

In memoriam
is not for me:
well I've lived
and now I'm free

from life's every pang
angst and misery
the shadows have fled
all that's before me is joy and beauty

They (and you know who I mean)
Claim (vociferously and accusatorily)
That
They (who lay their hands on and call on the Holy Spirit)
Are
Christians (funny to see that word in their lexicon).
They really do think that.
Is Christ that confusing,
Or
Is it Just Them?

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

                                               I Miss Kosher Sam’s

Wish I could remember what street it was on
It’s been so long ago, when Kosher Sam’s
Was my coffee shop, and I was young
One day I also ordered a slice of cake

The cheerful waitress asked me how it tasted
I suggested that maybe it was a little bit dry
She grabbed it up and rushed it to the kitchen
She and another waitress and The Sam Himself

They took clean forks and tasted and talked about it
They took more forks and tasted and talked again
And appeared to come to a mishpat at last
Sam brought to me what was left of the cake

“There’s nothing wrong with this,” he firmly ruled
I took and ate (tho’ it really was a little dry)
On an evil day I left San Diego
I wish I’d stopped to say goodbye to Kosher Sam’s