Thousands of slaves of The Saviour run
bent over to a place to sit, belly to buttock
nose in the back, sections full of light pink
shoulders under the violet
shaved crowns

to open the brain
under sun and moon
to the Great Soul
and to gain self-knowledge
from the mirrors around you

the exchangeable bodies that
under the discipline of loneliness
among silent fellow sufferers
no longer can die
from everyday life's dangers

Everywhere you see yourself
among the hard faces
of armed guards
and you cling to
the changing of the light

the rustle of rain and
scents brought by the wind
"He laughs best who laughs last"
But what kind of laugh is that?
A laugh which is not shared...

There is danger down on the edge of town
Fire on the horizon it's scorchin' the ground
Hoards of unrest as people pass the blame
Who's the real culprit at the top of the chain
The burning sunset spills across the rot of the land
While the deceiving evil doer licks blood from his  hands
Greed riddled bombs fall from dead skies
Blanketing the poor, warm tears swell in their eyes
Oil soaked hills burn down through their valleys
While war torn screams ring out from all around me
The milky white sap is scraped from the flowers
Then sold in the streets as ****** powder  
Junkies fumble over spoons with needles in their hand
While the money is filtered to rulers of land
On with the show the director he screams
While the masses consume garbage projected on to screens
I sit motionless and stare at the wall
As the prison door slams shut I wonder how long
How long  will it be till I'm back on the streets
With a dagger in my hand and blood on my feel

gilded a prison
in the moments of
yet was is

Lawrence Hall 3d
A Poem is not a Helicopter
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                     ­    A Poem is not a Helicopter

                                                  For­­ Al Duquette

A helicopter is not a poem
A helicopter flies in three dimensions
If all of the systems are fitted just right
Otherwise, it does not fly at all

A poem is not a helicopter
A poem flies only metaphorically
If we rearrange the parts aesthetically
The poem might fly much better than before

One carries our friends wherever they want to go
The other carries our love to our friends




More exposition than I have ever written:

Al is my fellow volunteer in prison and was one of my mentors when I began. I am in awe of him because he flew helicopters with the Air Cavalry in Viet-Nam and then offshore with Petroleum Helicopters Incorporated. He is almost obsessively left-brained in all things and I am an old hippie so we are often on two different metaphorical channels.  After some mutual suspicion we came to the realization – because the prisoners pointed it out to us - that in working with a class together we communicate the same ideas in different ways, and so are more effective.

Al sees no point in poetry, although he appreciates the little poems I hand out to the lads as class openers. I think this is because they (the poems, not the prisoners) are short and simple, almost always rhyme, and are mostly Victorian parlour poems which contain a moral lesson and encouragement. This week, while waiting for the guards to bring us the fellows, Al said that prose is made of words and poetry is made of words and in both categories we choose the most effective words, and so what makes a difference. I replied that a poem is not a helicopter, that not all the bits have to fit together in only one way. Prose is indeed a matter of the right words in the right places but that a poem is a matter of even better words placed in even better places (This is not an original thought; I don’t remember where I learned it.). Al accepted my answer, but of course maybe he was merely being polite!

Written by
Lawrence Hall

The car is broken:

garage sentence. After that --


it is free to ride.

My eyes forced open by the white noise of the radio.
It's 7:00. A new day has come.

I get escorted to the line to get a plate.
It's time for my breakfast.
Fill up my stomach without a daily appetite.

I surrender from the visiting room.
His face from the clear glass seems too pretentious
I can't even understand his speech through the telephone.

I try to go out to see the sun and it's scorching.
Play some sports with other striped people
And they get disappointed.
I try to say a prayer I can't finish.

It's just another day to do nothing.
I let myself be incarcerated.
In my head.

There are degrees of confinement,
And escape is not a crime.
But without a realignment,
I'm resigned to pantomime.