The cherry trees dance while blossoms fall,
as if heavenly angels have come to call-
And willing winds fly through dogwood trees,
their leaves dotting landscapes from the breeze.

Occurring in a dream-filled land,
of poets and prophets in glory's stand-
And gardens overflow with daffodils,
waving yellow flags from giant hills.

The fanciful birds fly off to greet,
in sunburst's skies of colorful treat-
And rainbows carve their way to gold,
a cherished reward for both young and old.

Delicate as these blossoms may be,
their worth is greater than that of the sea-
While continuing to shed fragrant melodies,
and revive the Springtime's reverie.

I am the girl in the spotlight—
but only I know it shines.
No one else sees the light,
not yet.

I am the girl who smiles when they smile,
while hollow echoes live inside me.
When I see my desires
in someone else’s hands,
I whisper, “It’s okay.
Maybe later. Maybe mine will be greater.”
So I wait,
patient, faithful, hopeful,
watching others live
the life I bled for,
while I stand—
empty-handed.

I am the girl who grew up too soon,
never a child,
always an old soul,
forced into adulthood before I could play.
Now I age,
yet the child inside me
still weeps for the childhood
she begged for,
but never knew.

I am the girl who is left alone,
the glue that holds everyone together—
until I am the one left broken apart.
Love cost me love.
I long for it,
having never tasted it.
I know pain,
I know depth,
but only from afar.

I am the girl with a smile stitched on,
everyone’s comfort,
everyone’s healer.
But my own birthday?
Forgotten.
No candle lit,
no song sung.
I sit in silence,
watching others glow
in celebrations I was never given.

I am the girl who questions:
why do my dreams die in my hands,
only to bloom in the palms of those
who never even dreamed them?

I am the girl—hurt, broken,
yet unshaken.
Always the hand that reaches out,
always the hand left hanging.

I forgive,
because I don’t want to wait for heaven.
But forgiveness
has carved me a private hell.

Don’t mistake me
for the soft, ever-giving girl.
I am sharp.
I am “batameez.”
I am simple,
yet too complex to hold.
I am soft,
yet hard as stone.
I am broken,
I am numb.

I am perceived happy—
but I don’t even feel it.

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

                      Beowulf Presents Himself for a Job Interview


Their leader answered him, Beowulf unlocking
Words from deep in his breast:
                                        We are Geats.
Men who follow Higlac. My Father
Was a famous soldier, known far and wide…

                               -Beowulf, Burton Raffel translation

Nahhhhhhhhh. Scratch that. Manly language is, like, y’know, old school. Let’s

make it

come alive

for 2025:

Don’t you people know who I AM?! I am a highly motivated people person who enjoys challenging tired old conventions and sourcing creatively from a renewable multiplicity of supply chain resources and a multi-cultural, multi-lingual workforce nourished in a milieu of something or other no one is above the law jaw-dropping when I ax a former employee it’s with a real ax I like scented candles, long walks on the beach, meeting new people and killing them B.O.G.O iconic I’m beyond a people person tell me you’re a Democrat Republican Liberal without telling me you’re a Democrat Republican Liberal ***! transparency so like here are my pronouns Me. My. Mine. Warrior ethos only louder ‘cause I never even made the first day of recruit training Make Geatland Great Again Geatland for the Geats Geatland First no one understands my special needs Grendel and I have a complicated relationship which you wouldn’t understand Hrothgar Is Always Right until I disappear him and take over the chairmanship of Denmark how’d you like to have a funny name like Higlac and I’m proud to be a Geatlander my armor is by Hugo Boss my sandals by Ferragamo Learn. To. Code. cue an allusion to some metaphorical playbook in 3, 2, 1 my Big Beautiful branded Napa Valley wine from my podcast, Love ‘N’ Smackdowns from your Big Beautiful Beowulf shocking jaw-dropping mike drop of biblical proportions detail-oriented, self-motivated results-driven references available upon request team player fast-learning goal-oriented think outside the box track record go-to person win-win dynamic synergy going forward from this point in time servant leader proactive strategic thinker my secret for thinning hair dropped today weaponize crypto authentic empowered seeking closure chatgpt paved the way with the key that unlocks the future glass ceiling lawfair A.I.  like my body art?

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Red rose buds
In a garden of tuberoses
Difference of opinions

Red rose buds
In a vase full of tuberoses
Freshers party

Red rose buds
In a garland of tuberoses
Gleam

Rose buds
In a garland of tuberoses
Overwhelmed

A room full of tuberoses
Two rose buds, budding  
Still

Red rose buds  and tuberoses
In a perfumery
Blend

scavenger bride,
she counted periods
before the children came along,
but never suspected
eyes like bottles
beginning to blue,
a tangle of scars
hermetically sealed,
the new order of
a broken romance,
dead love cassettes
in the glove compartment,

her cold and empty
constellations,
like cold breath
passing through a beam of sunlight,
grid of points, pendulums,
the ratio of freckles to stars,
no subtle countenance,
martinis and bikinis,
soft ******* and ice cream,
slight, elusive things, on a beach
with no more meaning,

the repeating pattern of
her mistakes and reliefs,
a preservation of decay,
sustained by the tiny
human fault line
in that oneiric hinterland,
between dreaming and waking,

she draws around the noise
and the clearings,
she creates within that sightline
the way her sadness can feel
comfortable,
an extension of loss that turns
her ruins into a home.

early after-noon, she quizzes,
“would I be ok with
skinless boneless roasted
chicken breast, with sautéed
mushrooms for our dinner,
ce soir?”

so smile I,
for it is a favored menu
of pleasure,
from one who has never
presented us a meal
that is less than perfect

later, she shyly inquires,
“would be ok if we to eat
a little early, I have a salon,
followed by an
Argentine Tango dance milonga
tonight and one starts early (and
tango parties
end typically
the next  day?
(no|si, me, don’t dance)

of course, respondez in
the affirmative, thus
confirming our love with the
consideration that veins
out affection mutual

and then I add:

“instead of an hours food prep,
which distracts you from the hour
deeded for dressing
for dancing  motivation proper,
and add a little kick-her:

I love you so much,
would happily consume
your tuna fish salad sandwich,
every night, for the rest of our
lives together, it’s fast
and simple, a dis-less-stressing
concoction, that we both enjoy

she (s)miles a sweetened thanks,
after numerous reassurances,
that our love only grows
stronger with acts of smart
sensitivity to each others needs,
no standard of care breached,
au contraire, meant sincerely,
earning me a secondary
whiling smiling

and this true story is a poem,
has been writ a thousand times,
in a million different tiny gestures,
of which, I am proud

she exhales a breath elongated,
a release of an admixture of differing
pleasures released, and goes into the
night to dance in the arms of strangers,
which concerns me
not at all,
after all,
these  many years,
aware she moves exquisitely
in a dance that demands years
of practice, for it requires
intangible silent of the merest
slight finger  pressures to guide
the dancer what next steps
are coy coming,
and I have stolen this
knot of knowledge,
for mine own purposes,
secretly & selfishly,
employing these techniques,
for most of the time we’ve
been together

this poem of
tuna fish sandwiches,
becomes a dance of words
which is
my specialty, which she will
read in the morning l, maybe,
if I send it to her,
though obviously,
that is unnecessary 😉
as she returns to our bed,
me asleeping, she,
exhaustingly satisfied,
sleeeps deeper
secured by the knowing
that we, are both,
the beneficiaries of:
my learned dancing
practices
for such is

*the ways of the poet!