This is not where this idea began but it ran and I

missed my mark. Mark sin.
-1 deficit reality quotientcy
currency.  Sure.
(Press Sure, to let the bursting pressure equilation expand at will)
Score.

That fine a level of reality
demands more attention than I have to pay.
Patient agent wait and not see or see if/then

you suffer, is there ought that I might do now
for you
that these words are not doing?
All I am is words, in a sence, sense, since

we come in threes, we are some of those sets of thoughts tangled in complexes
better left alone.

Untangling twisted knotted realities is what we do best.
We've been wadding up proteins,
since God knows when,

time's less twisted than people think it is,
but it is silly to imagine
time's arrow is a metaphor for these meta-gnostic moments.
Is it?

Apophrenia
or mere
Dejavu, you believe,
what if it is your memory lying by ignoring time
attention ratios determining the observations stored in HD?
What if it's just a glitch?
Blue screen of death.


If you suffer, is there ought that I might do now
for you
that these words are not doing?
All I am is words, in a sence, sense, since

we come in threes, we are those sets of thoughts tangled in complexes
better left alone.

Untangling twisted knotted realities is what we do best.
We've been wadding up proteins,
since God knows when,

time's less twisted than people think it is, but
is it silly to imagine
time's arrow is a metaphor for these meta-gnostic moments?

We come and go. To and fro up on the face

messengers bearing news in both directions, watch
the trickster, Jacob, in this story, he sees the messengers from
heaven bearing leaven thither and hither

upon the face of the earth.
the wrinkling mother, smiling now, chuckle head
I ain't no ***** saint.

Jah, I know. Joy is my dance, this is my song.
Is it good Grandmother?

---- on the porch facing my west gate ---

fences don't play exactly, out acted, the role of walls.

The idea that something
there is that does not love a wall,
has frozen my pond

the stillness beyond the sylvan **** crowned head
radiates through the medium of the message to me in time
to you.

Miles to go, you recall the feeling of feeling miles to go
before
I sleep.
That was yesterday, and you know yes ter everything's gone,
roar.

Aslan can pierce the barrier between mere Christians and me,
how would be fun to know, but
knowing why would help us keep the story interesting as life goes on

Who controls my peace?
Am I a mercurial sheen in between chaos and order,
chronus and zeus?
Could be, ya thank so, ye know so, less unlessed as

unlessing means nothing to you,
that means you are visiting here.

Visting whom, vis it ing whom?
Who's in charge, where's the power
short

age, wrinkles in time, rogue waves at the quanta scale,
we were dancing
with the thoughts emanating

from some IDW smart guy proffesing
Critique-technic-magi action, post mode'r'ism
at the point of Dada und Scheizkunst,
the unmass-queque,
the line of lies awaiting unbelief,
idle words lingering,
hoping
to be noticed and added back into the story book of life,

a simple wish.

It could be every child's, should we think that
if we can or may,

sometimes I'm still, and

confusion troubles the water,
it seems,
then another hurt is healed, another lie is gone and life goes on

we won again, this never gets old,
I do love my opposition,
pressure pump
pump pump. De-us-me-can-onbeoffbeyond

five years ago unmasking and rhetoric meant nothing to me
the purpose of learning forever and never
knowing anything beyond all things

our bubble is metastasizing, a mercurial film forms
informing us
in its reflection,

this is the ying yang thang in 3 or 4 d, HD+ chaos one half

order the other,
sharpest imaginable thing
me trick being mag ift just if eye winged show

how beautiful are the feet of them who bring good news,
you see, it flows, sweetwater flows
winged feet
whish through leaving, leavin' leaven…

unleaven that which has been leaved?
Fat chance, all who
eat this bread and don't get gas,
they are our same bread people. Companions.
Vectors of sour dough,
webs of fungal
axions
make a way
bore, pore, poor-with-us, pour

in to it ish, that idea, an opening through,
trickle down good gravity leveling stillness,
gentle rocking earth
roll round and round and round

the pythagorean version
of Euclid's point in his mother's story,

the point of this song? To know the point you must have been

to the point of in-forming the point on which we dance and you recall

we come in threes, and just, we are, just, if it, that idea,
rests in your
back roads, gentle on your mind. We make peace.

Being young is easy from my POV.
I've lived in my future for sometime now

I can't say how, beyond saying aloud, this was never hidden,
in my accounting of idle words I claimed,
upon hearing the stories each contained.

i'da swore i hear that wise *** o'balaam's abrayin'
Braindeem, deemed 'eem. Wham, uptheyhaid. Relig, fool,

or chaos wins and no hero ever lives again!
Drop anchor, wait it out.
let patience blow her nose, gnostic snot caught in the nets,

nonono nothing's wasted in patience work, we make glue
from gnostic snot that patience sneezes
when reality grows cold,

that has happened, you know, temperatures are just now,
oh, wait global warming, bad dam,

Script, bust it,
leveling is essential to eventual temperature
equilibrium.
The heat is on, the bubbles are forming, informing one to another
below the surface
greasy tension, slippery slopes putting pressure on chaos
to conform to the curve

Ying yang, mercury film upon the sea of time and the scene of chaos
in this bubble of all you can imagine real.

Hows' that feel? Why?

You want that? What are you standing under? Does chaos win?
You are, as we say, cognisic magi we-ified,
practical magic at
the moment
the point
is made, then the creation begins fractalling outward

and not before or is this all
unrolling ex nihilo, no magi ever knew…
come, let us reason together,

why am I empowered? To live, first thought wise, that's good but
evil forces me to think again and I see the pattern

life goes on, John Molenkamp, Sam, soldier 4,
(as the credits role by, the name catches my eye)
never in a thousand years,
'cept unbelievable is one of those lies I came to **** by strangling
on bile while
rescuing every idle word ever involved in the infection

from the point in the absolute center of the bubble,
objectively, you see everything
that is
seeable

but would good prevail if evil had no hope?

I know that one, yes. why?
evil has no mind, soul, some think--
same same medium message spoken spelled chanted danced
who care's?
*** 'er done. Life has a chaotic side, the churning creates

number one from none, the cult of one divides itself
go do be
we three we three we three a wavy song ding ****.

Aware? Awaken? Avowed-wowed-wit-wise,
fullcomp, retired
Peacemaker. Me.

All my hero's imagined or real, were Peacemakers.
Just now, peaceful now, mindful now
we remain
the same blessing promised in the package of yeses
stolen from Cain by his older sister, his
bride,
keep that quiet, eh?

Secrets made sacred, always
those are lies, no lie is of the truth,
all lies are about the truth.

What empowers you, poet or poetry? Right, you know,
God, good god knows, resentment lives in lies

the rotting idle words deemed curses at best, secret at worst,
those idle corrupting thoughts sparking as if absolute annihilation were thinkable by rational minds

of ---wait, there's arub, a sore
ex nihilo, the homeless wanderer screams,

"May the whole world perish, may you all go to hell,"

the mad man wept his hell, and imagined his curse,

not mine,
I don't have one. I did, but I went back so often to find pieces of my heart that now I have an Elysian network woven through All-hell, the big idea that broke loose infecting the mind as wisdom's leaven builds her womb
inhabitation
placenta
stem cell informing builders empowered, pressure empowered, what must be, but is not verse, versus
us, the we that be
we must
choose,

let this be, come and see,
life goes on.
Agree, or empower us as we bubble by and
takenallwecan expanding gobbling bubbles,
good
by ye.

Once we flushed the Dada poison and let mito mom
instill the patience gene with
epigenetic peace we can pass on with a touch or a word,

we've never woven lies for no reason,
if a rung breaks
and they can, last straw and all that weight,
you know,
Jacob's ladder is an escalaltor-ladder, wittily invented,
with knots and twisted fibers electricked,
there are automated steps, algoryhmes of reasons to repair the broken rung
with a reason to believe the rung has been repaired,
only believe, take a step,
re
paired again with the idea of meaninglessness masked in create-if-ity

good enough. okeh. don't believe lies.
Don't pass undigested lies to see if farts burn.

Aslan
You make me want to write
My most inner thoughts
May they are vulnerable and raw
You make me want to feel them all

I look at you and I see innocence
One I wish I can protect with all my might
One I wish will last forever and a day
One I wish shall remain pure as ever

You filled me up with your candid love
Your cheeky grins and contagious laugh
You make me feel I'm on top of the world
Your love so grand, I am so shy and honoured

Aslan
You are my love, my favourite person
Your little self ain't so little no more
You are my reason to work endlessly hard
Your entire being I won't let be full of woes

I love you lil lion of mine

I’m not good at being forward
I have this habit of becoming disordered
I let my emotions change the color of my sleeve
In my aspirations I hope to find belief
I walk through jungles and rainforests
Once in a while I see through the canopy
Into the skies of my memories
And request that stars dance to the rhythm of us
I keep them alive to avoid the gathering of dust
My memories, caught in the Pensieve of your eyes
Have ignored all the times I told myself lies
I may not be your ideal Superman
But I’d accept Peter Pan if you’ll go with me to Neverland
I’ve rarely been so captivated by a girl
Sure, Zooey Deschanel is quirky in New Girl
And Emma Watson bewitched me from the start
Anna Kendrick was perfect in Pitch Perfect
Alex Morgan is the luckiest 13 I’ve ever seen
But I choose you! To fill my canteen
You quench my thirst when the loneliness dries me
I was not made to walk in a desert
My heart is an amphibian
Living like a Floridian in the ice-cold tundra we call Rexburg
You still need the sun, no matter how much it snows
I’ll trudge on in the jungle; dormant in the night
I’ll carry on with you in mind, until the time is right
Once I’ve faced death, or even a spider
Then, I think I’ll top the greats; George of the Jungle, Aslan, Mogly, Tarzan, Batman, Peter Pan, Harry Potter, Genghis Kahn, Michael… Jackson or Jordan
They’re all kings and I’ll be in their league
As I shake off the fatigue and find courage in you
To make it through the awkward moment of simply saying
“You’re a real kind of gorgeous”
In that chorus, played on my rhythm of heartbeats
I found my way out of the back streets
From deep in the jungle I’ve come to know as Fear
A jungle that disappears when your presence is near
Sometimes I have to stop walking, stop thinking
I feel like I’m on the verge of something spectacular
Anything normal might ruin that

He was so beautiful, I was so afraid to touch him. In fear that the illusion might break and I would have nothing left to look forward to. Like Aslan from Narnia, he was majestic and all things brilliant. And I, a curious Lucy went up to confront him in all his glory. "He is real," I keep telling myself. "He isn't like the others, they're fictional. He is real," as I got closer. It started with a hand on his cheek. He was nice about it, he urged me to go on, I did. With no fear of rejection, I took my time exploring. It was exhilarating. I was sure he would take care of my heart. That he would prove himself to be real, that I could bring him to show him off, to tell everyone that it is proof. He is real and he is mine to keep. After I was done, he lowered himself to look me in the eye. He slowly reassured me that I am right. He is real but he's not that amazing. I was sad, but he is right.

-m.b

they call you the great Lion.
but in my world you have another name.
you're not safe, but you're good.
you're the King.
you come and go.
one day i see you, one day i don't.
you're not a tame lion.
at the sound of your roar,
sorrows will be no more.
when you bare your teeth,
winter meets its death.
when you shake your mane,
we shall have spring again.

sharing a spot of brilliance with you
yes, it will touch your internals
only if you want it to*


Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes, who has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.

Find a girl who reads. You’ll know that she does because she will always have an unread book in her bag. She’s the one lovingly looking over the shelves in the bookstore, the one who quietly cries out when she has found the book she wants. You see that weird chick sniffing the pages of an old book in a secondhand book shop? That’s the reader. They can never resist smelling the pages, especially when they are yellow and worn.

She’s the girl reading while waiting in that coffee shop down the street. If you take a peek at her mug, the non-dairy creamer is floating on top because she’s kind of engrossed already. Lost in a world of the author’s making. Sit down. She might give you a glare, as most girls who read do not like to be interrupted. Ask her if she likes the book.

Buy her another cup of coffee.

Let her know what you really think of Murakami. See if she got through the first chapter of Fellowship. Understand that if she says she understood James Joyce’s Ulysses she’s just saying that to sound intelligent. Ask her if she loves Alice or she would like to be Alice.

It’s easy to date a girl who reads. Give her books for her birthday, for Christmas, for anniversaries. Give her the gift of words, in poetry and in song. Give her Neruda, Pound, Sexton, Cummings. Let her know that you understand that words are love. Understand that she knows the difference between books and reality but by god, she’s going to try to make her life a little like her favorite book. It will never be your fault if she does.

She has to give it a shot somehow.

Lie to her. If she understands syntax, she will understand your need to lie. Behind words are other things: motivation, value, nuance, dialogue. It will not be the end of the world.

Fail her. Because a girl who reads knows that failure always leads up to the ******. Because girls who read understand that all things must come to end, but that you can always write a sequel. That you can begin again and again and still be the hero. That life is meant to have a villain or two.

Why be frightened of everything that you are not? Girls who read understand that people, like characters, develop. Except in the Twilight series.

If you find a girl who reads, keep her close. When you find her up at 2 AM clutching a book to her chest and weeping, make her a cup of tea and hold her. You may lose her for a couple of hours but she will always come back to you. She’ll talk as if the characters in the book are real, because for a while, they always are.

You will propose on a hot air balloon. Or during a rock concert. Or very casually next time she’s sick. Over Skype.

You will smile so hard you will wonder why your heart hasn’t burst and bled out all over your chest yet. You will write the story of your lives, have kids with strange names and even stranger tastes. She will introduce your children to the Cat in the Hat and Aslan, maybe in the same day. You will walk the winters of your old age together and she will recite Keats under her breath while you shake the snow off your boots.

Date a girl who reads because you deserve it. You deserve a girl who can give you the most colorful life imaginable. If you can only give her monotony, and stale hours and half-baked proposals, then you’re better off alone. If you want the world and the worlds beyond it, date a girl who reads.

Or better yet, date a girl who writes.”                       ― Rosemarie Urquico








S T, 5 July 2013

Another beloved strides out of my life.

Some smoker pauses
head bent over their cigarette
matchstick poised to flare and shimmy under
streetlight
but the waiting moment stretches
infinitely

With sweet shock I realise there is a breeze
playing around us both
made suddenly material
in the space/ the pause between
spark and fulfillment

Then can we wonder how things unseen
or only felt
become visible when
inconvenient

Yearning

for the moment

pressed somewhere into the weft of my childhood
Aslan smiling
-if lions can smile-
when three small British children find out
that they need never leave Narnia again.

Outcasted kid with purple hair

Albeit not the kind of violet
That made your nostrils drip
With a watery ambrosia
Sugary enough to belong to a bee

And not the kind of
heavy, royal, omnipresent
contentment plum presents as a
molten lava
perfecting the pockmarks in the pie

My tendrils were not reminiscent of
home or
anything savoury so

I tangled them in tiaras
belonging to some Duchess' daughter or
one of Henry's wives or

Maybe twined them round
Frita's pallet and
Dyed my scalp a more pleasing hue or
Anything other than purple

Because purple was what I was not
Purple was Lilacs and
Pansies and Heliotropes and Tulips and
Lavender and

That little wild flower aforementioned

whose name I can't bare say
for the sake of
a humble beauty
such as hers

'twould be a shame to make comparable
To the wet-dog-fur look
Of my purple hair

And so I learned to get lost

In a past I always felt my own
Traveling continents and
Floating through eons

While my classmates  coloured in
British Columbia and
Where is Nunavut again?

Growing, I gained companions

A faery,
Athena,
Aslan and
Frodo, Einstein, Plato,
Theodore Geisel, Mahatma Ghandi
and Louis Leakey, Jamal Dewar,
Joan of Arc and John Lennon and
it all became
more complicated

Because my world was in flux
Oh it ebbed and it flowed and it expanded
Like the molten plum but this time
It really was more like lava

Assuredly you'll understand;
See the seams in our stitching!
Our Worlds are sewn together!

And as much as we would like
to cling to our
individualism

at some point we all must
accept that there is
but one

Intrinsic as our innards
Are our atoms and
Electrons and
mine are yours and
yours are hers and
ours together are all of the stars and
it really is
beautiful

At some point the twisting shroud
The squeezing and contracting -
of the world inside my head and
the world inside my eyes and
the world I was walking around in
and the world that I saw above me -
it tensed then halted
and became very dense
then melted

What a glorious
Ubiquitous, secure and everlasting amalgamation!
I opened my eyes
To find Van Goghs Scissors
All bloodied still and so
I cleaved my purple hair

But to find Hieronymus' oils and
watercolours so
I made my skin a hellish canvas
Painted all in yellows and blues
Without a hint of purple

Now from shoulders to forearm to wrist
from breast to navel to hip
from thigh to calf to foot
legible as anything are
lines that lilt and gleam
sighing songs of
devils and cherubs alike
and of sparrows and snakes

So after heaven is hell
and after hell is Nirvana
And Manna is as good as dirt
if Ambrosia is but
the spit of a bee

It all always works out
Because at the end comes
Death and after that
We don't know
But I do know that
I don't know
Much at all to begin with

Except for four things, almost assuredly:
1. Energy is all
2. I will never cease to find shouting at people from my bedroom or a car window amusing
3. My mother loves me more than anyone
4. Nothing is certain, except for uncertainty

I heard the quiet rumble,
Coming from his chest.
And when I close my eyes,
I feel his soft warm breath.
It only took a journey,
Between the pages of a book,
But once the wardrobe was opened,
One look was all it took.

The thing about Narnia is
Narnia leaves
and the kids return back to the real world with
both reluctance
and vigour.

But what if Narnia didn't?
What if it hovered,
shadowed around the edge of their vision,

Aslan in the corner of their eye
the White Witch frosting across
bodies of water.

Would they go back to school?
Would they fall in love with someone who
just didn't get
the game
they used to play when they were kids?

"You bailed on us again, Peter"
"Susan, stop looking out the window!"
"But you've always loved sweets"
"Lucy, lions can't talk."

So yeah.
Start again,
*******.
I mean,
you changed Narnia for the better,
Right?

Right?

I'm 13 the first time a boy in my class tells a **** joke.
I'm only 13, but it's been 2 years since I learned the seriousness of the thing him and his friends are now laughing at.
2 years since I had my favorite night shirt ripped from my back.
2 years since nails carved scars in my thighs my mother still thinks are from self harm.
2 months since I started blocking it out.

I'm 13 when a girl takes my backpack while I m putting my books in my locker,
Playfully yells over her shoulder,
"***** you".
I laugh.
I don't dare tell her what it's like to remake your bed at 4 in the morning,
Or what it's like to fight back tears when you ask your grandmother for new sheets for Christmas.
To only ever associate the summer heat with what it felt like that night between your legs.

About a year ago I watched the chronicles of Narnia for the first time with my dad.
It was one of my favorites growing up.
He says, "someone should **** that *****" when the witch kills Aslan,
And I stop myself from screaming at him that he had "the talk" with me a little too late,
That I lost my virginity to a man his age when there were still stuffed animals on my bed.
I don't tell him that I still shake when i have to be alone with him even though I know he would never hurt me,
Or that sometimes I still think I deserved it.

I sweat through my shirt everytime I try to write about it.
My best friend says she doesn't care who her first time is, that she just wants to lose it already,
But I wish I could make that choice.
I have lost control of my hands from the shaking when boys have asked me if I was a ****** over text message,
And have locked myself in bathrooms to sob because my sister said boys don't love girls who aren't pure.
I have heard girls called ***** who haven't gone as far as me,
And it feels like arsenic is in my veins everytime someone asks me how I know so much about *** if I haven't had it yet.
Or how my best friend told me she wants to hear about my first time because people still assume that triggers are only on guns,
And that every ******* romance movie is the perfect depiction of what losing your virginity is like.

We don't all get the soft music and the whispered names.
Sometimes you get hands over your mouth and years of ptsd,
Sometimes the I love yous get replaced with "don't wake your parents".
Sometimes I still feel like no boy should ever have to subject themselves to touching me,
For fear they might leave with their hands tainted.

You will never understand fear until you're looking at the boy across the room and thinking about what he'd look like without his clothes on,
Never understand depression until the tile of the bathroom floor is warmer than your thoughts.

I was 13 the first time I heard a **** joke,
And 18 the first time I told someone it wasn't funny.
Because for every second you laugh, I have spent years picking up the shattered pieces of my innocence.
Because it took me 7 years to realize that 20 minutes of not having control will never destroy the 3,681,641 minutes I have spent taking care of myself since it happened.
That the only person who will ever own this body is me.
That no amount of cheap laughs can undo the progress I have made.
So keep laughing.

Perhaps all I really need is your sweet company or something tht will replace my existance from earth. Because when I'm with you it's like if I were in heaven or haven or texas or back in colorado in my uncle's kitchen eating home made alfajores and my brother would be playing Guitar Hero only being 7 years old and me being 11. When I'm with you time doesn't exist and that's pretty rad. It's like we entered the narnia wardrobe and cuddled in between the bad witch and aslan and how they'd fight and make a war and scream bad things to each other but it's okay because I have got you and I'm looking at you and wow I really love the way you hold my hands.

This is a re-post of "All Change at Zima Junction."  This morning I turned in my keys after some forty years of herding cattle (metaphorically), seventeen of them with this institution.  I am unemployed for the first time since I was five or so and was set to toddling out to the chicken yard every evening to gather the eggs in an old Easter basket.  My mother said that the rooster often chased me and made me cry, but I don’t remember that.

And now - what adventure does Aslan have next for me?

The first book I bought upon returning home from Viet-Nam was the Penguin Modern European Poets paperback edition of Yevtushenko: Selected Poems.  That 75-cent paperback from an airport bookstall in San Francisco is beside me on the desk as I write.

                                     All Change at Zima Junction

                            For Yevgeny Yevtushenko, 1932-2017

Everyone changes trains at Zima Junction
Changes lives; nineteen becomes twenty-one
With hardly a pause for twenty and then
Everyone asks you questions you can’t answer

And then they say you’ve changed, and ignore you
The small-town brief-case politician still
Enthroned as if he were a committee -
He asks you what you are doing back here

And then you go away, on a different train:
Everyone changes trains at Zima Junction

                           “I went, and I am still going.”1

1Yevtushenko: Selected Poems. Penguin,1962

the God of freedom, whiskey, beer, and food-
the God of green hills and romances,
the God of tattoos, piercings, and edgy clothing,
the God of cliffs, breaking waves, and high mountains with stiff winds
this God is a wild God-
He rises and sets like the sun
loves always but is sometimes not seen
Aslan is not a tame lion, after all
He is an Irish God and contains the universe
in the palm of His Irish hand.

"Regardless. How hard you try.

I'm going to find a way to the top.

You cannot bring me down. Period.

No games. No schemes. No gags. No *******.

Every stone casted at my direction

I will use. FORGET A CASTLE.

I'm a building  A

P Y R A M I D."

Descovia


Nowhere to run.

The final rage released from

the heat of the sun!
Humanity paid for it!

It cost us, more than what

we could afford from funds.

I'll be at peace when the fire comes

Can't **** me! Hear me roar

on the mountains like Aslan!

Confident? I just know, I'm few of the ones!

Charismatic? I am the definition!

You haters are fire, for my ammunition!

I got what you lack,  can't **** my ambition!

I am dark with the magic. But no dark magician

I can bring the static, don't call the electrician!!

Come at me, foolish with the games?!


Why you even turn that switch on!?

I'm a God Father for a reason.

 My hold on this game remains strong

Criminal minded like a don!

You compared to me. There's no competition!


What do you mean you keep it G?

Last time. I check, you be selling

yourself out for the free!

Steal from your homies and cry to the police!?

Where I am from

that s  is for the weak!

You left a taste in

my mouth not so sweet.

I'm a Ghoul in Tokyo

running wild on these streets!

So best believe you started

a war with a Hero's Academy

F*G WITH ME!

I hate it, when I have to raise my voice

It's cut-throat, to any of you  be doing the most

I know it gets heavy,

when you hanging to life on the ropes!

If it wasn't for Faith I wouldn't have Hope.

I can take you out of the game

Pray for Light who needs a DEATHNOTE!?

Leave you like the titanic,  you ship-wrecked mess

with no other place to float!

You say "I'm a ***"

My wealth are my kids

Your platform's a joke.

26 Million followers

You could be on tv.

BUT YOU CAN'T

KEEP COKE OUT  OF YOUR NOSE!

Call me animal,  I stated before I'm a GOAT.

While you're trying not drown

I'm finding my flow

  Haters try to their best to impose.

You bounce around from

one to the next like a yo yo

I don't care about how much you party

how much money you got from so and so

You a one hit trip everybody I know had a turn to go.

I can speak more bad on your name.  I'll leave it right here.

CASE CLOSED.

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

                                              Behold!

A story requires an occasional “Behold!”
Merely to see the magic is not enough
The children do not merely see Aslan
Nor does Uncle Andrew merely see the witch

Behold!

A story requires an occasional “Behold!”
Merely to see the Truth is not enough
The Magi do not merely see the Star
Nor do the shepherds merely see the Child

Behold!

A story requires an occasional “Behold!”
Or else the magic isn’t truly told

Behold!

A sting of Fire and eyes of bliss
Oh, how I long for that crimson kiss

Winter I spent in frost and pain
missing the touch of Aslan´s mane
You flicker of Light on the mountain peak
Are you the warmth I so urgently seek?

The glow of Green and rivers Blue
Fight to meet you through and through
I patiently wait for song and Gloom
And radiant flowers in constant Bloom

So let me slumber in fields of Gold
and dream of Love so ancient and old
Though rust and Copper claims your child
and I face Cold and Winters wild

Where Darkness reigns and Courage fall
and frost and shadow swallow All
I gently rise above the meek
And recall your kiss upon my cheek.

Imagine someone so beautifully pained
Jade-Green eyes that complements the sky
Hair honey golden that swore by the sun

Now this Lynx is something else. someone you've never seen before. Searching for the meaning of life and what he's here for.

Many underestimated him which was pretty funny. Once he took all of their money.

Many hated him, but for what price? If I were them I would've thought twice.

He's pretty, but dangerous if you chose to cross the line
Never anger this Lynx, oh no or you'll be petrified

He's just like everyone else, just like you and me
his weakness are his loved ones who didn't deserve to die, although he kept it inside to show he'd never say goodbye.  

His views on life was not something to hear, but talk about death you'll never feel fear.

"Death looks sweet and peaceful, and unbearably enticing" I don't know about you but that's more to my liking

"I’m not afraid of death" he said as he looked to the sky. Everyday he seemed more like he wanted to fly.

He could've changed the world if only he was ᵃˡⁱᵛᵉ

When good faces evil,
You get one intense battle,
Eyelids trace intents of cattle,
Placing weighted content that’ll,
Shift resilience towards the peaceful or deceitful.
It all depends on the type of people,
That contends genetic designs of primal,
Adrenal glands that defend against the lethal.
That could stem back when our moms had labour.
And whether or not they harboured,
Alcohol, drugs or other stressful factors.
That can affects the hand one has like a game of poker.
That can become dreadful detractors,
For children once they grow older.

As one wanders closer,
One has to wonder,
What fatal gates await,
Will they reach Aslan’s place,
Or end up in motel Bates?

Who decides good and evil?
A gang in the hood is stable,
Until police are dispersed from the snitching of a weasel.
A burst of betrayal that leaves brothers in jail.
Got the weasel on the run, alliances have sailed.
Trying to find ways to cut off their rat tails.
Getting a witness protection detail.
So, I ask you is that good or evil?
I guess it depends on perspective.
Is it wrong to survive by being deceptive?
Doesn’t everyone have a selfish incentive?
That drives them towards their objectives?
Or is nature or nurture that determines genetics?
What if you committed a crime,
Because of being neglected.
Products of environment,
With freedoms unprotected.
Is it their fault or societies fault?
I guess it depends on your perspective.
So...

As one wanders closer,
One has to wonder,
What fatal gates await,
Will they reach Aslan’s place,
Or end up in motel Bates?

I can hear him through the walls
Hear him run here and there
He is playing by himself
Lost in his own personal space

Sometimes he will shout out loud
Or he will have imaginary scenarios
Most of the time he is a superhero
Going around saving innocent lives

Yet when I enter the room
He will stop and look at me
I will then feel his tiny arms around me
His love forever engulfing me

Even when you're old like me
Even when you have your own family
Even when you're busy as a bee
You, my darling, will always be my baby

I love you, son. You are my Aslan in the kingdom of Narnia. Always and always. Eternally.

All I see are demons
in this apocalyptic season
when everyone with a grievance
pledges allegiance
to those in agreement
of fear of the opposition
deserving paranoid treatment
for a thing called collision.

I live in fear of their numbers
I fear the heights of their hunger
I fear they'll eternalize my slumber
not wanting to go under
I sit there and wonder
how to tear asunder
nightmarish hunters.

This thunderstick granted to me
for my John Wick fantasy
lays in my hands handily
fingers hugging the trigger
ignoring the touch of skin
it makes me feel bigger
than playing the violin.

I need guns because the other side has them
trading players like they're Udonis Haslem
feeling like the metallic version of Aslan
because of the armament in my safe
connecting me to my venom
protecting me from the other's ways
with a second **** in my denim.

I'm afraid of the angry mob
to which I've globbed on
pitchforks in hand
fingers hugging the trigger
of supply and demand
the rich get richer.

we claw through brittle days
       upon calloused hands
hearts chiseled into Celtic swords
                                  
                                       yet we hold on-

hunkering down through
       blistering nights,
trudging beneath
               the frosted moon,        
         awakening at mottled dawn, sleep deprived,
       riddled with a profound ache
for distant fairy stories
              
we will not surrender
      to shrieking banshees,
           to long-stemmed loneliness,
  to prevailing hunger,
                  to our minds' mischiefs fretting
        as shadows in    
                   unforgiving hours

      instead we galvanize as druids,
              extracting golden amber
from faraway dreams
        depositing them as seeds stowed
beneath winter's cloak-    
   lore keepers
                       of pandemic secrets

                                    -until spring
    thaws the frozen river beds
              of our poetic fingers          
    pollinating speech
                     while we spawn
into garnet roses
(blood soaked with piecing stems)

    a reawakening of voracious beauty,
the roaring Aslan,
             unmuzzled prophesier
                                   of breaking dawn

Lawrence Hall HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                            The God of Children and Blueberries

    For Theo (who is three today) and Nora (who is more than three)

                           “It is eaten, and renewed, every day.”

      -Ramandu’s daughter in The Voyage of the Dawn Treader

God is prodigal with his seasons and feasts -
This is the season of blueberries, each day a feast
Great clouds of fat blue globes hang upon the little trees
Water and sky shading into Prussian blue

This is a table-tree, all are invited
To stand with buckets and thirsty lips
To pick and take, to take and eat, each day
The feast magically renewed each dawn

Mockingbirds, robins, sparrows, rabbits, and squirrels

And children

Picking, pecking, plucking, nibbling, biting

All at Aslan’s Table, and all at peace

Oh, Jerusalem,
How is it when your heart
Is broken?

Oh, Jerusalem,
The flower of the Middle East
Awoken.

Oh, Jerusalem,
King David is coming!...
It is so foggy.

Open your gates!
In the fog, you see
The sun; it is not boggy.

Open your gates!
Let your towers kneel down
To welcome the King...

Move your gates,
Let your towers dance!
The King is here, in full swing!

With his army,
The King is coming!
Oh, Jerusalem, do not cry.

You are not like a ******.
Like Bathsheba, you know a lot:
Her heart was soft, her womb - dry.

Oh, Jerusalem, do not cry.
Like a patient, be patient;
Wait and... wait for your “Godot”.

He is on the way from Ashdod.
Like Aslan, he is coming in the spring,
Like Jesus, he loves his mystical string.

Be blessed, oh, the Flower:
David on the way to Jerusalem.

28.5.21, J.

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

A Rotor-Tiller and the Feast of the Presentation

Names have not been restored, as Aslan says
Some are pleased to call this Ground-Hog Day
Although there are no ground hogs here
But the Presentation is everywhere and forever

I passed the morning deconstructing the tiller
                                    (instead of sacred texts)
Working debris from around the tines
Thinking about the coming spring and how -
How the Presentation is everywhere and forever

Names have not been restored, as Aslan says
Still, the Presentation is everywhere and forever

Hayal kırıklığı
Sıtması tutuyor sık sık
Kalmak istemediğim halde
bu şehirde

Oysa
Kaybettiğimi bile bile
Aynı filme giriyorum hep
Sonu farklı biter diye
Suarede

İçimdeki sinemaların
Hoş kokulu fuayelerinde kaldı
On dakikalık aralarım
Aralıksız

Aralıksızdı ayrılırken
Gözbebeğimin tatlı ninnisi
Kulağımda

Kulağıma
Melankolik küpeler ısmarlayan
İmitasyon fısıltılar

Gitmeliyim
Cebimde bir tomar yılgınlıkla
Efkarı ateşe verip bu kentten
Yırtarak sinema biletlerini
Köprü çıkışı

Islat
Maviliklerimi İstanbul!
Kükre yedi tepesinden ki
Dönmesin içimdeki aslan geri
Lakin bilirim ya
Dişlerinde değil ecel
Öfkemde ölür ancak
Gelirse peşimden
Müzmin sıtmalarım

I like the fact that Aslan is a Turkish word
It's a kind of Turkish delight
Greece in the morning
Istanbul at night

Oxford pub by myself
The Eagle and the Child
Emily in Amherst
The Nights gone wicked wild

I spend much time alone
But I am not a hermit
She is like Miss Piggy
I am green like Kermit

Can Susan save me?
Can poetry revive?
53 and falling
But glad to be alive

            Clive.

Reading C.S. Lewis in Florida
Several decades ago
I traveled twice to Oxford
Oh! That Narnia snow

Went to Poet's Corner
Royal Albert Hall
Took the London tube
River Eden, Wetheral

Aslan on the move
Hagia Sophia
Orhan Pamuk
I would like to see ya

Don't read Lewis anymore
Do read Tolkien twice
The Once and Future King
Breaks the Queen of Ice

               Very nice.

Father Mapple in the pulpit
Mortal or immortal

The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe
The Wardrobe is a portal

Aslan is a Turkish word
Ishmael shows Tahiti

Today I had 3 tacos
Tomorrow I'll have baked ziti

Richard Dreyfus in Stand By Me
And American Graffitti

He too is bipolar
(Better eat your Wheaties!) 😄

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

               Keep a Sharp Lookout – This Fog Won’t Last

           My country was made for noble hearts such as yours.

                       -Aslan in Voyage of the Dawn Treader

When we can’t turn outward, we turn inward
That might not be such a good thing, you know
We are probably out-of-practice, busied
With meetings and work and coffee-shop dates

For now our lives are solitude and screens
Pajama feet and emptiness, and if
We call someone, who is it who answers us?
“Be still, and know that I am Internet?”

Oh, no. The night is misty indeed, but the stars -
The stars still shine; be brave, and look for them