A lessen learned to whisper softly to my soul
To calm the storms that rage and make me whole
Finding the courage to stand tall and bright
To shine my light and let my heart take flight

Discovering the power of my own gentle voice
A voice that soothes, that heals, that makes my heart rejoice
Learning to love the imperfections that make me unique
To see the beauty in my scars,
(there are many)
and the strength that they speak

There is strength in letting go
(self forgiveness)
of the shame and the pain
Rising above the doubts and the fears that once remained
To trust myself, and listen to my heart
To follow my intuition, and to never depart

It’s the love that I hold for myself, and the care that brings
That nurture my spirit, and allows my soul sing
I am enough, I am worthy, I am loved and I am bright
I am my own best friend, my own guiding light.

To write the poem,
The one that you'll be known for,
Even beyond the day you fade to Heaven.

It takes a lifetime,
So if I'm lucky,
I still have 86 years,
To make that poem happen.

I wish
to be simple
not special
the latter
would only
make me artificial -

what best fits me
is the plain and natural
nothing in excess
I need no other call

I was handed
   a glass full of life
And begged to
   to partake

To drink up
   he drunk
To swallow
   and forget
the strife

Instead of
   sweet dreams
Swilling concepts
   sprung to life

The more swill
    I swallowed
The tighter
    the grasp
I would yield

The pressure
    so great
The glass shattered
    life spilled

The blood
    gushed
But it was
    a relief

Just a pain
    I could understand
Something real
    I could handle

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

come into me, like a snowflake on the pine
and I'll infuse my sappy kisses on your eyelids, love
and you'll become an emerald song in the wind

or crash into me like an icy wave in mid-November
and run your fingers between the spaces of rock on the breakwater,
chilling the birds.

Tumble into the fabric of my arms. Embroider your love into my skin.

Find for me a decent love that stirs a distant heart,
If I dare to love you, can I still remain the man I am—
the man you truly want?

Stitch me together with the stars; I shall fall deeper
in love, ready to fulfil every wish you want.
Adrift on the ocean, we’ll let time drown, washing
away the moments we’d share in this love.

Record my emotions like a demo tape,
tracking the melodies of my heart—
my mind, is a mere spark igniting the edge of a match,
checking the box to reveal the flame that yearns for
the love I too want.

            Want, want, want love... That is all I need, to want.

a world in motion and who would,
who could guess the next rhyme
bliss, hope, and horror
tyrants falling, resisting, raising
fresh terror in sheep's clothing
these are mental wars, fake news tsunamis
feasting in our blood in our sweat in our tension
the invaders possess our minds, our souls
these are reality games, the most dangerous
who cares about facts or consensual reality
humiliation, helplessness, loneliness
manipulated in the transition between nothingness to utopia
an acid destroying the human form and social body
they can feel again after a long apathy the call to heroic action
let's not be afraid, the tyrant is inside and we kind of know it
I look at the face of nothingness, of dread
no power no reason no words
dread is alive too

It hits you when you’re not looking.
By the cantaloupes, maybe.
Or in the cereal aisle.
Life’s absurd, isn’t it?

A stranger’s kid is crying,
and the old man next to you
is staring at the ingredients on the soup can
like it holds the secrets of the universe.

You’ve been there too—
in the waiting room of life,
looking for meaning
between aisle four and five.

You buy the bread, the milk, the eggs.
None of it will last,
but you tell yourself it will.

And on the way home,
the sun will break through the clouds
just for a second—
and for once,
it’ll feel like enough.

I am the duffer,
in the realm of intellect,
endlessly burdened.
I am the duffer,
a murmur
I caught from society's lips,
softly whispering,
echoing in my ears,
I am the duffer.
In the workplace,
fulfilling my obligations,
my colleagues surrounded me,
murmuring, "The boss knows,
this man is a duffer."
I sensed, through
glances and gestures,
what they implied,
I am the duffer.
I pondered the trees,
wondering why they exist,
what purpose they serve;
they proclaimed clearly,
in the fresh air,
but I couldn't grasp it,
as I know,
I am the duffer.
The universe speaks a language,
communicating with all,
yet I remain lost,
for I don’t understand
because, I am the duffer.
The flowers sing sweetly,
the birds twirl and sway,
the monkeys play games among the trees,
but I can’t decipher it,
because,
I am the duffer.