I met a lady in a pub
And we got on well
The chat was easy
And flowed both ways
I could feel a connection
And I think she did too
The time ran quickly
The last bell rung
Our eyes met
And the lady said
I've enjoyed speaking
To you
I've haven't laughed
Like that in ages
I feel you felt it too
She said
I'd invite you home
But I'm on my menstral cycle
I'm replied smoothly
That's ok queen
I'll follow you home
On my Honda.

Winter
is a monochrome beast,
with freezing paws, an icy purr
and bits of autumn stuck in his fur

I sit in the day room of
cell block one in the county jail at
4: 30 am.  It's quiet, almost serene.
All the other inmates are asleep.
I wait for breakfast: two hard-boiled eggs,
a doughnut, juice, and milk.  
Once a week we can order books.
They will deliver them today.
I'll get Bukowski, Steinbeck, and Cervantes.
The remaining six days will
fly by.
When I'm released, I'll go under
the bridge—steal wine and
stay drunk.
I'll eat every three or four days.
It's January with record-setting
frigid temperatures.
Survival will be a challenge.
There will be an ex-girlfriend to
contend with.
I'll try to get what little
clothes that I left at her place,
that is if she didn't throw them away;
she's somewhat of a **** like that.
My two best friends who stayed under
the bridge with me, died a day
apart two months ago,
so, nothing but
ghosts and memories there now.
I'm going to miss jail.

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com


                              Camp Pendleton in Springtime

                            Field Medical Service School, 1968


There was no warmth in our sleeping bags
Spring rain sluiced down the dark and through our tents
Decaying tents from the Second World War
The Corps would spend no money on tents or us

But we were young, and playing at war was fun
We kept our rifles dry but nothing else
And yarned throughout the cold and soggy nights
Long days and nights mud-fighting the VC

Sometimes an hour or two of soggy sleep
But in my pocket, warm words from my favorite poet