Through
the
looking
glass

on the sands of a shore
to
a
common park
an
African heart
views
global
art

We
fathom the winds
stave
the
tempest
that
stokes the grave

from
a lions roar
to
a humble dove
speak in tongues
none have heard
turning
sound
to
God's word

living
in straits
of
life above
Valhalla
here
the
gift of  love
.

I keep acting like I want your attention
The truth is
It’s terrifying
I’m the moth who cannot resist the flame
And however I meet it
I will not be the same
I only have myself to blame
The journey of burney
I take willingly
Knowing it probably won’t end
EVER
For me
Maybe I can make myself believe
That’s how I really want it to be

Marvelous looks the way
same route though everyday
amid leaves' rustles
and street hustles
walking jogging running
merrily with the nimble steps
skimming on winds
in an imaginary land
soft little fingers
slipping in and out
of the age worn hand.

Ten minutes to ten minutes fro
changes the landscape though
stiff barren dull sad heavy.

The trudge back
along the insipid land
with no hands to hold.

The landscape holds nothing..
it's all in the mind.

You don’t know alone like me

Seeped in thoughts and isolation
Regrets of how I couldn’t maintain a connection
I don’t know how to be
A good friend
Or lover
Or kind to anyone, especially me
I imagine a life of peace
Not rage
Or despair
Or endless longing

I crave beauty
In my cave of screaming
Sometimes I convince myself I’m okay
And happy
But when the glass walls crack
And break
And shatter
I’m cut open by my own
Shards of self loathing

Some say I’m too honest
Except with myself
I live in a delusional mindset
Where I’m happy and carefree
I’m healthy and active
Aware and enlightened

The truth of reality is
I’m bold and assuming
Enraged and pessimistic
Seeing things for what they are poisoned my psyche
I trained myself to let go
And I have
Of everything

Now I’m alone
Abandoned self worth
A sulking fate of nothing
Terrified of the end I historically accept
From the moment I was told
I’m nothing at 7 years old
I believed it
I gave in
And I’ve been fighting a losing war
Within myself ever since

I’ve been gone
From my body
And my soul
The tie was severed too young
And I don’t know how to return

No one knows alone like me

When the night's moon is a quarter
She stands in breast deep water
The skylight beams on her wish
If comes her way a catch of fish.

She's the robust woman of night
And it's no fancy's flight
She gritfully spreads her net
Even when the river is in spate.

She knows well when the tides swell
The games are not easy to catch
Where the river meanders to a curve
She waits low tide holding her nerve.

When the silvery streaks struggle for breath
She looks not real but a myth
A mud princess with a golden heart
An apparition seen but can't be touched.

On a river with eons of length
She struggles with all her strength
I won't ever get even a chance
She's too focussed to give me a glance.

Timing, instants are details, sfumata matter
softness sensed
you know

------------------
This treeform knowing, watching life's works
conform to species, fully capable of doing

just as has been done,
selectively by patient hopeful gard'ners
and talented statistic students,

and Bible reading reformed drunks,
who had a deal with the truth, a good one,
told as
truth, being considered comprehendible,
by any mind declared independent enough
to know, truth's held as knacks is held, tight,
-if self evidence is all you got, you gotta define.
right thinkin'
tight enough to feel the weight of the wand,
right, just enough to let the child feel the water,

feel it, there, that shush, little baby,
we didn't know, we didn't know life is so hard,
at the edge of the roads all paved and painted,

while I feel blind in one eye, from onions.

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                            Hurricane Track Attack Forth and Back

Spaghetti models are not really spaghetti
But only colored lines across electric maps
Squiggling in iridescence around the Gulf
Slithering atop the waves, then to your house

The weather reporters’ cliches fall from the skies
As microbursts of bottled-water-babbles
Canned goods and fresh radio batteries
Tune to this station as your roof blows away

Spaghetti models are not really spaghetti
But watch the newsie in the street – he’s getting all wet-ty!