Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                                 The Mysterious World of Azalea

If I were a child, this would be a happy place
A hidden leaf-mould world, all darkly green
Summery green beneath the shaded sun
Between the roots, beneath the leaves, alone

If I were a child, this would be a happy place
A brand-new comic book, some army men
A Roy Rogers cap pistol without any caps
A plastic Tarzan swinging from branch to branch

If I were a child…but alas, I’m not -
I’m pruning back limbs and checking for rot

Breakfast at my table
on a damp warm morning
with birds in the trees
each fluttering one a note which sings,
on high and leafy hidden wings
that beat to lift in heavy air
chained to the ground
I cannot share
their joy in endless headlong flight,
that freedom brought of skies delight
and so for now, to me it seems,
I must content myself with dreams

The rain
when it came
was not unexpected
soft at first
then larger drops
falling music
dancing puddles
ignored in a rush of passers by
I stayed to the end
and heard it all
that orchestra of sky

A tree uprooted,

mud, a crack in the rock-ledge –


and clear spring water!

If I could gather all the stars,
And place them in a bowl,
If I could capture a sunset
And frame it for your wall.
If I could scrape off sunlight's glow,
That kisses the green grass,
Blend the mixture gently,
And serve it in a glass.

I would, I would,
A thousand times or more,
To bring you closer to the beauty
Of all you're longing for.

Through its bend.
It hangs on to a promise.
One that hasn’t been fulfilled.
Its colors now dull,


Cascading from behind the clouds.
Bruised yet, fleeting in the blink of an eye.
It searches. Finding reason to smile.
The sun peeks its head out from behind the clouds.
Catching a glimpse of its beauty.


Someday.
Love won’t feel so constrained.
Giving it something to wrap its arms around.
Through its bend.
A brighter day is just around the corner

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

           Fire Ants Devouring the Corpses of Unhatched Wasps


                      Nature does not, in the long run, favour life.

                  -C. S. Lewis, “On Living in an Atomic Age,” 1948


A formation of formicidae trekked north-northwest
Across a vast and lonely sunbeaten expanse
Their imperial quest a fallen wasps’ nest
Between a lawn chair and a potted plant

The ants greedily ripped open the paper shells
Like Christmas crackers for the goodies inside
The ghastly drippings of pupae in their jaws
Fragments of dead wasplings for their demanding queen

A formation of formicidae trekked east-southeast -
What, then, is the number of an unnumbered beast?

Sometimes, before the morrow comes,
I see blackness move on the mountain tops.
I see shadow ropes hanging
On the windows of my house,
And their dark blue lines move slowly,
Like the hands of a clock.
I hear owls singing blues and rock,
Leaves falling on the ground,
And other things I hear in the moonstruck.

Sometimes, before the morrow comes,
My feet, they tempt me out.
My soul begs me to shout,
Howl like a wolf,
Wait for others to howl back,
Howl all together at the same time.
Run, frenetically, till out of breath,
Rest on a tree,
And feel the silence
Breaking into us,
Beating in our veins,
As adrenaline fades away.

Sometimes,
I want to go out
And see for myself
The world beyond my house.