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White, black, green, and red,
Waving a flag.
Let the world know
There is a right to be alive—
The people of Palestine have,
In their own olive land.
The latest death toll stands at 44,383 Palestinians, around 70% of them are kids and women.
When Donald Trump does a push-up, he pushes the earth away.
He counted to infinity, TWICE, all in one day!
The Boogeyman checks his closet for Trump each night,
For under his  ̶t̶o̶u̶p̶e̶e̶ ̶ TOTALLY LEGIT HAIR™  is another fist, ready to fight.

When he enters a room, darkness runs out in fear,
He can slam a revolving door, make silence appear.
He doesn’t sleep, he waits—he doesn’t blink, he stares,
And gravity bows when he takes the stairs.

When Donald Trump looks in the mirror, it shatters from awe,
He has no age; time itself is held by his law.
He’s the reason Waldo is always well-hidden,
In Trump’s world, rules are forbidden.

His tears cure cancer—too bad he never cries,
And every hand he’s dealt is aces in disguise.
Death once knocked on his door, then quickly fled—
For even the Grim Reaper fears Donald Trump instead.
#donaldtrump #maga #onlyalphamales #luxuriouslocksofgoldenhair #fruitsnamedafterpeople

https://ibb.co/h83xZxg
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                         Atheist Chaplains Forging Mixed Metaphors

         “Atheist chaplains are forging a new path in a changing world”

                                    -CNN 7 November 2024

One seldom thinks of chaplains at a forge
Work-weary, work-stained from hours of smoke and sweat
With mighty hammer strokes bending hot iron
To the will of the artisan in useful things

Some writers forge nothing but metaphors tired
From overuse, and mixed as verbal soup
In music, art, literature, and life paths can be

Cleared
Paved
Traveled
Surveyed
explored
Followed
Noted
Marke­d
Mapped
Found

But it is not in the nature of paths to be forged

Atheist chaplains and metaphor soup
Are nothing more than an ouroborosian loop

(Look upon this fresh metaphor and neologism
And despair)
Would Shelley approve?
How many times must the helping hand
Be bitten, slapped or pushed away
Before it never reaches out again.

With motives pure as a newborn’s eyes
I offer everything I can to help
With what I can’t afford to spend

And hours I really shouldn’t take-
And every time it is a sham
And all my help is nothing.

All I want is just one chance
To save a life or make the day
For someone who is sinking

And without hope of aid or rescue.
But it never seems to go that way
The homeless throw away my blankets

And tell me they can’t eat my lunch.
They take my funds and skulk away
To add it to their horde,

While I beat up my aching bones
To earn enough to try again
In eighteen hour workdays.

Is there really no one out there
Waiting for my caring grasp
To pull them from a certain death.

Is there no one disadvantaged
Who will bless fate for the coat
I’ve taken from my closet for them.

Is there no life that will change
In the minutest way because
I strived with all my might to help them.

This is life’s unkindest blow for me-
That I’m denied the hero’s role
And every hand I reach to save
Draws back and turns to walk away
With laughter echoing across
The distance to my downcast eyes.
ljm
I wrote this back when I was working long hours coordinating events at a church that had a lot of contact with the homeless due to its location. I apologize for the whiney tone.
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

         By Reading This Content You Agree to Our Privacy Policy


          It was terribly dangerous to let your thoughts wander
          when you were…within range of a telescreen.

                                             -Orwell, 1984


But your privacy? Nah; deal with it, you see
Baked beans, magazines and mountain scenes
Vacation trips and handy houseware tips -
They see you, they know you, they hunt you

Podcasts, partisan views, gossipy news
Engine parts, how-to vids, and funny kids
Treating head lice, tax advice, dancing mice
They see you, they know you, they hunt you

Through your made-in-Shanghai Palantir
Adverts will forever make you fear,
                         My Precious



(“Palantir” is here an allusion to Tolkien’s genius, not to the software people.)
You slipped
away from me,
like the robins and
cherry blossoms when
spring ends,
and the fractured nights
of winter come.
I will search the
midnight alleys, and the
mountains of Chile.
I will listen for
your sweet laughter.
I long to taste your
honeysuckle lips, and
hear your heartbeat.
If I never find you,
I will be a lost leaf
on the lonesome
vagabond wind.
This is a repost.
Here is a link to my you tube channel where I read my poetry.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XN9CrqlcvIY
Killer who cares
Suicide of dreams
Offer blank stares
"Know what it means!"

I have to shout!
When you won't hear
I must walk out
You slay what's dear

You built this place
You burnt it down
Confused, your face
Why I'm not around

You are growing
That is very swell
I am here showing
Your empty well

Slashed and burned
Salted the earth
Joy you have earned
But us? A dearth

Our world's casualty?
I feel this remorse...
If this you too can't see
Words have no course
Synopsis with Artist's intent as requested:

Remorse reflects the painful awareness and acceptance of a fractured relationship's reality, capturing the speaker's disappointment, frustration, and ultimate resolution.

In this piece, the speaker confronts a partner who repeatedly invalidated and failed them, despite opportunities for growth and change. There’s a sense of betrayal woven through lines like, "Killer who cares / Suicide of dreams," illustrating a partner who seems apathetic to the harm they’ve caused. The choice to portray remorse as a double-edged feeling—both directed toward the partner and reflective of the speaker’s own regret—suggests an internal struggle to move past something significant but irreparably damaged.

The line "I have to shout! / When you won't hear" highlights the speaker’s sense of isolation in this dynamic, emphasizing the frustration of unreciprocated effort. Despite witnessing moments of the partner's progress, expressed in, "You are growing / That is very swell," there is an underlying sadness. This growth, while positive, feels superficial or irrelevant to the speaker's own sense of hurt, captured in the line, "Your empty well," indicating emotional exhaustion and a lack of genuine reciprocity.

The closing stanzas convey a resigned understanding that while both individuals may grow and change, they cannot find resolution together. In the phrase "Words have no course," the speaker acknowledges the finality of the separation, where even conversation cannot mend what’s broken.

In summary, Remorse is a piece of acceptance and sorrow, underscoring that while personal growth is possible, the bond between the speaker and the partner is too damaged to continue. It’s a final gesture of understanding and letting go, even as both continue on separate paths of transformation.
Should I write a poem about Halloween,
full of psychological horrors and gruesome things?

Like deep romantic wounds getting infected,
herpe kisses or Donald Trump getting elected?

I could lean on shuddery tropes, like haunted houses
or more real world threats, like cutthroat spouses.

I could make you look up scary looking words, like Syncretism.

gasp What caused that creek in the floor?!
Who’s that banging on the door?

Is that blood on that rag?
Is there a body in that bag?
Is that your husband in drag!?

Relax, have fun, chill-out,
Oh, better get a bowl of candy out.

Happy Halloween!
.
.
Songs for this:
Monster Mash by Bobby "Boris" Pickett & The Crypt-Kickers
I Killed You by Tyler, The Creator
BLT Merriam Webster word of the day challenge 10/30/24:
Syncretism: combining different forms of belief or practice.
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