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Yenson Jul 2018
May we live in and see interesting times, the old saying goes

another offers that when the mind is blind, the eyes cannot see

for me my days are interesting and the laughter readily and often comes

for the grapes of wrath brings forth mirth filled grapes on grapevine tendrils

As lemmings and sheep enact bellyaching absurdities, as the ridiculous does



Veracity on sojourn and falsehood in residence with doors firmly closed

Hamlet re-enacts hapless role, with Red Robin Hood and vigilantes to a tee

eager audiences, participatory scenes in towns and cities, leaving empty homes

come all and vent your spleen and satiate your prejudices without paying a fee

This land belongs to us, it is our birthright and we will send Hamlet to the catacombs



Nothing is private anymore, rights and freedom nailed, anywhere we roam

Ophelia not only went to Italy, she went to Hull, Turnpike Lane and even Essex

but a joke here, if all these were good, why did she come to me, you simple gnomes

perchance unlike you common goons,  she knows distinction has no comparison to thee

Your vacuous hate filled mind cannot see that difference in a Prince, that regally looms



Act two, dim, fooled actors in their Beggars Opera, screaming, 'we oppose' with glee

so called republicans, laughable in their ardent favor, ignorant of their lobotomy botches

we will do Hamlet's head in, totally unaware theirs been done in, for the brains of fleas

in a civilisation, our conscious and stable populace, roots for vigilante and mob rule, yeah

for a man of distinction is a threat reminding you of your insignificance and lack of tomes



Come friends, lets see how the home of Democracy, hounds a citizen for us all and we

lets know that Robin Hood is alive and taxing, and 'Windrush' is still active in dispatches

indigenous people power, meets criminal gang stalking, meets racism and we all drink tea

and in true cowardly fashion, its all done by insidious, indictable, nefarious, malcontents and psychopathic crazies

It is our proud duty that we should all ruin Hamlet, for mediocrity has no distinction for aspiration et excellence


Copyright LaurenceA. JUNE 2018.All rights reserved.
This is based on the experience of some one victimized by a contemporary Left-wing Group for daring to criticize their views and believing in aspiration. This poor fellow has been hounded all over London, lost his job, isolated by smears and outrageous lies now broke and on the verge of suicide,, all because he aired his own stance against socialism. The Reds are forsaken bullies, I dare say this. In the old Soviet States dissidents are subjected to a program called Slow death, where they are discredited, harassed, hounded, mobbed everywhere, isolated, they are smeared, character assassinated and persecuted. they are unfairly dismissed from jobs, denied basic Human rights and some are framed and institutionalized and declared insane, in essence their whole lives are summarily destroyed and most end up committing suicide. I regret to tell you that this happens to some in this great Nation too. Pls research Criminal Gang-stalking, Cause Stalking and Community Vigilantes online.
Lawrence Hall Sep 2018
Sometimes they are all Up the Down Staircase:
Please use the computer we never gave you
Respond to the directive we never sent
And send again the grades you sent last month

You have thirty students in your night class
The adjunct next to you has only six
Well, no, you don’t get any more pay than him
          I mean “than he”
We’re miffed that you even asked about that

Your roof is leaking only because it’s raining
And you’re overdue for your pervert training
Your ‘umble scrivener’s site is:
Reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com.
It’s not at all reactionary, tho’ it might be drivel.
Jacob Oates Dec 2013
Emergent and forming I feel a storm is imploring that soon without any warning you beg to cross a line

Every time, nothing is sacred but sacramental complacence is marked as roles of the shameless

Mean to skip a line another time? Is this too rough and obtuse for a cutie like you to boost the power line?

Number 9, completion is power and stricken chords every hour proceed to timeline devour those daily entities

I do decree that opposition to me is free and withered beatings to meetings, detours and dealings

understanding demands of variable plans is held by the hand that feeds the depleted need

I see it from every angle, the tangle, the multishifted frame though it dangles, I can't be stuck in my own head when

I see the reflections of me in the treasure it jangles, brings into focus where my head fell to float in the

moments set to wrangle, pull it in, dwell upon the good and discard where it hampers new fangled notions like

truth effusions of love and devotion are swallowed up in the daily ocean of noise traffic, the more verbose,

Graphic dispatches matches blasted disasters dashed and rash past distractions amass magic attacks balanced

Secular motion entwined with metaphysical potions, divided what is your quotient? It doesn't add up in this

moment.

Interpersonal, intergalactic, universal assertions disturbed by verbage of outrance

Message mismanaged mischief mallaeble mayhem managed maganamously mallicous mannered when I

would proclaim them. Members materialized meriting masturbatory movements and monetized

malappropriation I have no patience nor pathos for indiscriminant egos demonstrating a tangent as canon and

paralyzing progressions toward psychic visions of heaven, eyes as the cosmos, and pressures upended.

I'll cope with associations disastrous and tainted, but keep in my visage all that scratches my lenses

I know far too much to be content with the situation, but far too little to shatter falsehood's intitiation
Heidi Franke Dec 2023
After he died
Without warning,
I planted a tree
Announcing
Just as suddenly
The Serviceberry
To the others
In the garden
Each bud of a branch
  welcomed by the fresh earth
And dormant bulbs yet to burst
The Aspen as role model
Hastily, deeply
she was added
As quickly as he left
In pursuit of
Recouping buoyancy after starving for oxygen.
Consoling under her generous shade
Begging for silence of sufferings and
deep sorrows

Three years have passed
Has it been that long
There they are,
our memories,
in the control room
That cling, stab like a blade
Taking over the clock
A contagion of disorder
That eats away
like acid
Explicitly unwanted  
Clarity of that night
Frozen in time,
like the winter
  it happened.
Time ended without warning
Deaths metronome gave birth.

Uneven disbursement
Over one thousand days
Since
Asking why,
Why?
Why!
Prone and exhausted.
Drowned in tears that forged
A lake of salt
Why then
Do we not float?
What's holding us up?
And another thing,
Where does the wind
Go when its gone?
It dispatches
   without warning
Whirling in circles,
Catching conditions
Why am I
not so
shaken then?


The Serviceberry has yet
To bare fruit in its
Short life to fifty
Holding steady,
Enduring the rooting road
In the pragmatic ground
Surrounded by leaves from seasons
As messengers of compassion, companionship
At the foot of her trunk
An offering
Once again in winter, here we are
Sleeping until the sun
Bleeds more time
Why does three years
Feel so heavy and capricious
As if it were just yesterday


Will the depth of sorrow remain
After she blooms and feeds
The hungry birds,
Over 35 species,
Who love her nectar
Caring for the offspring
Obscure, neglected and hungry
Giving back, keeping the healed
From further storms of
Sudden causes
As he did for his flock
Harbored in what the doctor
Ordered.
Tender
Loving
Care

Will heartache be replaced
By forgiveness?
Like the passing bus
That descends the hill
Into a valley of green hearts
Picking up new passengers
Loving another
Forgetting the importance
Of yesterdays bus ticket that
Flew out the window
Arriving without intention
To its destination
Neutralizing the anger
That came without warning
Glancing out the window
Towards tomorrow
As the birds songs
Are sung
The unintentional death and road of recovery.
Sadie Oct 2018
habituated within the confines of woe
accompanied yet felt lonesome,
the mere must sets forth tomorrow,
my memorandum is no hokum.

there was more than meets the eye,
but any has felt, not just I,
dispatches of melancholy comply,
for must I say goodbye
-- for now...

seek wholesome where it was borne,
restoration is the new.
nay mourn, nor fret, nor pout
and shall come back, subdue.
it rains  

where scattered white mists

applaud the silhouette

of a sharp and pointed moon

whose coagulant light

dispatches an infinite

population of ghosts

to haunt upon the mind

with tangential interests

are reluctant incarnations

of an intolerable vocabulary

with incoherent signs

these ragged images

free float before the eyes

create a straight line

upon a lime green colored wall

whose ghostly contour of shape

has no reason to be there

then it rains in horizontal free fall

from the ceiling to the floor

where these apparitions collide

in an empty sky of stars

creates a mysterious circumstance

that dictates mischievous epigraphs

where the leaves are black

it is whispered to young men

who reluctantly plant trees

whose shade they know

they will never sit in

it rains in this place

an angry and heavy rain

that sculpts the bones

and blinds the eyes

and the young men lie down

like rusted knives

in an antique drawer

without recognizing

this dredful portent of war
Hannah Paguila Jan 2021
There is a certain birdsong I keep trying to capture
I hear it from outside my bedroom windows
It is mesmerizing that I pause
In silence
As if holding my breath will imprint the waves
And commit them to my ocean of memory

Akin to the sound of twinkling
One that escapes from the mouth of babes
As they swing and slide
Glide from treetop to treetop
Glee

I have never seen the source
But I picture it as the accompaniment
Strokes of soprano notes ascending
While branches sway with the gentle amihan
Teeter-tottering, rays of light playing hide-and-seek
It is
Exhilaration
An aria of falling
But never of fear
There is always a safe place to land

A song of trust
The peaks and troughs are golden lilies
Dotting the field of frequencies
Rising above dispatches of uncertainty
The orchestra of engine rumbles fade
This concerto is for the tranquil

This, this is the song of my heart taking flight
In a waltz with the metronome of your love
Sparkling

I try my best to capture this birdsong because it encapsulates best our journey
Giddy but peaceful
Giddy AND peaceful
It is the ballad I am trying to write but to no avail
Nature has registered our love
No mixtape, nor playlist, nor digital recording, nor lyric can impeccably transcribe it
A wordless duet
The Universe sings, all we have to do is listen
And dance to our music

Crescendo, adagio, rest
Always a soft landing
"Huni" loosely translates to birdsong
Tammy M Darby Nov 2017
The cutis anserina raise cold upon your arm
The brain dispatches a foretelling chilling alarm
It is panic that has you in its grasp
I daresay your destiny
Though somewhat delayed come at last

You focus your frightened gaze rapidly from left to right
Wishing the sun break the dawn and begone this haunted night
Your inner voice speaks to you
Turn round if you dare
The hair slowly rises on your neck
The cautious self tells you to beware

Ring covered fingers icy run up your spine
Struggling to remain conscious
Your heart is pounding
Counting breaths you mark the time

Drenched in sweat you stumble headlong into the dark
Unaware an actor on the stage merely playing a part
Flee as far as you wish and swiftly as you can
There is no eluding the touch of fears hand

It is panic that has you in its grasp
The arms of fate
Clutch you to her stone breast and hold you fast
They call your name
You must bow to the gods
And breathe your last

All Rights Reserved @ Tammy M. Darby Nov. 25, 2017.




I
Jason Cirkovic Jul 2015
Hey mom,
I wish I could have stuck around
So you could have taught me
On how to be a better man,
Yet I ran
From the shadows
That grabbed onto my feet.
Momma you called it the past,
Yet I see it as my psychological jail sentence
For the mistakes ive made,
My ego was shattered
And dug deep into the roots
That twist along my body

Hey mom,
I wrote you this soft poem
To let you know
That I've never seen hunger
Like this ground
That dispatches of my skin,
This shollow resting ground
Is a lot smaller than my room.
I do not search for apologies or answers
To my last questions,
I found those blowing in the wind
Next to were my last breaths were sung
Emily B Jan 2016
amazing when miracles
suddenly manifest
beach-birds rising and circling
high above the Audubon
mystery steeps in unfurled wings
we slow down
for a smile and a sigh
passing gracefully over
barely noticeable steps..
close and hollow..
ghost ***** ephemerally longing
for a moonbeam's generous hands
a universe dispatches
a casual touch
conflict, contrast..
each mating w/in its own species
the spirit is migratory..
eternal as we coexist naturally
lines are blurring
and separation becomes less apparent.
We are woven into the fabric
of the Universe.
we slow down
for a smile and a sigh
and you take my hand
And, yet, somehow
in transcendent moments

we are the miracles
i miss that poet
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2015
i was romanticising her genitalia like oysters,
i know the boys in school thought
of fish first, but the same boys didn’t go
to brothels and seen prostitutes oil up;
come to think of it, given the above facts
i’m going to romanticise her genitalia with leeches
from now on - and in reverse? as for me?
well plenty of skyscrapers... boring...
comparing her’s to leeches fits the strategy;
and once, and once a boy of sixteen could
buy a ***** mag in a shop in Ypres without
the female shop owner looking at him like some pervert.
Ypres? yeah, school trip, visiting world war one trenches,
enjoying the atmosphere running in them like a
crazy dispatches boy trying to **** some chlorine on the sly,
which i think is the scary bit, but don’t worry,
we had female troopers with us, so we could shoot and ****
and not worry about the infidelity of our girls back home
to some shady ‘enry ‘hinaski.
but from what else i can remember, six of us broke off
from the rest and decided to go to a brothel,
but being schoolboys we didn’t have enough money
or were simply not convincing material for a free one with
the belgian beauties -
i had to wait a few more years before i had enough dough
but then it was with a ukrainian beauty in poland
after i realised that the university i attended was a nunnery.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2016
but fear is eager to feed the one, while love knows only of feeding the many, so why is jealousy the ugly twin of love, when fear dispatches questions with audacity to disclaim an antonym partner; for with fear feeding the one, there's love feeding the many: as is due the parenting of the twins jealousy and audacity, jealousy synonymous with love became the crucifix; for it is fear that guides the feeding of the one, and allows love the harvest of feeding the many.*

when you see it,
the great red dragon
               and the beast from the sea painting
by william blake (i'm still searching for
that prized maxim of):
there are more stars than the grains
of sand on the beaches of all of earth -
well... looks like a pretty vacant void to me
where content with the blue but not content
with the darkness faking the number of stars
citing many stars in the wilderness of australia...
and you wonder at my addiction
to blow-job videos and admiration
of ******* beauty and the contentment
of female eyes and my own predicament
of an acne-riddled phallus... well, that
makes two monks and glass eyes of dolls reflecting me,
why the only beauty implanted in me
was worth a pristine skin,
and you might consider standing naked
next to me - but of course the juicy parts
of the story would make me a serial killer -
rather than loving animals above humans,
but then loving animals above humans
made me more dehumanising -
not ready to write a vegan manifesto;
thank god i didn't shackle up with her
until she got bored and bore my children
and the law of the land told me to pay
alimony.
Barton D Smock Apr 2013
my mother and father cower under the kitchen table and my brothers are dead.  my father has clammed up since asking me to tell him something he can take to his grave.  this last week I’ve mastered placing my ear on the table in such a way I hear what I am supposed to do.  impossible things that are no longer terrible.  dispatches from a simpler region.  for example, hack your roommate’s youtube account.  also, poison the non-pregnant.  my baby sister laughs with me when I say some of these aloud.  she believes the table is possessed by the devil’s ghost.  her beliefs are clear and specific.  the ghost thinks itself the actual devil, and will need a good amount of therapy.
Derrick Jones Aug 2018
The electric kettle grooves like a gavel bounce bouncing off the bench when the judge won the raffle
The sound waves baffle the mind as the refrigerator hums along to the microwaves song
A beep beepin’ melody as smoke’s creep creepin’ from the oven
And the blender is lovin’ the distraction
Keepin’ their eyes from the action
As he hatchets and dispassionately dispatches chickpeas left and right
No end to the violence in sight
Who cares about wrong from right
There will be hummus tonight

**** blender got his business done but now the fun begins as the stove channels the power of the sun to heat the pan and the plan is to fry the dough, those homemade doughnuts make the crowd go nuts but the sizzle of the grease unleashes the beast of the band, the main man, the rockstar, tattoo on his arm, rugged charm, protects you from harm, my man the fire alarm.

The fire truck sirens join the orchestration and soon the scene of devastation muffles into a hum, but umm, the night’s still young and we could still go, you know, I’m pretty loco for them Doritos and I may be burnt and poor but Taco Bell is open ’til 4.
Barton D Smock Oct 2015
from ~The Blood You Don’t See Is Fake~ selected poems (September 2013)

[multitudes]

oh, here they are.  the interested persons we will find later.  for now, this field.  my gestural father holding a broom for what he calls the welcome mat of exodus.  if my mother is watching it is because she long ago dropped birds from a single passenger plane.  if instead she is privately seen by god, then the whole bird thing was a bit of a stretch.  in memory alone I am alone.

[another ****]

in such times, it is constantly 2am.  a friend pulls carefully at your ear.  a friend’s thumb is a hologram of a thumb.  you are being told that what you’re about to be told is highly confidential.  because it’s dark, and because your bed is the prize winning bed of a formerly dethroned insomniac, you are nothing if not empowered to listen.  your friend’s tongue redacts the parts of your body that have been marked.  this is done in secret.  what you’re hearing right now was scored some time ago.  when things were the same.      

[word of the devil’s death]

     my mother and father cower under the kitchen table and my brothers are dead.  my father has clammed up since asking me to tell him something he can take to his grave.  this last week I’ve mastered placing my ear on the table in such a way I hear what I am supposed to do.  impossible things that are no longer terrible.  dispatches from a simpler region.  for example, hack your roommate’s youtube account.  also, poison the non-pregnant.  my baby sister laughs with me when I say some of these aloud.  she believes the table is possessed by the devil’s ghost.  her beliefs are clear and specific.  the ghost thinks itself the actual devil, and will need a good amount of therapy.                    

[men statuesque]

I am struck by the urge to pray.

my trauma has yet to occur.

the stress my father knows

knew his hands
as he waved them in front of nothing
on a tarmac obscured by speech.

night is a ruined crow.

I see the city as possibly bombed.

[steganography]

every day is a scar’s birthday.  this is how I am able to start most of your sentences.  I praise your god, you worry, and worry keeps him from finding out.  on the day you started talking the rooms were horrified.  the termites fled your blood.  a cold stone appeared outside beside a stick.  the home’s most loved dog died without spatial awareness.  your mother began to compose a series of poems by Franz Wright.  for inspiration she put her hands in the dog and in doing so dropped a sack of black groceries.  a thing that changed over time rolled into your father’s mouth.


[the wave]

we let the phone ring out because it keeps the babies quiet.  we have this dance we do to straighten side leaning semi-trailer trucks.  the sports we play require that one’s sickness occur only when it’s run through the others.  we limp beside any creature that limps.  the great romance of a complete thought is something our parents plan to leave each other.  our father is two mathematicians who argue.  our mother says her feet feel as if they’re still in prison for what she’ll take to her grave.  our guesses mean little because they are facts.  at school we are voted on and kissable.  if you see us coming, *** is a small unplugged television on top of a small casket.  details belong to god.      

[fixture]

dying of young age, your brother nurses at the breast of the stage hand’s version of a mother.  the stage hand is off arguing with a lamp on the impossibility of attracting moths.  beside a tall cake, a groom with lockjaw and a stiff neck has to take life’s high point on faith.  if you remember, brother made for the groom a bible so light it could be held by a cobweb.  and then it was.      

~~~~~~~~~~

from ~father, footrace, fistfight~ selected poems (June 2014)

[future stabbings]

you take photos of men and women who aren’t all there. you post the photos while your dog barks. you doze on a hot day. your mom calls to tell you about the spider in her eye and while she talks you look for your dog. your mom thinks you sound desperate though you’ve said nothing. you go outside and see your dog in the backseat of a parked car. the car is not yours. your mom has the hiccups and says the first part of goodbye.

[dog years]

the longer
I grieve

the more

[crystal]

a foster boy using an alias teaches my son to shoot.

it’s the tooth fairy on a sad day finds
under my pillow
a handgun.

you know your father
is a night owl.

[mendicant]

this doorbell
is for the inside
of your house

-

to some
you’re the giant
you’re not

-

hearing isn’t for everyone  

-

a fog-softened man
with a baby
might experience
a sense
of boat
loss…

-

hurt

what you know

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

from ~Eating the Animal Back to Life~ full length poetry collection (July 2015)

[uppers]

god gets ******-up about which hair to harm on your head. in some, this goes on for years. I have a lucky razor, a father who’s blind in one hand, and a suicidal thought that scares me to death in front of cops. my last meal came to me on a toothbrush.

[themes for orphan]

you will never be
a virus

-

the animal’s moment of bliss
before it is named

-

*******
as the seizure
had
by hologram

-

the cyclone
that makes a baby
you can’t
put down


[accession]

starvation
is the invisible
cannibal’s
birthmark.

water
is nothing’s
blood.
Mankind has a dark persona on show
Tis this day manifest in glummest of glow
We're bearing witness to horror and strife
On terrain distant from our turf patches
Arms deployed in ghastly dispatches
We've seen these awful actions in days past
Weapons involved with maddening blast
Theater of battle on Iraq's soil is rife
Cessation of fire not on horizon
Men of war have compunction to go on
We're seeing the gloom of munition round
Too many people are becoming casualties
Arms bringing numbers of fatalities
Mankind's gun does continually resound
Ar Bazian Aug 2016
All within the dyed robes of rhyme,
and the subtle dispatches of sinful woe...
Enchanted in wisdom; a pilgrim's trot,
waging and waling at the spot.

Fringing at the hands that drew his fate,
ever so lonesome in his wait.

With scattered fears, roaming earth,
in search of what, truly, is dear and dirth.

There is much freedom, need I say, in passing time...
In the careless precision, pattern, and chime!

Dearest dreams, do float away,
and water my sight, with not grief this today!
While sweetest passions, of ides a-due,
devise in garnishing thoughts of two!

Later mine hearts, when candles do,
shalt guidance us to all, when I am through!

And when thine waters cease further fall,
all virtues when on then, shall hitherto stall...
Beware of that widow, that mocks at our night,
in pitch perfect light, stings mostly she might!
for when golden braids,
spike at God's feet,
away, shalt thy singing,
make surely we meet!

A.r. Bazian
Edited on August 20th, 2016. Originally part of the "Diaries of an Immigrant Soul", Pt.21, by A.r. Bazian, published on Writerscafe.org in 2012.
Penelope Winter Jul 2017
My heart be weary,
My cheeks be teary,
My shoulders sagged,
Mine eyelids bleary.
Perchance 'twill be
What dispatches me:
Destroying mine own self
For thee.

- p. winter
found this one in my drafts too
Keith W Fletcher Jul 2019
You were not a profit
A margin set wide
Applied in sleight of hand
Applications , as all implications
Imply that we have begun
Ripping apart at the seems
While dispatches twine
Like a run away vine
In, around and down the middle
of all those dead end truths
and cobble stones
Wherein lies
those alternate routes
The endless drone of what
I...DK - is the disquieting noise
Made....when...the rubber does not
Meet the road!
All success in a business sense
Requires a bit of hustle , some muscle
Applied by the leverage gained
Maintained by liberal false promises
Cloaked and contained
in the conmanservatude
by blind faith idolatry
False pride and emonumental
Brigandage and deminionization  
Demonization and Condamnization
That spread like some rare disease
Across not only our own nation
But around the whole misbegotten world
So no profit upon us obliques
Any more than will be
visited upon those resolute parallels
Who seem so blind, walking along
All of one mind,  and inclined to
Absorb the blows, sing the praise
I do not know how they cannot see
The ship would sink , the markets close
Without them as his orphan
His common stock slowly slipping away
Diminishing returns are not his concerns
That lays more to the valuable blue chips
Because it's easy to see facts are facts
Took you and me and our hard earned common cash
To pay for those inherently smarter  2% ers income tax.
Someone has to and its not just us snowflakes paying..
   Oh forget it! they still can't hear a word they themselves are saying
  They can't hear us
Donald the DeDuck tion  
Spent extra for sound proof glass on the clown bus.
Wk kortas Mar 2018
He’d never read him, understand,
At least not that he’d remembered;
Might have half-skimmed something in Look or Esquire,
But he certainly wasn’t much for novels,
And there were kids to raise to rise, a war to fight
(His platoon had been pinned down at Anzio,
Leaving him precious little time for dispatches from the front,
Save  for a  singular postcard
He’d bought in Netunno on a rainy April afternoon,
On which he’d scratched Babe, I’m still alive and kickin’,
Worth ten thousand words
To a harried, frightened seventeen-year-old,
With one in the cradle and one on the way),
But then all that was later on, or earlier
Depending on where you stood,
Time being a lazy, molasses-unhurried thing to him now,
Like the leisurely old Owasco Inlet which ran through town,
Seeming to go in no direction in particular,
Running north or south as it deemed fit at the moment.
Once, he’d worked at the typewriter plant on Spring Street,
Fashioning hammers and slugs for Standards and Silents
And, later on, the electric Coronets and Model 250s
Until he packed it in with forty-five years under his belt,
Though all that pretty much the stuff of memory as well:
The factory gone a couple years now,
Rubble carted away, leaving an angry brown patch of land,
The last generation who’d worked the plant
Having up and left, by and large,
In most cases taking his generation with it as well
(Factories tending to be family affairs,
So many of his contemporaries unwilling to be so distant
From children and grandchildren,
Such notions being unknown in company towns)
Leaving the place a touch foreign,
A bit alien to folks who stayed on,
Men without a country as it were, doing their level best
To navigate waters without landmarks, without buoys,
Trying to reach harbors of questionable refuge.
Lawrence Hall Oct 2023
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                                A Deer and I Surprised Each Other

Silence
We paused
We looked
She leaped

I said
Goodbye
But she
Was gone

And I
Was left
There all
Alone!
An afternoon walk.
Lawrence Hall May 2022
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Former President Trump Splits Two Infinitives and Botches a Number of Subject, Verb, and Adjective Constructs While Proposing the Arming of Teachers

    “...it's time to finally allow highly trained teachers to safely and
     discreetly concealed carry, let them concealed carry.”

                      -Former President Donald J. Trump
                    to the National Rifle ***., 27 May 2022

All teachers trample the Constitution
All teachers promote contempt for the Flag
All teachers should be in an institution
All teachers are weird (and that one’s a fxg)
All teachers despise the military
All teachers should be slowly microwaved
All teachers hate meat; they’re vegetary
All teachers hate Jesus; they can’t be saved
All teachers are evil; the children are harmed:

And thus, they say, all teachers should be armed

Previously published as “Texas’ Proposed Concealed Carry Law” in Dispatches from the Colonial Office, 2018, available from amazon.com.
Dispatches from the Colonial Office
Dave Hardin Sep 2016
Spider Hatch

Charitable in her critique
my hope this morning
soap in eyes, steam
rising to buffet
the asterisk
on the ceiling
that qualifies a tepid
first impression or
dispatches me with a silken
“it’s much worse than I thought.”
Both sides of the Arbela militia remained frosty, failing to tear the wrath of the throne from the depths of the charter and from the expropriation of the votive temple, in view of the strength of leaders who were reinserted and rewritten from the plaster of Parnassus, where the beatifices Mortals are seen competing without having references or additions in the washer that predominated by chance referring to athletes and gladiators who were not, but today they could be spiked in the crushing Syntagamatarchos table, captaining two units all with their abdomen semi open, re liquidating again the entrails by the Ghosts of Shiraz, who came from Roknabad (also known as Aub-e Rokní), from an underground channel that carried water from the spring to the city from a mountain located ten kilometers northeast of Profitis Ilias, from where until then they were commanded, with dispatches of their designs before a voluntary prodigy that emancipates a perplexed Meltem i that he was haphazardly swirling in the funerary fields, but descriptive of returning to the fields their souls, which abstained after ephemeris towards a knowledge resigned to abide by it, and to get rid of transcendental limitations commanded by his blowing, and not his body that was clouded before the conspicuous epistemological reason flashed and relaxed when comforting them for having to calibrate their bones when they returned to Mosul. The Colosso pedestals were breaking when it intimidated everyone to flee to their homes, in this way it calmed them down from the quicksilver of the world that was no longer their typical dwelling, from a dwelling of transit to a story that deals with the flys that are they hover, pretending to be the same, banishing themselves from the pain that rises up the cervical spine and that dismisses the ridiculous voices of Aeschylus with their acting choruses that they seemed dilapidated in cries impossible to personify. The ******* brave pieces of deployment began to drain from the secondary positions of the penultimate physicalities of suffering that one felt without being affected, rather it manifested itself in the contents of an essential muscular container, of the subsistence of the cosmos installed in what does not think nor decide on its retraction. Vernarth and Alexander the Great knelt in front of the larnax of the torments of mercy, like ***** language that lashes out rhetoric in rebellions of thousands of hoplites who expiated themselves from their hands, empty spiked race contained in the perjury of Zeus, enrolled in apocryphal images in tombs of those who were going to be faced with pseudo refractory that was recluses of the fleshless breath, but anarchic when trying to return to their places of origin of warlike Tikun.

The traits of annihilation were shed from buried reanimates that became slime in the reverie of a mythological God who never accompanied them and invited them from a cohabiting sun, which was only the fantasy of irresistible permutations. It should be noted that the subplot was in intangible interfaces that would never be stitched together as an annexed story, but the words of parapsychology were captained by themselves more than the sub plotline that transcended the apostrophe of death, and the Pronoia of the Peri Kousmos. The doors of Patmia were finally released and speculative vines re-flowered were Lotos and Astragalus, as courtesies of Operandi and impairment that replaced the ****** elderberry, with chalks that made the winter raging when Persephone rampaged what was merely monthly erratic of those who exiled her. The senses of Patmos were the property of his Institution, which was what it is and is not, for a holistic consequence of fast ideology but of minimal intuition, which lay in multiple reasons for tissues that were filled with crop fields, animals in Magna prairies that agreed to serve the man who loved him, in which the causes were two meters before the limen that sent her off the cliff in other causes of confusion, in a real creation of zoological Hellenic neuroscience, where all forms of mythology were made of submithology, always at the side of man but this time redeemed from the origin and cause, they only persevere to offend a certain space of ignorance where the like all prevaricated by large amounts subordinate to their lineage, in the kingdom of paradises from which only animals protect the doors that only Cerberos and Cherubim open, scrutinizing food for them and making use of them.

Patmos was remade of all the waterfalls that completed the rigors of the precept, and not the chaos that subordinates cognition to make night day or day night, pouring specimens that were and will be ignored but extremely useful for the preservation of the body of the unsupported objective and sumptuous, but of a systemic nature that does and sustains it. The Souls of Helenikká and Trouvere graced all the inhabitants towards a comprehensive evolution of the ***** of dreams, giving it the fruits of conservation where the lords of the future will have to bow to the laborious principle of the Mashiach, conciliating the arrest of the stars and not of what is reactive of an invasive action. Thus ended this subplot rhetoric of intuitive formality and metaphysical channeling character, leading them through plumbing that led from what was coming out from the Raedus Codex, from the wind tunnel, and what was coming in from here identical to its elevation towards the direct apotheosis of the Megaron that was splendid in four composition buttresses with more than two drops of laudanum, which will be insignificant ***** to save the cosmos from falls of vitality in the conclusion of Vernarth.

Saint John the Evangelist after several sleeping episodes of his spiritual experience, reappears in the sucker of modality and intentions that the drops of laudanum manifested to fill the pain of Vernarth's tragedy, and those that are manifested to him that they became resurrected entelechies of component solutions speculative, that were reborn from certain internal devastations, and that returned vague automata to the Achaemenids that emerged from the depths of this professorial subplot, to bring them with the simplicity of lexicons that were loving realities that would lie behind the veils of illusion, transgressing properties of a totalizing daphnomancy. Due to his parliament, Áullos Kósmos eliminated himself braided from the road when he expresses fatigue and regret, calming the reasons in the flight from himself. He starts from demoralization and hidden impotence of the Hoplite that would not come out of himself, because it is a frenzy of consternation that makes him start from the unshakable grief of his compassion, without reaching the surface of the ethical plane.
Battle of Patmia Part VI
David R Oct 2021
eyes droop
mind-in-a-loop
darkness surrounds
misery abounds

longing for escape
to break free from waters
that stifle and suffocate
in private quarters

i hear the rain
as constant pain
no reprieve
can't self-deceive

i long for air
for light,
but am sunk in despair
no respite

roller-coaster roundabout of life
the hurt, anguish, unending strife,
no strength to take a knife
no strength to end this life

best batten down the hatches
lock the doors with latches
give gasoline and matches
hurrah for quick dispatches
BLT's Merriam-Webster Word of The Day Challenge
#batten
Michael Kusi Jan 2019
Pharoah Ramses was dictating the Battle to his scribe.
Saying that, I fought my way and the gods helped me stay alive!
The King’s young daughter, Meritiamen, said Please excuse me.
But it was by my efforts that the Hittites and their allies were made to flee.
Ramses brushed her off and said, Hush young child the pharaoh is speaking.
Now scribe, I could feel the Ptah Division began to weaken.
Mertiamen retorted, Father, it was your Amun Division that broke first.
My Ptah Division came to save you, otherwise it would have been the worse.
The scribe was confused and said to himself, These writings would be my end.
One of them is telling the truth, the other one is living in pretend.
I believe the pharaoh is living in a world where only the gods reside.
Ramses blurted out, Then I stabbed the Hittite high king and he died!
Mertiamen rolled her eyes and said, Then how come we did not recover his corpse.
Father, you did a great service to the gods and Egypt yesterday, you don’t have to force.
It was a great victory, you don’t have to diminish it with a lie
The Hittite High King left the battlefield, he did not die.
Ramses snorted and said, I was all alone, no once around to save .
An arrow narrowly missed me, if it hit I would be in the grave.
The God of Egypt made mortal, it would have been a tragedy too.
Meritiamen blurted out, But my Ptah Division broke in to rescue you.
The scribe said, From now on, I will ask Meritiamen about the dispatch.
Because my pharaoh, it seems as if you don’t have all of the proper facts.
Ramses protested, But we were surrounded with no hope of breakthrough.
Meritiamen shook her head and said, My Pharoah, I would never let them take you.
The Pharoah and his Princess were arguing, and the scribe put his head in his hand.
Muttering to himself, I just cant… I don’t really understand.
I was working for the temple when they said Work for the pharaoh on campaign.
This is the hardest thing I’ve done in my life, and I can feel virtue leaving my brain.
The Princess then smiled saying, Scribe, we will have separate dispatches of the Battle of Kadesh.
I’m sure mine would be better, but the Pharoah also has a tale to embellish.
The Pharoah started up again, and the scribe rolled his eyes.
After so many years of observing Pharoah Ramses, he wasn’t really surprised.
Lawrence Hall Sep 2023
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                                A Little Kitten and a Little Girl

A little girl sits with her mug of milk
Happy and peaceful with her breakfast toast
Her little kitten lays beside her and purrs
And takes a delicate sip for itself

“DID YOU LET THAT CAT DRINK FROM YOUR CUP THAT CAT HAS GERMS GO WASH YOUR HANDS GIVE ME THAT CUP I NEED TO WASH IT I DON’T KNOW WHY THAT CAT IS IN THE HOUSE CATS HAVE GERMS ***** CAT SNEAKY CAT THEY’RE ALWAYS UP TO SOMETHING DON’T YOU EVER LET AN ANIMAL DRINK FROM YOUR CUP THEY’RE NASTY WE DON’T LIVE LIKE THIS WITH ANIMALS IN THE HOUSE THAT’S A DISGUSTING HABIT PEOPLE WILL THINK WE’RE LOW CLASS WE WERE RAISED BETTER THAN THAT DID YOU LET THAT CAT DRINK FROM YOUR CUP THAT CAT HAS GERMS GO WASH YOUR HANDS GIVE ME THAT CUP I NEED TO WASH IT I DON’T KNOW WHY THAT CAT IS IN THE HOUSE CATS HAVE GERMS ***** CAT SNEAKY CAT THEY’RE ALWAYS UP TO SOMETHING DON’T YOU EVER LET AN ANIMAL DRINK FROM YOUR CUP THEY’RE NASTY WE DON’T LIVE LIKE THIS WITH ANIMALS IN THE HOUSE THAT’S A DISGUSTING HABIT PEOPLE WILL THINK WE’RE LOW CLASS WE WERE RAISED BETTER THAN THAT!!!!!!!!!”

A little girl sits in her backyard swing
Happy and peaceful with her little cat
Two conspirators winking at each other
Far away from their disapproving mother
... Dispatches from Dante's 7th Circle:
4:15 a.m.
your talons tore at another's neck*

a feast of flesh
a
favored treat
that lack of brains
but the ego's sweet

pheromones permeated... the smell of ***
divergent innocence
with every flex

bring napkins now for that forbidden drip
as you lay satisfied with a bitten lip

*
an index finger knew where to find you
pinky gravity, a room that's moon blue
thumb and pointer, begin to saunter
no ring to cover
just a middle, taunt her
Lang Leav loves Michael Faudet, last I heard there was no third
Wk kortas Jul 2017
Its color sat somewhere on the spectrum between brown and gray
(Such things being dependent on vagaries of the light,
And the perspective of the beholder)
And it served as a testament
To the muted benefits of near adequacy,
Being too thin for the portentous winds of December,
And too warm for the capricious sunshine of May,
Its threadbare functionality emblematic of its owner,
Whose relationship with those around him
(Indeed mankind and his universe in general)
Vacillated between an affronted indifference
And an implacable if somewhat muted contempt,
His commerce with his fellow man,
Excepting that required to provide him
With the basics of sustenance and shelter,
Carried on in an epistolary fashion,
Through letters he wrote,
Sometimes to those he encountered on a daily basis,
More often to mankind and the unheeding cosmos in general,
Which were stuffed higgledy-piggledy into his coat pockets.
These missives were not humdrum laundry lists
Of those slights and injuries, be they petty or mortal,
But rather soaring and high-flown in nature and tone,
More kin of the sermon than the scolding,
Celebrations of life’s splendors great and small,
More often than not those he knew little or nothing of first-hand.
He’d no intention of sharing these dispatches
With the world at large or anyone in particular;
He’d simply empty his pockets once they were full enough
To present an inconvenience,
And he’d laundered any number of them
On more than one occasion,
And when he’d passed behind this earthly veil,
All but unnoticed and unmourned,
His landlady had simply emptied the contents of the coat's pockets
And consigned them to the trash,
Believing the garment barely fit for charitable purposes
Washed and given a goodly airing out,
Let alone burdened with the detritus of another man’s life.
Something of a draft document, as it strikes me as woefully in need of sanding and varnishing.
Lawrence Hall Nov 2023
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office


                                 Out Where the West Begins

                                 In the Drugstore Parking Lot

An old man creaks his body out of the pickup
With boots on the ground he's got his swagger back
He taps a Marlboro out of a cardboard box
And lights it with a manly Zippo (clink)

He’s practiced his technique since ‘66
A ‘way-cool curl of silver-white cowboy smoke
Rising up above the pickup cab and into the West
Along with a phlegm-rich boots-and-saddles cough

His wife’s inside the store, a-getting’ his pills
He can’t quite manage that distance himself

‘Way back when he was so ////’ cool, you know?
Old Man, Old Swagger, Old Cigarette
Lawrence Hall Oct 2023
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                                    The October Squirrel Festival

                              For Jerry Nobles, of Happy Memory
                              Our Town Pharmacist and a Joyful Friend

Squirrels!

They’re up the trees; they’re down the trees
They swarm each other just like bees
They’re up the oak; they’re down the pine
They really need a traffic fine

Dachshunds!

Our outraged pups – they yap and bark
While chasing squirrels all over the park
Dachshunds are usual merry and curious
But with squirrels they are fast and furious

But not fast enough

Cats!

Tuxedo-Cat, all proper and prim
Disapproves of the others with a face all grim
Squirrels!
Lawrence Hall Nov 2023
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                              Science Experiments and Pirate Ships

                                For Gordon, of Happy Memory
                                 Whose Death Began in Viet-Nam

My boyhood pal’s home is now mostly gone
A concrete slab among some sunburnt weeds
The crumbling front-porch steps still stepped in place
But leading only to memories in the empty air

There where his bedroom laboratory used to be
We traded Heinlein stories and comic books
Experimented with chemicals and radio kits
And planned camping adventures that never were

His father was a widower who didn’t like either of us
But maybe that part of it doesn’t matter now
Boyhood memories

— The End —