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When he saw his love for the first time he knew.
Instantly.
Deep in you it’s rooted. This love.
Long before meeting.
The one has already arrived in the mind
while the eyes are still blind ,
the heart still searching.
This loved one stays with you forever.
You will do anything ,
Wait till end of days
travel through time
cross timelines
just to meet, to live and love.
Forever and ever.
True love is written in the stars.
It’s meant to be like in a fairytale.
I know I’m dreaming but that’s the way it should be.
Don’t wake me up,
let me dream my dream of dreams and meet my love.
Over and over.

Love, like a  misplaced flower on a snow mountain
like a comet  traveling through time.



Shell ✨🐚
A skeleton pets a pterodactyl.
Clusters of dragonflies.
Hear the stasis calling.
Ocean waves flying.
Bones are stomping.
Clouds are falling.
Poems rot at dawn.
There are words I’ll never say.
There’s bitterness I need to slay.
Shorter is always better.
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                            Graveside Service on a Blustery Day

               “The old order changeth, yielding place to new”

                           -Tennyson, Idylls of the King

The widower assisted to his place
Mourners in unaccustomed dresses and suits
A bible, leaflets fluttering in the wind
And gangly teens unsure what they should do

February clouds roiling and boiling
Even the officiant’s words are blown away
Prayers lifted into silence by the wind
They may have fallen by the gravediggers’ tractor

Or were blown through the leaning chain-link fence
Into the deeply darkening Grendel-woods

But still – in back –
                                                 a boy and a girl shyly touch hands
It's getting on to 4, the sun has not shown itself
all day, the snow is melting, some bare spots of
grass appearing here and there, it's 34 degrees.
The little piles of bird seed I put out at noon on
the walkways have all but disappeared, gangs
of birds have mostly consumed it all, pretty little
ground feeders, of one kind or another. My inside
fat cat has had his nose pressed to the window all
day observing them with wide eyed interest and
quivering jaw, maybe licking his predatory lips.
Even though he has never eaten anything that did
not come out of a bag or can.

I too have enjoyed watching them busily hopping
around feasting, I always wonder where they go
when they disappear. Maybe just passing through
headed south for warmer pastures? Or are they year
round locals? Do they have any idea who put out
the feast, and how does the word get spread, do
they have scouts or lookouts, or some kind of aerial
bird only telegraph system.

At least the freezing weather kept our Barn Cats all
snugged up and off the street, at one point I quick
counted between 40 to 50 winged visiting diners
out there. The cats never even knew they were here.

Watching them feed was almost as much of a treat
for me as it was for them. It made me feel useful,
and that does not happen very often these days.
When we get old it is these little things that matter
and sustain us.
More snow, rain and cold forecast into next week.
I may have to brave the icy roads into town for more
seeds for my little winged friends.
Poetry Challenge 1    One sentence, 17 syllables

a. I’ll get back to you later when I think of something really special

b.  I only enter contests when I think I might have a chance to win

c.  Depression is a dark room I can not escape from though I do try


Challenge 2     10 words, time, place, emotion

a.  Calm desert morning.  Why am I crying?

b.  Night time in the desert makes me homesick

c.  Rush hour in New York - worse than Chicken Pox

d.  Wedding in a chapel - afternoon bliss

e.  Prayed for hours at his bedside, yet he died


* - first challenge entries 12/21/19
Thought it might be fun to add to an old one just for kicks
We’re just being ourselves
We’re not presenting ourselves
on a plate, commodifying ourselves.

We’re refined and pared-back—plain
but with an intriguing complexity.

We’re simple and indestructible,
our diasporic styles, assembled in a frenzy
by spontaneous instinct, need no audience.

You’ll find us in the coffee shops, the libraries
streaming and scrollin’ to unheard, noise-cancelled, beats
or in the bars kickin’—let the music play—I can’t talk much about it.

We’re not overly thought-out, sure, we ruminate, but then we’re
automatic rather than laboured, creative without overthinking.

We’re emotional and immediate, but clearly avoiding
slightly scurrilous ****** entanglements—yeah
—there are reasons. true, true, true, true true.
.
.
Songs for this:
Let the Music Play by Papik & Sarah Jane Morris
Soda Pop Confusion by Variety Lab & Kidsaredead
BLT Merriam Webster word of the day challenge 02/11/25
Ruminate = think carefully and deeply about something
They spoke my name in tongues of dawn,
before the world was cast in hues—
before the red could kiss the rose,
before the sky first bruised to blue.

I was the shimmer ‘twixt the stars,
the breath between the night and morn,
a hush of light not seen nor mourned,
a ghost where spectrums are stillborn.

The prisms wept, but left me void—
a sigh unbent by mortal sight,
a whisper lost to time’s embrace,
unwoven from the loom of light.

Yet once, I danced on dreaming lids,
in eyes that dared to look beyond,
but now—I pale, unseen, unknown,
a phantom shade, a severed bond.

So tell me, when your colors fade,
when all grows dim, and light departs,
will you recall the one who lingers—
the color buried in your heart?
A peach falls at dusk—
stars crack open in the dark,
dripping light like juice.
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