NIGRA SUM SED FORMOSA

The queen of the South will rise up in the judgment with this generation and condemn it,
for she came from the ends of the earth to hear the wisdom of Solomon;
and indeed a greater than Solomon is here.
                                             Matthew 12:42

She materializes
from ancient Marib and the Horn of Africa
to fulfill final prophecy:

Upping the ante of Solomon’s triple six
Erythrean Makkeda/Balkis appears, manifests, descends
sweeps in amidst clouds of frankincense:
immaculate golden sandstorm
crossing over our threshold
having passed through Arabia
in her palanquin;
with retinue of camels and courtiers
spices and incense
invading, bursting into the Baroque,

King George II freaks out:
how to handle her—
arriving unannounced
in England in 1749 . . .
But Sheba is beatific
under a towering white wig,
enveloped in silk brocade;
Lutheran angels uphold her trailing gown…

Handel, inspired, knows what to do.

Saba: We come to the seventh day
we enter her rest—
a greater than Solomon has arrived.

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

     Strange Lights, Strange Sounds, and Would You Like a Coffee?

In hospital one encounters strange lights
Strange sounds, visions – What is this all about?
Radioisotopes floating around in one’s veins
Dizzies, buzzies, shortness of breath, coughs, sighs

Reality tilts on an axis that isn’t there
Illuminations flash by at unwarped speed
Grey slabs curiously marked maneuver awfully close
Why does machinery slide overhead?

And a kindly voice says, “It’s okay. You’re doing fine”
And then those most welcome words: “Would you like a coffee?”

There's an old gray
cat that wanders the
neighborhood.
Neutered and wild
green eyes.
He's confident, and
thick,
doesn't trust humans
but loves tuna.
I don't blame him.
I have three female
cats that watch him through
the window, wagging their
slim tails.
He couldn't care less.

I call him Bubba.
His head is the size of
a grapefruit.
Half of one ear is gone.
I put food out for him.
He waits until I go inside
to eat it.
He's tough.
Lived a rough life.
I can tell, I've been down
some of the same
back roads as him,
slept in similar
alleys.

But no one has
taken my *****

yet.

I’m in a contest I can’t win
Or even come in second.
My bird has flown from the streetlight arm
And taken promise with it.

Another lands and then departs
To mock my hopeful prayers
The sky teems with symbolic fowl
But I can’t suss their meaning.

A big one flew straight over me
But I can’t read its message.
Was it promising good health
Or telling me it’s sorry

That I’ll only get just what I have
To get me through tomorrow
And if I am not strong enough
The game will then be over.

Why are birds the messengers
In answer to my pleas
They send me signals I can’t read
And I walk on in darkness.
ljm

We court our own defeat.
Aqua Regia in our cups
Hubris curled up at our feet.
The throne is a fickle thing,
Jesters are sequestered
By whims of alabaster
Rose crowned Queens.

The King is an utter fool,
Barons are not your friend.
The Joker always finds
The dungeon in the end.
Oubliettes of our own design,
Gossamer wrought chains
Webs spun within our minds.

Most poets now are boring clowns
Meandering, confessional;
Their muses quick to pawn their crowns
Claiming to be professional;
Credentialed by some stuffy place
That ruined all poetic grace.

Miss Chang is one. The current breed:
Murmuring, sighing in her tea—
Exhibiting neurotic need
To tell sad stories. Let her be.
She’s found her niche. She does her schtick
Repeating endlessly one trick.

We note the symptoms and the signs:
Turning dull maudlin thoughts to prose,
Then making of it ragged lines
(Post-modern sickness clearly shows.)
But adding line-breaks here and there
Is simply words in disrepair.

Poor dear, it’s clear she dwells in grief
(And follows funerals to the bank…)
We realize, with some relief
It’s not her fault. We have to thank
The avant-boring visionaries
Praising her obituaries;

Milquetoast academic schools
Of well-degreed neurotic fish
Who spawn such vapid bubbling fools
As fit for neither hook nor dish.
And thus, we’re left with Rupi Kaur
In this, the muses’ dullest hour.

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

        The People’s Liberation Army Has No Veto Over Christmas


“The Halloween and Costume Association warned that tariffs are threatening to ‘wipe out Halloween and severely disrupt Christmas unless urgent action is taken.’"

                                          -Axios.com, 26 April 2025


God’s wisdom-speakers from the sunrise East
Mysterious messengers in free service to Truth
To Bethlehem, where the world is to be renewed
Come bearing gifts without the comrades’ permission