I wish i could write a song as good as yours , I wish i could tell a tale of lovers passed. Mine is more never had one. Those Ex's weren't even real. I lost my train of thought again thinking bout you and home made apple pie and ice cream. How i wish this song would make sense because my true love was always pie , apple, peaches, pumpkin pie. I like hanging out  and remembering of what never was  just late at night and my pillow and Jesus. talking to the saints and hope they would talk back and say something , something good and maybe the sweet smell of pumpkin pie and ice cream.  Here is one then:

I remember I first met you and you had it all down. you walked passed me in a red sweater. I wonder if you still have that. Not really I have never wondered that. All the pain of a lip pierced through rushes through my veins. Your suppose to be my best friend.  We had great nights with the kids your sister let us baby sit and now there all so grown. If only we had a red truck and it was Christmas time and we were shopping for a tree in some woodsy state like Oregon ad then and that starry night it began to snow and maybe it glistened, but that never happened Instead we had a green truck and the more we got older the lesser of life we had even though we spent it together almost all the time. What I remember now is that we smoked and drank coffee liquor like nothing. Your favorite thing to act and dance, I always thought it was to much. You opened my eyes to see how important it is to let people be themselves. It was to late for that then. My heart is still wounded that i don't see you anymore but its better his way. God knows. I don't know.

Some poems seem to write
themselves;
I just move the pen.
Others are like lumps
of clay;
they refuse to be molded;
they need moisture and time.
This one is like
a robin that just learned
to use its wings.
It heads west, on a
gentle breeze, into
a tangerine sky.

August now has dipped its head,
Blazing sun's cries now ahead.

September has tore reality,
An Asura sundering dun eternity.

The tide of Season's change again;
It undulates in trepidation.

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


                                           And Your Word Is…?


                                          “The word is given!”

                  -John Derek as Joshua in The Ten Commandments


When all have gone to bed

You slip quietly into your room
And sit at a table bare of everything
Except for a solitary candle
A pen, a sheet of paper, a bottle of ink

You then write down your day, your acta diurnalis
Every action and thought, every glance and breath
Every hope, every failure, every fear
Every little victory savoured with delight

In only one word, a word, a glowing word –
What is that Word?

Memories do not vanish.
They fold inward,
like petals closing at dusk,
until what once bloomed
becomes only a seed
buried beneath the soil of time.
At first, they are sharp
a laugh that lights dark rooms,
a voice alive in your bones,
a moment so vivid it feels immortal.
But even stone weathers,
even mountains bow
to the quiet persistence of wind.
Fading begins not with forgetting,
but with distortion...
a face shifting like water,
a voice echoing from far away.
Then one day, you realize
what you’re holding
is no longer truth,
only what time has left behind.
Forgetting is slow erosion.
First the colors fade,
then the weight of the moment,
until even grief grows pale,
like smoke rising from a fire
you no longer recall.
The cruelest part isn’t losing the memory,
but losing yourself inside it.
Because memories are not just events.....
they are who you were
when they happened.
And when they fade,
so does that version of you.
Yet there is mercy in the blur.
A faded memory proves
you once touched something too vast to hold.
So when only fragments remain...
a flicker of laughter,
a shadow of a face..
hold them gently.
For even when the world forgets,
the heart remembers
in a language time cannot erase. 🫀