Before sleep I knot a cardboard tag
to my big toe with baling twine.
Sometimes I think of stapling it -
ritual wants a clean edge.

She tolerates my oddities:
a posterboard of errands above the sink,
tea mug with its brown ring I refuse to clean,
I stand too close when the train arrives,
or climb ladders with one hand full.

Last summer a rogue wave flung me under;
I surfaced broken, collarbone split,
came home wrapped and aching.
She kissed the bruise and laughed,
as if I’d slipped the ocean’s grip,
as if the sea had lost its claim.

I call them accidents to sleep easier,
yet I flood the stove with gas,
strike a match, laugh at the plume,
convinced the fire means I’m alive
even as it scorches my hand.

At night she circles the bed,
tugging at my toe tag
as if it could bind me to her,
carrying me into the cabin,
a weight she won’t release.

He stood alone, the stars grown dim,  
One hand on rectitude’s thin limb.  
No wrath, no fire, no final plea—  
Just silence in eternity.  
He wept not for what man became,  
But for the dream that bore his name.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ

in the city for a few days,
the madness even intensified,
as the United Nations privileged,
dine, wine and pontificate their
global prejudices, and review their fav
expensed account, French restaurant's
contribution to global relations warming

so the inveterate veterans of this congestion+++,
take to sidewalks with gusto, for motorized
transport is suboptimal, and its hot 'n sticky,
humid and putrid as garbage collection gets
suspended....

which leads to my bonus source of inspiration,
walking among the pro's I hear, cannot help but
overhear, for din of shouting is de rigeur, snatches
of sidewalk intimacies. which cannot go unheard!

and must be taken as given

kid, kid you not, what you may overhear is
plots of lover revenge, deathbed confessions,
why she is sleepingwith her boyfriends brother,
(better lover) but the brother, the older, better jobber,
has the oolala
moola-la!

here, is where, I tell you, that ****** these tidbits
from their lips, and weave and spun for the fun,
into a tapestry Whitman worthy, he too walked the
broadways, the loading docks, admired the feathered
peacocks of Fifth Ave., turning it into great poetry

but a single line of dialogue rings loudest in my memory,
it was a silence that suspended the grime and rhyme of
all the surrounding noisy distractions, when she hears the
man, say matter of factly, the second opinion confirmed the
diagnosis, and yes, the cancer had spread, and options now,
very limited...

the woman. stumbles a step, and says nothing, but grasps
his upper arm, slow soft, bring ing up higher and higher,
till it almost impedes the man stride, and he looks upon her
face with kind eyes, and winces~grimaces~as sympathetic
as possible
a wispy smile, for he is acknowledging that she, will bear the
brunt, the in coming cold front, while he rides the storm, for
as long as itis permitted…

though the streets are crowded,
I believe I am the-only one, proximate
enough, to be the sole witness of said
tapestry's exchange, and I am, blooded,
chest concaving, my temples beat a throbbing
beating, and the swirl, of ebb and flow of
pedestrian's goings, separate me from them,
as they plunge ahead, but the've turn left, and all I see
as they dream away from-me, is the-arm, her arm,,
squeezing his, as if that lock, could somehow prevent
a storm, hurricane, tornado, the tidal wave that is
now engulfing them…and then the gone… and I am left
bereft, for there is no poetry to quote, must go un spoke,
and crawl to a vest pocket garden bench,
slumped
and stumped
this thing why me,
was I the one chosen for this knowing, and the
answer comes quick, this a warning reminder,
to find her, woman,
mine, and clutch her arm-too tight,
and utter words to her nonsensical,
but that comfort me, in an
inexplicable wordless way…

For breath, for belonging

Shalom, Abba,  
not just peace,  
but the kind that wraps  
around my weary shoulders  
like morning light.

You are the quiescence
between my questions,  
the stillness 
beneath my striving.

Abba, Father,  
not just parent,  
but the pulse  
that steadies me  
when I forget my name.

You walk with me  
through shadowed rooms,  
through spirals of doubt,  
and still you whisper,  
I am here.

Shalom, Abba,  
in your breath  
I find my own.  
In your silence,  
I remember  
I am not alone.

Until my work is done,  
until my last sigh sings,  
I will walk  
in your peace.

perhaps a subject already well covered. but I consult no one else,
who can expertly summon the artificial artifacts, no better yet,
art~iN~facts of prior expert~tease, and speak only and wholly
for myself, blatant, and openly undisguised

it is the spilling, the upward sensory explosive detonating,
in a pressured chest, the eagerness
to race, to complete,
find the next line, to define, to refine to get the balance tween
elegance and simplicity, to have the ******* sensory totality
of completely having spun off a piece of me and let it free float as a balloon, that may fly to China or get stuck on a telephone pole
just beyond my front door
                                      =============
^ I write this midst the composition of another poem, wherein
unusually I feel the need to pause, collect my thoughts which are bombarding my atoms internal, causing  a new fissionable element,
distinct and unique, my poem…next…

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                A Geriatric Motorcycle Gang Stops at Joe’s Eats

Grammies and Pappies in their backwards caps
Headbands, leathers, and chain regali-ay
Rolling thunder before their afternoon naps
Roughing up the pancakes at the breakfast buffet

Menacing any muffins in their steam-table raids
Yelling at the pancakes; they rattle the chef
They all seem to have forgotten their hearing aids:
“YOU DON’T HAVE TO YELL; I’M NOT DEAF!”

“NOW, HONEY, WHERE’S MY DIABETES KIT?!”
“THE BISCUITS AND MAPLE SYRUP? RIGHT OVER THERE!”
“HE SAID HE’S GOTTA GO AND TAKE A **!”
“HE’S MAKIN’ US LATE FOR TH’ RUMBLE, AND THAT AIN’T
           FAIR!”

The pack leader takes his gang back on the road
On a three-wheeler bike named Thunder Toad