Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                                  Show Me Who You Read

Show me who you read

You love Thoreau’s hut on Walden Pond
You fly with Wendy and Peter to Neverland
You pet Mary Oliver’s marvelous dogs
And tell Yevtushenko not to be so full of himself

Show me who you read

You stand at an angle with Cavafy
You ask Frankl how he found meaning after all
You gaze into Tolkien’s palantir
And at bedtime say good night to the moon

Show me who you read

But I already know

You read by the light of a dreaming star
And everyone loves the starlight you are

Sunbeams through the window are like childhood memories—
Warm, vivid, and simply true.
And they never leave me, even when I’ve forgotten.

O' Salty tear, a mere clear drop you are
You've emerged for a million different reasons
many of which only the shedder knows
for you've emerged in all seasons.

The season of sadness or reason of joy
The tears of grief and the tears of joy
You and your unalloyed saline taste
Thou art' but an emotional waste.

O' Salty tear each time you drop into oblivion
why not vanish away with your shedder's grief?
I tell you O' tear if you take my opinion
oughtn't you grant your shedder full relief?

Ah, but thou seem a ceaseless ocean in reserve and store
No one can be sure, he'll cry no more
When you trickle down those sad upturned lips
we know destiny perhaps made those painful slips!

You are the raindrops of a grief-clouded heart
You do emerge when two lovers have to part

Help your shedder turn over a new leaf
so you're associated less with grief.

I've watched many a jilted lover
weep all alone by the seaside so sorrowfully
and watched tears glide down noses or pince-nez
as their salty tears merged with the salty sea.

O' Salty tear but it's time you learnt to wash away
all and any melancholy from your shedder's heart
and be such a buddy who never wishes to meet again
the tearful shedder from whom you depart

__

Genuine friends are much rarer than the fingers on
one hand — as only a handful can be counted upon.
They could be as numerous as the stars scattered
across a moonlit expanse, yet only a select few truly
cast their glow upon our lives.

I do nothing but sit on this old park bench
Rusty, much like me
As the prime life I had, done came and went
Like a tattered leaf on a Winters breeze

How long now I've lost count
As the world passes me by
No longer chained to the fast lane
Or the corporate ladder I once tried to climb  

Now with plenty of room for a conversation or two
Of the few who catch my eye
I invite them to sit but they're usually quick
To move along with their own busy lives

I find it odd now at the sights and sounds
I never seemed to notice before
Guess it comes with the gray AKA old age
Just ask the pigeons and squirrels

With shortened days at best about all I have left
I'm given time to think about
Old memories that keep haunting me
Like a *** looking for a handout

As I do nothing but sit on this lonely park bench
Shivering to the Winter breeze
Waiting for death to reach out his hand
And grab ahold of me, as I no longer seem to be in need

No poet is dead
If the poet is read.
Between life and death
There is a reality
Beyond reality, it seems.
Poets live on
If only in a reader's dreams.

I don't need your tears,
When I pass away,
I need your hugs and laughter,
Send me WhatsApp with love emoji,
Anecdotes of your day with friends spiced with humour.
A video call now and then.
That's what rocks my heart,
Gives it a steady rythmn,
A poultice for my soul.
6/12/2024