It's a reality when it is observed
It is unreal if no one sees
Even imaginary is unreal
but feels as if it is not.
If real is not real, why do I feel
we are running to acquire nothing
Are we onto something being
driven to see nothing sticks for long enough
If what I have doesn't make me happy
I manifest things with great yearning
But when I acquire, it just loses its lustre
Becomes painfully ordinary, are we onto anything?

we are participating in this life
It is real or fictitious, maybe both
we perceive it in our mind
Likely we have different insights
The echoes of our actions in a fleeting sound,
We bark out like a wounded hound.
We chase the shadows, of a promised light,
And grasp at substance, that dissolves in night.
The questions linger, in this hollow space,
Is meaning woven, or a fleeting grace?
Perhaps the journey, is the only truth we find, we are onto nothing,
A constant searching, of a restless mind.

Children in the fields of green
Play by morning light,
A depiction of pure innocence
Cannot, more, be right.

ᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣ
Arachnidal in it's way
It preaches it's mantra
To the massed disciples
Gathered adoringly,
In the bright, bright
Political bunting.
ᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣ

When old men sip their whiskey
In dark corners by the fire
Red memories float softly by
On wings of old desire.

ᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣ
Menace in it's rhetoric
Invoke a tarantula's reaction....
For this is what
The adoring came to hear.
ᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣ

By swinging lamp a rising gale
Cause tortured leaves to swirl
In courtyards paved and soulless
To a distant bagpipe's skirl.

ᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣ
Sleek in it's element
Of gathered confidence,
Stillness in it's menaced allure,
Eight hairy black legs,
Eight black beaded eyes,
Enbalm the enraptured masses
In it's web of words....
In it's tale of twisted torment.
ᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣ

Sleeping hounds in alcoves
Rouse amidst bad dreams
For the Gods of causal legacy
Diverge from what now seems.

ᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣ
The Assassin strikes
The tarantula rears back
In massive defence....
Fangs bared,
Talons raised in fury.
Angry invective of outrage,
Screeching arachnidal fury.
ᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣ
The crowd applaudes,
Despite the fear,
The crowd applauds
Cheering on
The fighting outrage
Of it's idol
ᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣ

A panic in the battlements
Humanity in flight,
Chaos as the shots are fired
Red blood now in sight.

ᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣ
Wounded it retreats
To the sanctury
Of a tangle
Of Secret Service arms and legs
And the refuge
Of an armoured limosine.
ᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣ

Harsh questions quash reality
Considerations die,
Those discords to disharmony
Now shred a burning sky.

ᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣ
Writhing in tarantular outrage
But safe
And wearing the bloodied cheek
Like a flag.....
In front of live television
Broadcaste,
Immediately worldwide ???
ᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣ
AND BY GOD......
WHAT AN ELECTORAL COUPE
TODAY HAS BEEN....
IN PENNSYLVANIA!!!
ᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣᾣ

Tomorrows order, lost to ruin
As cursed as the plague,
Discarded ****** vanquishment
Intangible and vague.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                                  On the Events of 13 July 2024

                                                  …that we but teach
****** instructions, which, being taught, return
To plague th’ inventor. This even-handed justice
Commends th’ ingredience of our poisoned chalice
To our own lips.

                                    -Macbeth I.vii.8-12

I too will go to you, says the son
to the face of the father.

He broadens his smile
thin and gathering dust for long
as if to acknowledge
he always knew
one day his son would stand before him
resigned and weary
willing to join on his route.

The son sees his father's lips
move in the briefest prayer..

Welcome.

Love is just a thing to shred and rend our hearts,
So Dusty Springfield asserted from her knees
(But, to grow a tree, you don’t start with tree parts.)

The flow of passion deepens in fits and starts,
And does not walk the tidy path of our pleas.
Love is just a thing to shred and rend our hearts,

Till-death-do-we-part tortures spinsters and tarts
The rice a mirage, the wedding march a tease.
(But, to grow a tree, you don’t start with tree parts.)

It ignores the primacy of graphs and charts,
Choosing its own time and moments to seize;
Love is just a thing to shred and rend our hearts,

Love at first sight upsets all our apple carts,
Yet we rush headlong to pick it from the trees.
(But, to grow a tree, you don’t start with tree parts.)

One more torch song, then, to rocket up the charts.
One more tear-stained chanteuse to sing the reprise;
Love is just a thing to shred and rend our hearts,
(But, to grow a tree, you don’t start with tree parts.)

Midnight, bright moon,
breeze slightly soothing
the heat of day.
Scent of fresh blossoms
perfume strong in the
garden air.

Crickets in fine tune,
as are the frogs,
performing their endless
concert of night music.

Reluctant to let it go,
the day is ended now,
nearly indistinguishable
from the days before,
or the one tomorrow.
Retired with too much
time on my hands, days
bleed one into another.

What did I accomplish
today? Not much by some
peoples measure, not even
my own. . . But for one,

Spent time with my youngest
grandson, we talked in earnest
of things that mattered to
him, concerns and fears,
12 year old little boy things.
I listened, cajoled, advised,
shared some mistakes and
stories of my own youth. We
laughed, oh how we laughed.

He hugged me upon leaving
with tears of happiness and
relief in his eyes, told
me he loved me, twice.

Just a small encounter,
yet I believe he will
remember, perhaps
even be a little inspired.

For me brief sweet moments
invested, filled with precious
renderings of this wonderfully
special wholly worthwhile day,
not at all wasted, or the same.

As sleep pervades my thoughts
I will recall and cherish his laughter.
Perhaps tomorrow we will do it again.