Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
The wasteland looks like eden
After a long and tortured road.
We were promised no such land
Nor any home that we are owed.
Still we took that beaten path
Knowing well where it may go.

By the gods what fools we be!
Seeing neither haunted forests
Or the weeping, dying trees.
We saw instead clear flowing streams
Ignored the way they slithered,
Withered valley and the rose.
Or how the heart can carve a lily
Into a candle in the snow.
I've put some thought upon the end
I've contemplated my demise
I've weighed the impact of my life
And tried to see it through your eyes
What riches, rags, or recompense
Were born of exploits I have sought?
What scars and sleepless night has my
pursuit of such false treasures wrought?
And if the sun should set at last
Upon my final waking hour
And see my eyes find perfect rest
My heart and mind give up their power,
What part of me, if some at all
Would linger here and carry on?
What fraction of my effigy
Will smolder once the frame is gone?
I've put some thought upon the end
But thought better and raised my head
Life is wasted on the living
Who count themselves among the dead.
Depression feels like a lifelong death sentence
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                 Child Injured after Accidentally Shooting Himself

                                                       -headline

I’m sorry, Daddy
I didn’t mean to bleed all over the rug
I’m sorry, Daddy
It really hurts
I’m sorry, Daddy
I only wanted to play with your favorite toy
I’m sorry, Daddy
Why is everybody yelling?
I’m sorry, Daddy
I don’t feel good, Daddy…
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                But They’ll Be Kissing Someone Else’s Boots Next Year

I saw a cleaner landscape as I traveled today:
All the TRUMP flags have mysteriously gone away
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                                           Blueberry Portal


               “In dreams the fool is free from scorning voices”

                                         -C. S. Lewis, “Dymer”


In the drowsy, bee-sy afternoon
Picking blueberries in the white-sun heat
Voices. Conversation. But it’s only the bees
While the blueberries dance and spin and whirl

What do bees talk about? They don’t tell me
And I don’t need to know – but we’re all friends
And the dancing blueberries – they’re having fun
They welcome me into another world

The leaves write me little love-letters that say
How happy to have you home for an hour today!
Behind bars invisible
In for crimes of love
Betrayal and duplicity
Convicted in the court of karma
After a warp-speed trial
By a jury of ex-lovers
None of whom who smiled
Sentenced without compassion
Notwithstanding my denial

What about rehabilitation?
A second chance?
No appeal?

My past caught up with me
I’d been on the lam a good while
Evading the wake I’d left behind
But you can only do that for so long

Contrition is my mission
Supposedly it does me good
So the chaplain says
He’s from my hood
An erstwhile Lothario
Now sentenced along with me
Our prayers unanswered
Lost ships at sea
We move through the night,
though the streets seem empty,
we look left and right,
electric vehicles are stealthy.

As we exercise stepwise, sunrise happens.
and black night fades its cover.
Like phoresy, painted, pieces of heaven,
the day opens with primary colors—
reds that delight, oranges that tease
and peacocking yellows that leaven.

As the counterfeit rainbow enchants and rouses,
streetlights waver and douse,
lights flicker on in houses,
and the earth blossoms active in borrowed hues.

Morning twinkles with its particular, angular light,
as we enter the still still lobby.
They’ve already set out the coffee!
With a sip, I feel the morning's started right.
.
.
Songs for this:
Day Tripper by MonaLisa Twins
Our Day Will Come by Amy Winehouse
Next page