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She understood.
She was actually happy.
It finally didn't
Have to be a secret
Anymore
Because she
Understood.
Because she was happy
It could finally
Be said out loud
Be shared and
Be understood.
Too bad it was
Just a dream.
"what's the longest you stayed up?" jack asks.

"oooh, 5 days, a week. who knows?"

they take the shots, touch glasses,
throw down the bourbon.

"I wonder if animals have dreams?" jack says,
I wonder if dogs dream?"

"sure they do, dogs, cats, squirrels, birds," bob is nodding
his head up and down." it's all biochemical.

"not insects."

"why not? fleas, June bugs, moths. it's all biochemical, mix in electrical impulses, you got love and dreams. jack,

tell your dreams to me."
I must shut you off for now.
It’s summer time
and the river is calling loud!
The canopy and undergrowth
are a diversity of unending floral.
Not many people roam these woods
just me and the squirrels!
I waste no time pulling weeds,
my garden has grown massively!
Life so alive day and night
Been bit and stung
by every bug in flight,
still it feels so right
cool river water
hot summer day
may the water flow your way!

Get out there before it snows..
Traveler Tim
Those who know, oh so often don’t know what to say.
They might call you a hero, or tell you that you’re brave,
And that all love is unconditional.

We all have our values, see virtues, and work through vices.
We cement our beliefs through interactions on devices.
And start to think that some love is unconditional.

We’re remolded, reshaped, be it through purpose or providence.
We become robust, resolute. At times straightened, at others bent,
Believing what we do is traditional.

Respect for one’s self is essential to grow.
We must challenge the things we believe that we know.
And no love is ever unconditional.

And if we love ourselves than none ought to be.
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

           Beached Beauties, Summer Tomatoes, and Midday Cicadas


                                   Where are the songs of Spring?

                                                        ­-Keats


The tomatoes are split and discolored in the heat
Like bathing beauties who have beached too long
And, gathering up the past, totter home at dusk
Surprised to be all burnt and wrinkled with age

The sun of April who was a ***** lover
Caressing and warming their soft young skin
Is now a middle-aged man baring his chest
And seeking love in other vegetable beds

The cicadas of noon mourn in the withering heat
In remembrance of spring, youthful and sweet
if I talk
it’s like I'm falling in the answer
everything I say is a quiet question to myself
sweaty hands
messy hair
baggy clothes
harmed lips
and
eyes looking down

yet I do poetry
but nothing helps my clarity
It does help,
but who on earth wants an answer
in rhymes and metaphors?

Tell me.
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