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


                                 “This Is Not Who We Are”


                             -The Honorable Mike Johnson
                  56th Speaker of the House of Representatives
                                     10 September 2025


                     Well, yes, Congressman, I’m afraid it is

I found myself in love with a free spirit,
with the cold wind she blows.
Her eyes are like fire; her blood lava flow.
I am an echo of art,
dreaming of love that doesn’t belong to me.

My poetry sings the song of old,
from my past lives to ancient trees that grow.
My love is the expanding universe;
it is the warmth of the sun and rivers that flow.

I cannot tame what should not be tamed...
I can only hope that she remembers my name,
because hers is carved in flesh and in blood,
in the spaces between my rhymes, in the nature of my soul.

It might not be too late
to start a life I might
be proud of,
but the roots
are staying here
for now.

The soil has hardened.
In the forest of Mexican
sycamores and white oaks,
I find myself growing moldy.

The crows already know my name.
A ****** nests in my branches.
Their black wings
A choir of omens.

Broken and rebuilt,
I shade the weight
of every life
I’ve already lived.

Oh had I written out our memories;
but I avoided the ink.
Now my mind has twisted, disfigured your voice;
I cannot tell real from fake.