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Maria Mitea Jun 2
We are here for  trying,
no matter what
- never stop trying,

We also are here to desire.

If the desire for life is not burning inside your heart
go in the flower fields,
lie down in the green gras
deepen your hands în the black earth,
squeeze its juices, let it drain through your fingers,
meet the sun rising,
let it be your guiding light into the darkened tunnels of the soul,
walk and flow with the waves of the sea,
give a hug to someone, and dream, dream, dream ...

After,

We can try again if we are tempted,
We can help
if help is needed,
We can share
if the heart opens for sharing,
After,
we can try one more time
if we are tempted,

we try over and over again
for reaching up to the sun,
all we do here is trying ...
never give up, life is about trying
Lawrence Hall Apr 2019
-attributed to Stalin
           in a note forbidding the arrest of Boris Pasternak

Stalin and Caesar had no use for dreamers
Stern men of destiny prefer strong tools
To execute their leader’s will, and yet
They cry and beg when they are eventually shot

Cloud-dwellers camouflage themselves with words
And shift their sails but not their souls, and keep
Their little ships on course straight to the stars
Straight on until the dawn they help to light

Courage is in your dreams and words and works
May it please God that Stalin has no use

For you
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.

Lawrence Hall’s vanity publications are available on amazon.com as Kindle and on bits of dead tree:  The Road to Magdalena, Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play, Lady with a Dead Turtle, Don’t Forget Your Shoes and Grapes, Coffee and a Dead Alligator to Go, and Dispatches from the Colonial Office.
Lawrence Hall Jan 2017
Some Year’s Day

What century is it outside?

-Boris Pasternak

It’s a fair question: what century is this?
There was fog in the morning, this first day
Of the new year, and later overcast
There was nothing new in any of that

The fat grey squirrel raided the bird-seed at dawn
Which is why he is fat, and dampness dripped
From the roof eaves onto the long-dead leaves
There was nothing new in that, either

The first cup of coffee, the same old news -
It’s a fair question, it is: what century?
Mike Essig Apr 2015
Spring**

How many sticky buds, candle ends
sprout from the branches! Steaming
April. Puberty sweats from the park,
and the forest’s blatantly gleaming.

A noose of feathered throats grips
the wood’s larynx, a lassoed steer,
netted, like a gladiatorial *****,
it groans steel-piped sonatas here.

Poetry! Be a Greek sponge with suckers,
among green stickiness drenched,
I’ll consent, by the sopping wood
of a green-stained garden bench.

Grow sumptuous pleats and flounces,
**** up the gullies and clouds,
Poetry, tonight, I’ll squeeze you out
to make the parched sheets flower.
Great Russian poet and novelist. Dr. Zhivago, perhaps the greatest first date movie ever.

— The End —