I went to the love of my life's wedding today

I listened to her say the words that i would never be able to say,
he was the object of the love that i craved.
she looked at him with the same affectionate eyes that i gazed,
he was the one hearing: "for the rest of my days".


i went to the love of my life's wedding today

molly
the waitress
at Town diner

wants to be a model
or a nun,
tells me she's a poet

we're sitting on
a couch in her apartment.
molly takes a poem from
a foot high stack
on the end table,
hands me a poem,
"FIRST BRA," by Molly C.
it's about buying
her first bra at 12.
"i was big.
i needed a bra at 11,"
she smiles.

now
she doesn't wear bras.

she tells me
rod mckuen
is the most read
poet
in America.

"what about walt,
plath,
hughes?" i asked.

"no
no,"
she says,
"mckuen is the MOST
popular poet
in American history,
no,
really
the greatest American poet."

molly loves rod mckuen.

i love molly.

"if the public loves
rod mckuen,"
i tell her,
you've got a shot.
you could be the  female version
of rod mckuen."

molly smiles
takes me by the hand
and leads
me up the stairs
to the loft.

she takes the ribbon
from her hair.

i lay her down
on the bed

and bang the hell
out of
the next
most read
American poet

oh but my love is not
a red, red rose.
i chose to replace
every tear on my face
with dying embers
of every memory
you said you would remember.

i trust
that you must know
that i am not a summer's day,
i will never play
at being warm
or temperate.

you can berate
me for not knowing
whether i am to be
or not to be,
but forgive me
if i don't play by the rules
and exit
the right stage
in a wrong scene.

it just means
that your music
is not the food of my love.
i will continue to shove
your thoughts
under a carpet of denial.

do not throw away
any vial you might find
in my room,
you sealed my doom
when you stomped down
that staircase,
tripping on the last time
we went for a walk.

my face doesn't run
smooth like the course of love,
you should have known
this truth.

my eyes are not rose petals,
my heart not a white dove,
my love
when they say hell is empty,
they haven't been inside
my mind -
here
you'll find horrors
of a sweet kind.

the average cost of a funeral is
$8,515

death is unaffordable for me

put me in  big oblong cardboard box

2 feet by 3 feet by 6 feet

packing list enclosed

fragile (not really)
      please handle with care

keep upright

       or

supine

send me to the
grande vide

postage due

i Pray all terrorists go away
my granddad told me the worst cowards
preyed on the innocent and defenceless
but then GOD wants me to be brave
He wants me to love my enemies
He wants me to rebuke their behaviours
Please consider your merciless and cruel behaviours rebuked
I am trying to understand you so I can love you
trying to understand how you got there
to the despair where you just don't care?
prove me wrong
Love is the Highest intelligience
and those who have it , should lead the way.
I'm not talking about people pleasing Love
Good Old Fashioned Love
Our Divine Parents know, when to take our rattle away, when its not doing us any good.
Thankyou for all who held a candle up, when mine had gone out.

wasted words
wasted lives
stuck in time
never moving on
as it moves on

the same soundtrack
plays and replays
decades haven't changed that

alone for so many reasons
and wasted, completely wasted

if it were up to nathan wade jackson
of toronto, ontario canada,
trudeau would be god
and everyone would wear masks forever

~for r, just because~


put her in my mouth and she became my
mouth.

put myself inside her and she became my
insides out.

spill good words on her belly, licked & laced us together, then came my 
poetry.

on elbow, she claimed coauthor-ship, demanded her name above        
          mine.


I smiled, answering most matter-of-factly,
surely they’re your creations, you-a-ruler, procreator, foremost, first,

the ABCedarian

the muse goddess of alphabets, all that is poetic divine mistress to
thousands

I’m mortal,
your transcriber, copyist, alphabetically seconded, merest mere,

the ABEcedarian

I’m rudimentary without you, lost midst the masses o’poets nameless.

She snorted, said
“sounds like poetic ******* to me”*
but returned to her sleepy heaven,
mumbling most contentedly.

After many near misses
sweet thunderbolt kisses
explode upon my lips
heady molten sips
which burn me
turn me to matchwood
incendiary splinters
ashes of desire
a willing victim of flame and fire

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                             Take this Meme and Shove It

                                A Dirge in Three Chords

That which makes a lucrative country song
Ain’t nothing but blood on the porch-steps of life:
Handcuffs, weeping children, weeping exes
Beer-puke on the floor of a ’64 Ford

A daughter who found love two trailers over
Because her daddy found love in another town
And her momma’s too ****’ ****** to notice
After losing her job at the Dixie Belle

Trey-Boy calls from somewhere in the Dakotas
Needing money for a bus ticket home

And there ain’t no money
And there ain’t no home