Sun come up but
not for me.
My name is not whispered by the wind
when it blows through that tall stand of pines.
What now passes for a winter night,
with its tepid atmosphere and
lack of magic,
does not call.
If it did I wouldn't answer.
Standing sentry
are the haints and phantoms -
the faded pains
felt as echoes are heard,
left forgotten but waiting.
All of this time spent idly watching the world feels wasted, but
we've been secretly reinventing nuance.
I dont recognize it anymore.
Too bad, really, since
I've always loved subtle difference.

How bright
my sun shines down
all day

Sustained and savage
with glee
of sun tomorrow

but when evening comes
The shadows grow horns
and the darkness gasps,

and haints
come in like
they own the place

Licking their chops
over my
sleeping head

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                               Whistling Past the Graveyard

No one whistles past a graveyard now
Not with the radio on and the windows up
Though in our barefoot childhood long ago
Walking home alone at dusk – we whistled

But there is no need to whistle now
The cemetery is not a place of spooks and haints
But of those childhood friends with whom we walked
Past our ancestors to the swimming hole

No one whistles past a graveyard now
Because those whom we love are silent there