On a day that was
fraught
with anxiety and anger,
I sailed on
to the
other side.
The two pens that
blew up in my hand
foreshadowed the
prolific writing
streak to come.
Six poems today,
a personal best.
Bukowski would be
proud.
He might even
wonder
How I did it without
******
***** and
cigarettes.

It was easy.
I had bluebirds for
lunch, and listened
to Vivaldi.
I just let the telephone
ring
ring
ring

deserve
it more than most, more than anyone, indeed, in deed,
your passion drowns me,
overwhelms and even makes me admit
out loudly
over comes

your faceted identities,
delight, charm, provoke,
and evoke
multitudes of moods, desires,
even writings...
but you are too stern,
this thing called love,
is tissue soft, so hard to form,
so easily torn, it requires
time & hard work, many words,
though oft the fewest are supreme,
and I laugh at myself, for the only word
I think that rhymes with supreme
is
dream
which is
just another synonym
for
endless opportunities

and I, we, read each others poems
to each other
quietly,
for that is the only, & the best way.

yet another odd mysterious penmanship by a soul brother, to me,
he, will remain nameless, and me, as well, though my nomenclature,
my nome, my home, tells so much but not all...though writing and living only love poetry, is my chief preoccupation, it comes most times, too easily and too frequently, or not at all…

When one redraws daily the intersecting diagrams,  one of poetry,
one of Love, (which my tablet capitalizes without my asking,)
The overlap is either zero or one, 0 or1, of everything or nothing

this is a puzzlement to me, for I do not fall in love every day, or even twice a week (monthly under discussion), periodically inevitably, they are days of composition, imposition, self – inquisition, when everything is questioned and answers are oft, crazy long, driving everybody crazed, myself, included…

love is splendiferous, and there are believe or not, insufficient
adjectives to capture, captivate, every shade, type, unique or not,
and so the love songs, poems, keep on keepin' on, an onslaught
making  tidal tsunami tiny, all the billions of earthlings, gets one of
their very own, or sad~daily dies a little each day by the worst
of never getting a lick, a whimper, a sideways glance, a touch
even quick and subtle of that "I'm still here,'' quality...

all these musings, amusings, tragedies, as it nears 8:00 am and the early day can be crowned an-end-of summer bathing-beauty-winner,
me, in my special place, where nature reteaches me newly, what is now addressed as mindfulness where of course, is 100% wrong,
for the silence of my surroundings engulfs me, and my mind is emptied, the words spilling, nearly finishing, and the sweet hunger for
nothing more than this in perpetuity, eternally, but alas, midst this
perfected moment that is solely mine, solely minded
by me, is the lurking
incontrovertible knowing, silenced but real,
that this too shall pass
away from when I am gone,
yet, we enjoy it while we can,

can

a three letter word of great power,
my library, is  small but well tended,
mostly cats & dawgs,
mostly dawgs,
exclusively
perhaps

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches for the Colonial Office



                A Child Asked me a Reasonable Question about God



A child -



She asked of me

One day, you see

A question wise

For one her size



It wasn’t odd:

“I believe in God

But then does He

Believe in me?

the trouble with poetry
(and this poetry site) is its

facilitation

awoke in a strange bed, my own,
in a different city, with my old eyes
renewed with, by loving amazement
at the beauty of so many souls experimenting
with edged, loving, dangerous compo-notions,
that make me older than King David, who loved the
love of life and this world, for here I am, falling too
for the life & love potions
of words of my fellow humans across
vast oceans
and I stoke their and stroke their
heated words, pretending that
the cool warmth of my tablet
is both their gorgeous skin and
alluring verbal twists that arouse
my innermost, and break my already
broken heart, and heals it at the very
same time...
all too, so easily

this communication is at levels that
descend, transcend,
grips me with passion and consternation
at my own desires, my open body & mind
stirred, chilled, shaken, stirred and soothed
by the busting out contradictions of us, me,
so well hidden, so well revealed in the marvy
ability of so many to share their essences,
their own scents, just by words upon a page,
and here I pause...
to consider the duality of the word

f a c i l e
for poetry shared facilitates this burning,
  "     "              "            "             "     tumult,
and yet comes to me so facile, that I worry,
that the words themselves are facile, cheap
& easy, but then I am reassured by the very
real drops of my body's fluids upon my cheeks,
that confirm, that poetry is too so real, so living,
and I guess you know me by my real name,
my real face, and my realized words here,
and wonder if I need cease to wonder why
wonderful is...
a thing

my poetry is written by silent night, or early morn,
so very differing, and laugh out loud at myself,
for I am a differing man, at differing times,
of a potpourri of contagious contradictory
conceptions, that I traverse so easy, this facility
is my blessing, and poetry my well worn skill
at...facilitating this absurd admixture of
human~you-man~a man~amen.

and here I leave you...
for I have left
the sunroom too...

@
3:26 am
Thu Sep 4
someplace else