He had wings that
gave him flight.
The sun was
beautiful and bright.
It melted into the ocean.

But there is danger in
flying too low as well,
just ask the mermaids in
the depths of hell.
The seawater screws
up the lift.

Fly to safety and
peace,
not the
fantastical or
far-fetched.
You don't need to
have it all.
Beware of

too

much



ambition.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                     Did Civilians Write Poetry Back in the Day?

A medical professional, while taking my pulse
Asked me what I was reading
                                                 Poetry, I replied
Poetry of suffering in the Second World War
Most of it by civilians who were there

She asked:

Did civilians write poetry back in th’ day?

I changed the topic to my blood pressure



Second World War Poems
Ed. Hugh Haughton
London: Faber and Faber, 2004

This anthology is brilliant, with poems by soldiers, civilians, concentration camp prisoners, and prisoners of war from many nations. Several of the poems are anonymous, written on scraps of paper found on the bodies of the murdered. There is much fashionable babble about my voice / our voices / authentic voices / my people’s voices, and so on, but here is a fine collection by people whose voices were desperate to tell the truth, not indulge in self-pity, and find beauty among the horror

There is no ceasefire, not in Gaza, not in Lebanon, not in Sudan,
but only genocide...
aggression...
war...
blood...
slaughter, and pain.
The West Bank continues to be under siege... met by tanks, death,
threats...  
Families are met with bullets to their head.
The children are met with amputated limbs.
Children are left orphan... and forgotten.
Communities are met with too many martyrs to grieve...
Where is this ceasefire now?
There is bombardment in Yemen too, directed by the West like a true imperialist.
If one dare to rise up and resist, are met with an iron fist by the international colonizer community, given consent to **** with no impunity...
Dare the amputees speak....
Dare the bullet to the head speak...
Dare the orphan speak....
Dare the resistance speak of their own pain...
There is no ceasefire, but only genocide.  
Where is this so-called ceasefire now?
Nowhere in sight....
Where is the anti-war movement?
Nowhere in sight.....
What happened to the anti-war movement?
Nowhere in sight….

Let me show you the latest trends.
White, white and white.
White is the beginning, and the end.
We’ll mix it up with ecru,
eggshell, ivory,
some cream, or light beige,
perhaps a  grey on pearl tapestry.
Color’s so last decade,
and black so last year.
White is what’s now and what’s here.
I know some good painters–
the price won’t be too dear.
Throw out your carpeting,
and your upholstery.
I’ll set you up with my people–
of course it’s not free.

Your artwork must go.
Just throw it all out
or donate to Goodwill.
And your Black Lab as well.
Get two white Toy Poodles;
everyone will know you’ve got oodles
of money. Because you’re hip to the latest trends.
And we’re sure it will impress your friends.

I wonder now
Did Job's wife speak
The Devil's words,
"Curse God and die"?

Was Job's test the culmination,
The diabolical, canny ending,
The checkmate of temptation
To end the human nation?

"Curse God and Die."
These words give thinkers chills.
The brutal question, "Why?"
Faith-stifling word that kills.

Job's friends, his wife, his circumstance,
Combined his wounds to salt;
In misery, he sought the Lord, to stand,
And prove his misery was not his fault.

Job knelt before the Lord at last,
In yielding he found life;
For him, the test was passed;
But what about Job's wife?

Your time is now over.
Your death will be slow,
and cruel.
A vulture picks
at the corpse of a fool.

When greed is worshipped,
all compassion fails.
Dogs eat dogs
and chase their own tails.

No one reads books.
No one understands law.
Might becomes right
and all succumb to their deepest flaw.

**** is entertainment,
and fantasy, addiction.
Degradation is beauty,
and cruelty, conviction.

The sun is now setting
on the city dying
Darkness begins
under a red moon rising

Watched the Lord come to the garden.
Heard the Voice call softly, “Adam.”
In anticipation, licked his lips,
Felt shivers in his snake-ish hips.

Still no movement from the bushes;
Human forms still held their breath;
Chortling serpent, breathless, waited
In the garden where came death.