The sun it rises with our eyes
as purest love within us grows,
it put down roots within our souls
before our fates were ever sown.

It sits within us old as time,
yet feels as new as winter snow
and wiser Saints than you or I
would burn to never let it go.

So with this dawn we'll make a pact
no blood will spill, no daggers drawn,
and you, my love will own a heart
that sings for you with every morn.

I'm disappearing.
Bit by tiny bit.
I'm becoming a mosaic
Of technological parts.
I'm not bionic,
I've a real heart;
But aids help me hear;
Implants help me chew;
Stainless steel lets me kneel,
I wear specs to see you.

Nothing man-made can last;
Not like mountains and forests
That don't need my resources.
You may say these things aren't living, as such...
But you'd be wrong.
You may argue I am not living as such...
You'd be wrong again.
I need batteries and oil,
Scripts or x-rays to prove it,
But the proof is there.
I'm shedding skin, losing hair,
Have diminished hearing and sight;
My legs are sore and tired and my back...
Oh my back...
Yes, I am disappearing
And will be remembered for a generation;
As my grandfather was with me.
When my brain disappears,
So will he.

Distant trains still sound alarms,
Blinds are drawn, people yawn,
It's time to call the day.

The sun's turned off,
The moon's turned on,
The stars like pinholes
Blink till dawn.
The animals are bedded
On the farm;
Beneath this counterpane we're warm.

Today our work is done;
Tomorrow worries not begun.
But tonight I'll sleep
Like the seventh son.

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                                      While Clenching Their Fisties

Old men do not now argue politics
At the coffee table in the grocery store
Old men, like some university students
Simply say what they are ordered to say

By voices bellowing from Orwellian telescreens

While clenching their Trumpy-grumpy fisties

In "these days" I consider
it luck, if the the movie
I stream doesn't use F-word.

In the "good old days"
I'd get a back hand hit,
if I ever said S-word.

My grandma, would give a,
Biblical slam, if I muttered,
D-word.

Someone's fetching a switch.
if I called, my sister a B-word

Yet in the "old days" I
do recall my black
friend, braying like a
donkey, calling me H-word,
and we would snicker, when
I called him N-word.