Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                                  Sacrifice in a Low Place

                                           Cf. 1 Kings 3

I would go to a high place and sacrifice to God
But there is no high place; this is an alluvial plain
Dark with conifers except along the sloughs
Dark in their own ways with cypress and oak

And I am old, too old to be a prophet
And I have often asked for all the wrong things
So I will take those things into the dark
And leave them at the foot of a pagan oak

I will learn the statutes from the whisperings
I will go into the quiet, and listen for God

It is not a lake of fire,  sweet one

It is a place  that tells us
  that we are Loved


The only thing that burns
is the View,  seen from a distance..
from across the Chasm

--One that,  before its over
will no longer exist.

True story. xox

The fine end
Of a needle
That pierces through
The soft fabric
As it pulls
the cotton through
Marrying materials
Often of a different hue
Each stitch
Gently woven
The silent seams, seem soft
And delicate
Upon the shimmering silk
As patterns flow
Become complete
As the beautiful artistry
Of the artisan
Is never deplete
Like a trickling stream
Which glides
Along the pebbles
Rippling dappling beauty
As a gentle kiss
Upon marshmallow clouds
As a gentle breeze
Soft, and smooth, and delicate
Like melted cheese
Smooth as silk
And as fine
As the woven intricasies
Of freshly woven webs
Dew-bound
The tapestry
Is now complete
As the seamstress
Lays down her needle
Applying
A softening balm
To the blistered fingers
Of an artisan

by Jemia

in each shattered fragment
of time
we are forced apart

there is nothing of me
that does not cry out
for everything of you

Caged walls drip Tar.
My familiar prison cell,
Hopeless Escapism,
Futile Resistance,
Pathetic Optimism.
Fall, deep, deeper.
Into the place I called home.

I'm a casual hinderance
at times welcome
curve of my thigh:
a negotiating chip.

You're the receptacle
for my childless spiral
token I'm saving:
a bad habit.

Clearing ivy,
pulling up handfuls of
choking bindweed,
uncovering delicate
wildflowers in
neglected garden corners,
and there’s this
tiny bird
lying in the dirt.
Feathers sparkle
pretty and golden,
as fairytale light
falls through
parted vines.
Surely dead,
but then
- like Snow White
surfacing from
magic apple-induced
dormancy -
the bird moves,
woken by the kiss
of sunlight and
being witnessed,
and seems to breathe.
A gloved finger’s
exploratory, leathery ****,
a moment to realise,
then disgust,
sharp recoil.
A wing lifts;
gleaming feathers
parting reveal the
crawling mechanics inside,
the writhing, parasitic mess
behind the sick illusion,
the briefly faked miracle
of something
like life.

Away over a fence,
Union bunting
***** erratic and jarring
in a neighbour’s garden.
In a stuffy town hall,
the town band is practising
God Save The Queen, but
still can’t keep time.
Our betters wave to us from
high palace balconies
and golden coaches, and we
cheer them for it.

There’s such hunger, such
pain and desperation out there,
you can feel it, if you
forget to stop yourself.
There’s so much tragedy and injustice,
you have to go numb or go crazy.
There’s no future we can see,
and the past has been rewritten
to reflect the views
of focus groups,
fascists and fantasists.

And there’s a bird
lying in the dirt,
garlanded by fragrant petals,
feathers flashing like jewels,
so dead
it looks like
it’s breathing.