Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
LogoSophia Magazine – A Pilgrim’s Journal of Life, Literature and Love
Fellowship & Fairydust (fellowshipandfairydust.com)
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                     ­             Trial by Twitter

                     “…why torture ourselves in order to hurt others?”

                                    -Dag Hammarskjold, Markings

We have made ourselves a surveillance state
Eager to be approved
Fearful of being judged
We the accused must not presume to think

We impeach ourselves daily on their screens
(The screens are hardly ours)
Accusing ourselves of sin
Against the loving terror of the Now

But as for a torch and a Phrygian hat –
Is there an app for any of that?

I.
Your words
are starry, lush,
crawling over quiet
amaranth pages in the air -
"don't go."

II.
Hundreds
of lights are smeared
like yolk by a long hem
of thunderheads that are hunting
eastward.

III.
I dream,
sometimes, about
the old lawns in Dublin:
the last time I felt clear and free.
What now?

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
LogoSophia Magazine – A Pilgrim's Journal of Life, Literature and Love
Fellowship & Fairydust (fellowshipandfairydust.com)
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                    On the Eve of Advent

On the eve of Advent Jupiter ascends
As is his custom at dusk this time of year
Then Mars and the company of Orion
And all the dutiful stars awake, arise

To mark the passing of Ordinary Time
And arc into the west and disappear
Late leaves rustle unseen in the deepening dark
We whisper our Compline prayers along with them

And in the absence of light await the Light
Which will appear in the most unlikely places

I'm trying this thing
Where I soothe my constrictor instincts,
Don't cling so tight.
But I learned life in extremes.
Only consume in excess
Or not at all.
How do I temper this,
Portion out my love,
When I'm so
*******
Hungry?

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
LogoSophia Magazine – A Pilgrim's Journal of Life, Literature and Love
Fellowship & Fairydust (fellowshipandfairydust.com)
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                          Tumbrils Rattling Ideas to Their Deaths


“Tradition is not the worship of ashes, but the preservation of fire.”

                              -attributed to Gustav Mahler
   (But no one sources the quote so maybe it’s from someone else)


That which is good is now tumbriled through the streets
The carter following the map upon his MePhone
Or rather the map upon their MePhone
Now that one man must not, dare not be he

That which is true is stood upon the gallows
It may tweet aloud for a moment or two
But weighted down with the burdens of trends
It must immediately be ****** up short

That which is beautiful is burnt as fuel -
All sacrificed to Moloch, loving and cruel

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                                  Painter’s Cough

He tossed his cigarette and introduced himself
And coughed
A weary old man with a weary beard
He coughed
And came inside to check the painting prep
He coughed
And was not happy with the previous work
He wheezed

He began bringing in his equipment and paint
He coughed
He gazed around the rooms disapprovingly
He coughed
He sanded and he sanded and he sanded
He coughed
He sanded and sanded all morning long
He wheezed

He croaked, “Oh, man, this dust’s getting’ to me”
He coughed
So he went outside for a cigarette
(Presumably he coughed)
His methy helper finally showed up
He coughed too
They griped about the poor preparatory work
One wheezed, one coughed

Neither wore a respirator or mask
They coughed
And talked about a nephew in jail again
They coughed
The helper offered me some backstrap at lunch
He coughed
And was surprised when I said, “No, thanks”
He wheezed

The contractor went away for a while
The painters coughed
And spent more time outside with their cigarettes
Presumably they coughed
The plastic dust sheets were silent and still
And never coughed
The painters took more frequent breaks and smoked
And probably coughed

And so the weary day wore itself out
The painters packed their equipment and their coughs
And promised to return tomorrow and finish
And clear away the piles of dust and debris
And maybe they will

Cough

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
LogoSophia Magazine – A Pilgrim's Journal of Life, Literature and Love
Fellowship & Fairydust (fellowshipandfairydust.com)
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                     Saint Joseph and Ice Cream

             “I thought I heard you saying it was a pity…I never had any
              children…But I have, you know…Thousands of ’em …
              thousands of ’em…”

                                      -Goodbye, Mr. Chips

                           In memory of a happy summer morning
                           with Abbie and Alexander in Ottawa

Every man is a father after the Order of Saint Joseph
Every child is his to nurture and protect
A man must practice wisdom and honor
In order to pass them on to a new generation

And there is something to be said for ice cream -
I was entrusted with two little children
For a walkabout around Parliament Hill
“And give them nutritious snacks,” their mother enjoined

Most strictly enjoined

I asked myself what good Saint Joseph would do -
Surely he would buy them an ice cream each

And it was so
And now you know