Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
i read the poems
(perhaps not poems)
maybe, perhaps?

they are crying their hearts out
reaching

for that feeling
innate
and pristine

a howl for love

sadness

faith and joy

those tortured *******
their words trumpet,

"I am here!"

all too human
and i will not read you
anymore
this nascent melody
of us tortured souls.
Snowy
morning.
Coffee
in hand.
Here I
sit.
Contemplation.
Marveling
at the
nature
of things.
Asking why?
Wondering.
Eternal
questions.
Why anything?
Eternal
endless
questions.
No answers
in sight.
None.
Wondering.
Contemplating
nonetheless.
Realizing,
the­ Sapiens
mind
can only
know
so much.
Finite
capacity.
Grand
knowledge
vaporous,
beyond its
scope.
Meaning,
understanding
designated
to poetry.
Insufficient
though it
may be.
I thought Snake Oil Salesmen were a relic
of the past, standing up on a stage dispensing
blatant lies and bogus even dangerous cures
for our exaggerated imagined illness and or
personal fears.

I thought we ran all of them out of town,
suitably tarred and feathered, riding on
a splintered hitching post rail.

"Hurry, hurry, hurry. Step right up folks!
In this little bottle, I hold in my hand, is a
magic elixir of my own imagination and
invention, that is absolutely-unconditionally
guaranteed to heel what ails you and Make
America Great Again, all I ask for this be all,
cure all, is one small vote cast for me, crowning
me King of all there is, and your money to get
me there."

For the weak of mind and of poor judgement
his bombastic lies and falsehoods are irresistible
even dangerous, yet still they reach deep into
their pockets to buy what he is selling.

Now where did we put that rail?
Decency and intelligence should
rule the day, not stupidity and
meanness of heart. Run that orange
charlatan out of town, or better yet
lock him up and throw away the key.
A repost of a few short years ago and
another election that somehow, he won,
please let us NOT make that mistake again!
The gulls sweep in, squawking
sky spiraling upon clear sun bright
morning air, perhaps disputing
my unintended trespass into
their natural domain.

The comical Puffins have returned,
doing their Charlie Chaplin waddle
across the surf rippled sand, eating
whatever comes to beak or hand.

The ocean's salty wet scents embrace
me like an old friend. Flipping off
my croc clogs I roll up my pant legs,
to feel the comforting sand and shallow
surf between my toes, to be one with
this wonderful day and our mother the
sea. Reverting to being a child again
for an hour or two, mostly alone on
this beach, say for the birds, waves
and sun upon my face.
First prespring day back at the coast.
There is magic on this beach impossible
to ignore. It always seems to recharge
my inner battery. The Oregon shore at
her beguiling best. When the sun is out
that is.
I'm not willing to chance it,
casting judgements through my eyes.
I hold my observations
so as to keep my heart alive.
Sure,
I've been through hell and back,
as much as I could take.
Still I refuse to let hell take from me
the reason I escaped.

I won't condemn the blind,
nor the folly's of the meek.
Besides..
Casting judgement is an indication
that karma will repeat.
Traveler Tim
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                               Whistling Past the Graveyard

No one whistles past a graveyard now
Not with the radio on and the windows up
Though in our barefoot childhood long ago
Walking home alone at dusk – we whistled

But there is no need to whistle now
The cemetery is not a place of spooks and haints
But of those childhood friends with whom we walked
Past our ancestors to the swimming hole

No one whistles past a graveyard now
Because those whom we love are silent there
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                            Make America Pray Again OTTO

We see the bills of their uniform caps
“OTTO” is the legend beneath the peak
Which reads “Make America Pray Again”
The operative word is “Make” – we must be forced

Then who is OTTO, and whence his authoritative voice?
Is he a god come among us with a rod
To beat us down until we bleed and bleat
A great American Ave or Shema?

A cultic cap is neither theology nor art
And I will never invite OTTO into my heart
Patriotism made in Shanghai.
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                               Old Hippies can be Dangerous

                            (I groove to Rod McKuen myself)

Old hippies can be dangerous, he sez
They’re ready to strike a light, a fire, a pose
If you swing to the right of Joan Baez
Or anywhere left of the Country Joes

They weep nostalgic tears about mary jane
And rattle on about tokes and scores and hits
Waving their walkers to Jefferson Airplane
While shuffling slowly in their tie-dyed outfits

Old hippies can be dangerous – with every breath
They’ll bore you first to tears, and then to death
~
So where did you go?
Where in daydream tarnation are we?
     If only you could see my exodus
     and relent

Where are you now?
Matters of blood and connection
forming at the mouth
we are the fabrication
      --an image apart from ourselves

To break is something sacred
in the Morse code of brake lights
     through time stained windows
     through a thousand contractions
the dead are getting younger

If only you could see me
walk into the blackness
not to build a fire
       but melt, wander, disappear
       and relent
       relent
       relent

~
I babysit the daughter (Ivy) of a doctor at the hospital where I volunteer (to accumulate ‘clinical hours’ for my med-school applications). According to my mom, the purpose of my current existence is to get into med school.

That may sound crazy or theater-mom-ish but she has strong arguments - like Aristotle (all things strive toward full potential), stoicism (there’s a role for all living things) and vitalism (there’s a purpose, in life, beyond survival) - so, who am I to argue?

Straight brag, I’m a certified, Girl Scout Safe-Sitter®. Little Ivy and I will be eye to eye (metaphorically) for three hours today - no phones, TV or Internet - just paints, swings, barbies, a Montessori math game and a new toy called “MyFirst camera” which lets her take pix, and then print them, low-res and smeary, on ultra-thin paper.

I met Ivy when she was 4, now she’s on the edge of 6. She’s got large chestnut brown eyes that match her hair - which is cut in a shoulder length angled-bob. She’s about 3½-feet of cuteness, in her pink ballet-flat shoes. I’d describe her clothes, but she changes about every hour. “What are you wearing now?” I find myself asking the princess or jedi. “Can I help you officer?” I ask the business-like cop in a ballet tutu.
We’re old hats at this babysitting gig.

When Ivy picked up her camera, I asked, “Can I take your picture?” reaching out to take the thing.
“In a minute,” she said, lining me up in the viewfinder. “No,” she said, suddenly turning into a photographer highly critical of my look, “(pose) Like a model,” she directed, before striking, for a brief moment, a perfect, indifferent, hands-on hips pose herself. Kids pick up on everything. I took her direction and struck a pose.

Later, as we painted dragons that looked like flowers, she asked, “Why’s the sky blue?”
When Ivy asks questions, it’s like she’s getting a second opinion or testing to see what I know.
“Blue?” I asked, acting like I was confused. “The sky is GREEN.”
“NNOOO,” she said.
“You’re colorblind!” I exclaimed in alarm, “Does your mom know?!
“The sky is BLUE,” she said, with the seriousness of certainty.
“We’ll see,” I said, like a doubting thomas.
I held up five fingers, “How many colors am I holding up?”  
She looked at me, side-eyed for less than a beat, then said “No.”
We had hours of fun.

Later, when her mom came home, she asked “How’s it going guys?” As she set down her purse and keys.
Ivy looked up from her work, gluing a collage of the day's photos to poster board and said, “Ok.”
“We had fun,” I reported, “I’ve been teaching her some comedy things.”
“Like what?” her mom asked, nonplussed.
Ivy eyed me suspiciously.
“Like when she falls, she should wait for the laugh. She can’t just - hop right up.”
straight brag = shameless self-promotion
Next page