#lawrence
To be foggy when first you stir to a day ahead
full of knowns and unknown, is not unusual
even if the shy sky hints at a
bluer clarity coming…
For the morning fog is the story of transitioning, as humans do repeatedly throughout their days and lifetimes.
In particular
when passing from the fog of nighttime sleep,
oft populated by terrors and all,
we suppress,
morphs into the no man’s land of dusky consciousness
Mar 9
Mar 9, 2026 at 10:10 AM UTC
In the spaces where words once dwelled,
A silence deep and unquelled,
Echoes of what used to be,
A lacuna in our memory.
Thoughts of life and death occur,
We love, we live, we breathe, we stir,
In moments lost and dreams unfurled,
A lacuna in our world.
Our fleeting dreams are insubstantial,
Ephemeral as mist, and yet essential,
In every gap, a story waits,
A lacuna that our heart translates.
Ephemeral as the love we lost,
In shadows deep, we count the cost,
For in each void, a lesson found,
A lacuna where our souls are bound.
With God we find our meaning clear,
In faith and love, we conquer fear,
In every void, His light does gleam,
A lacuna filled with hope and dream.
Jan 31, 2025
Jan 31, 2025 at 12:59 PM UTC
Born an only child,
To government servants,
I grew up in a nuclear family.
I felt very lonely until eight,
Because that was my age,
When I started reading.
Father bought me Champak,
Mother bought me ******
I got interested in novels.
I remember the first novel,
It was Goosebumps #4,
"Say Cheese and Die!"
I was impressed with it,
So was I paranoid too,
Cameras scared me.
RL Stine hypnotised me,
Not just for a day or two,
Even now I think about it.
Robert robbed me,
With his words,
He stumped me.
Such simple stories,
But me they flummoxed,
Me they stunned.
I thank my parents for everything,
For introducing me to the habit of reading.
Oct 1, 2024
Oct 1, 2024 at 11:42 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Robin Hood and Jacques Derrida
As the first stars came out above the leaves
Of Merry Sherwood, the lads in peaceful repose
Put away their after-supper mending of gear
And idled over their ale of October brewing
Then Robin Hood spoke to Allan-a-Dale:
Don’t sing to us of Neo-Post-Colonial White Supremacist Patriarchal People-of-Color Matriarchal LGBTQTY Non-Binary Feminist Chomskian Existentialist (existentialist – how quaint) Hegelian Post-Structuralist Logocentric Sausurian Psychoanalytical Post-Modern Marxist Jungian New Critical Cognitive Scientific Neo-Anarchic Canon-Repudiationist Neo-Informalist Catarrhic De-Constructionism.
Sing to us
a story.
Mar 15, 2021
Mar 15, 2021 at 12:36 PM UTC
It's been forty three years since that night
when i went out to do what's right
Something that I've kept inside since then
People searched but never found
They followed my prints on the ground
Never looking for anyone else, but men
I'm the one who shot him dead
Two bullets shot, and then I fled
Now it's time to tell my tale 'bout then
It was the night the lights went out in Georgia
It was the night that they hung an innocent man
Don't trust your soul to no back woods southern lawyer
Cause the judge in the town's got blood stains on his hands
They looked high, and they looked low
followed my prints in the snow
Never caring if he did the crime
They hung my brother from a tree
The one who should have died was me
I've never left, I've been here all the time
I guess what goes around comes around
The judge is now dust in the ground
The sheriff, he is also long time dead
It was the night the lights went out in Georgia
It was the night that they hung an innocent man
Don't trust your soul to no back woods southern lawyer
Cause the judge in the town's got blood stains on his hands
It's been a long, long time since Andy died
Rivers of tears that I have cried
But in the end I can' change what was done
Cause Andy's cheating wife never left town
And her body has never been found
Cause this little sister don't miss when she aims her gun
It was the night the lights went out in Georgia
It was the night that they hung an innocent man
Don't trust your soul to no back woods southern lawyer
Cause the judge in the town's got blood stains on his hands
Jan 23, 2019
Jan 23, 2019 at 12:31 AM UTC
The fly on my finger says, “it’s gonna rain.”
So the spy ‘round the bend screams, “RUN!”
I try, but I step on a nail; therefore – I cease, I die,
And am born once more, Come the dead been before.
That’s when those days became a “pitter-patter,”
So let it sink, and I’m not so innocent anymore.
I’d blame the cat that crossed my path, it wasn’t black,
I’d blame the hat that drew her eye, but I wouldn’t;
I’d only run, flee, I’d heed the call of “Lawrence,”
So that bells could ring and wings be granted.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 11:17 PM UTC
Wild Dreams Of A New Beginning
There's a breathless hush on the freeway tonight
Beyond the ledges of concrete
restaurants fall into dreams
with candlelight couples
Lost Alexandria still burns
in a billion lightbulbs
Lives cross lives
idling at stoplights
Beyond the cloverleaf turnoffs
'Souls eat souls in the general emptiness'
A piano concerto comes out a kitchen window
A yogi speaks at Ojai
'It's all taking pace in one mind'
On the lawn among the trees
lovers are listening
for the master to tell them they are one
with the universe
Eyes smell flowers and become them
There's a deathless hush
on the freeway tonight
as a Pacific tidal wave a mile high
sweeps in
Los Angeles breathes its last gas
and sinks into the sea like the Titanic all lights lit
Nine minutes later Willa Cather's Nebraska
sinks with it
The sea comes over in Utah
Mormon tabernacles washed away like barnacles
Coyotes are confounded & swim nowhere
An orchestra onstage in Omaha
keeps on playing Handel's Water Music
Horns fill with water
ans bass players float away on their instruments
clutching them like lovers horizontal
Chicago's Loop becomes a rollercoaster
Skyscrapers filled like water glasses
Great Lakes mixed with Buddhist brine
Great Books watered down in Evanston
Milwaukee beer topped with sea foam
Beau Fleuve of Buffalo suddenly become salt
Manhatten Island swept clean in sixteen seconds
buried masts of Amsterdam arise
as the great wave sweeps on Eastward
to wash away over-age Camembert Europe
manhatta steaming in sea-vines
the washed land awakes again to wilderness
the only sound a vast thrumming of crickets
a cry of seabirds high over
in empty eternity
as the Hudson retakes its thickets
and Indians reclaim their canoes
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 2:18 PM UTC