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"lawrence" poems
In fair Verona where Will set the scene Belle Fortune moves the markers up and down. Two households both alike in dignity Fiercely compete for fear of losing ground. When Juliet saw Romeo at the dance Events were set in motion that, perchance, Would see fair Juliet as our Romeo’s bride but ultimately result in her suicide. With Tybalt and Mercutio both dead, And Capulet and Montague estranged. Young Paris sought fair Juliet to wed not knowing of her loss of maiden-head. Romeo was banished for his crime, a sin for which a peasant would have died Their two households, joined because they wed, remained divided by their foolish pride. Summer’s fierce heat shimmered in the air, oppressive in the absence of a breeze. With Friar Lawrence’s help, Romeo’s girl played dead, as if struck down by some unknown disease Romeo , in Mantua, heard that his Juliet Lay dead amongst the sleeping Capulets. A draught of deadly poison he obtained So they might sleep together once again. When Romeo met Paris at her tomb, Words led to swordplay, leaving Paris dead. Would not the world have been a better place if Romeo had kept it sheathed instead? Unshriven, Romeo drank the poison down- the only son of Montague now dead. Perchance just then fair Juliet revives Bereaved, she took his Dirk to bed instead. Authorities, arriving at the scene, could only mourn a brace of kinsmen lost. Capulet and Montague were reconciled Their amity bought at a fearful cost.
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May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 7:47 AM UTC
Juliet and Romeo
I say to my woman, "Jeffers was a great poet. think of a title like Be Angry At The Sun. don't you realize how great that is? "you like that negative stuff." she says "positively," I agree, finishing my drink and pouring another. "in one of Jeffers' poems, not the sun poem, this woman ***** a stallion because her husband is such a gross spirit. and it's believable. then the husband goes out to **** the stallion and the stallion kills him." "I never heard of Jeffers," she says. "you never heard of Big Sur? Jeffers made Big Sur famous just like D. H. Lawrence made Taos famous. when a great writer writes about where he lives the mob comes in and takes over." "well you write about San Pedro," she says. "yeah," I say, "and have you read the papers lately? they are going to construct a marina here, one of the largest in the world, millions and billions of dollars, there is going to be a huge shopping center, yachts and condominiums every- where!" "and to think," my woman says smiling, "that you've only lived here for three years!" "I still think," I say, changing the subject, "you ought to read Jeffers."
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Be Angry At San Pedro
I am not a poet Because I don't have the Vast vocabulary of most And I can't tell you the Difference Between haikus and acrostics   And I don't know How many stanzas make up A "good write" I am not a poet Because I'm a psychopath And I sip my coffee From the wrong side of the mug And I open my banana Upside-down And I tangle my heart Into knots on purpose Despite it's resilience I am not a poet No, I'd like to think That I'm the poem But I'm not that either I'm more of a chaperon For life's chaos I watch over the panic attacks And I coddle the over doses No, no, I am not a poet How can I be? When I've been tipping And tapping My shoes in the hall Just waiting for doomsday I've just been hoping Praying For this to be simple For the sky to come crashing down Because then I can say That the bills The rent The schooling The mainstream ******** Was all meaningless I am not a poet Because I can't make a good Rhyme And I'm not as clever As I used to be I am not a poet Because I often succumb to the ********** of others' words Because I know that They said it better Than I ever could And I am not a poet Because I'd rather quote Those before me Than find strength in my own Broken syllables I am not a poet But I am the raw And deep Bleeding sore on the side Of your mouth That you can't help but chew at That you could never possibly Ignore I'm not a poet Because these words Really belong To the wind And my pulse rests In the Earth's crust And my emotions Connect in the sky And my fingertips Are made from stardust No, I am not a poet *Every atom in your body came from a star that exploded. And, the atoms in your left hand probably came from a different star than your right hand. It really is the most poetic thing I know about physics: You are all stardust. You couldn’t be here if stars hadn’t exploded, because the elements - the carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, iron, all the things that matter for evolution and for life - weren’t created at the beginning of time. They were created in the nuclear furnaces of stars, and the only way for them to get into your body is if those stars were kind enough to explode. So, forget Jesus. The stars died so that you could be here today. —Lawrence M. Krauss*
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Oct 24, 2010
Oct 24, 2010 at 7:28 PM UTC
I Am Not a Poet
I am not a poet Because I don't have the Vast vocabulary of most And I can't tell you the Difference Between haikus and acrostics   And I don't know How many stanzas make up A "good write" I am not a poet Because I'm a psychopath And I sip my coffee From the wrong side of the mug And I open my banana Upside-down And I tangle my heart Into knots on purpose Despite it's resilience I am not a poet No, I'd like to think That I'm the poem But I'm not that either I'm more of a chaperon For life's chaos I watch over the panic attacks And I coddle the over doses No, no, I am not a poet How can I be? When I've been tipping And tapping My shoes in the hall Just waiting for doomsday I've just been hoping Praying For this to be simple For the sky to come crashing down Because then I can say That the bills The rent The schooling The mainstream ******** Was all meaningless I am not a poet Because I can't make a good Rhyme And I'm not as clever As I used to be I am not a poet Because I often succumb to the ********** of others' words Because I know that They said it better Than I ever could And I am not a poet Because I'd rather quote Those before me Than find strength in my own Broken syllables I am not a poet But I am the raw And deep Bleeding sore on the side Of your mouth That you can't help but chew at That you could never possibly Ignore I'm not a poet Because these words Really belong To the wind And my pulse rests In the Earth's crust And my emotions Connect in the sky And my fingertips Are made from stardust No, I am not a poet *Every atom in your body came from a star that exploded. And, the atoms in your left hand probably came from a different star than your right hand. It really is the most poetic thing I know about physics: You are all stardust. You couldn’t be here if stars hadn’t exploded, because the elements - the carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, iron, all the things that matter for evolution and for life - weren’t created at the beginning of time. They were created in the nuclear furnaces of stars, and the only way for them to get into your body is if those stars were kind enough to explode. So, forget Jesus. The stars died so that you could be here today. —Lawrence M. Krauss*
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81
Lawrence Hall [email protected] Ella’s Unicorns There is no reason why pale unicorns Should not cavort in frosty fields at night Or dragons play around the moonlit pond Annoying the naughty naiads bathing there For startime is the magic dreamy time When flowers and leaves are given whispering speech And laughing faeries flit from tree to tree In games of hide-and-seek until the dawn The world would be strange without unicorns Cavorting in the frosty fields at night
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Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 9:06 PM UTC
Ella's Unicorns
In the short story, "The Rocking-Horse Winner" written by D.H. Lawrence, the young boy, Paul, associates luck with wealth and bets large amounts of money on the soon-to-be winning horses. His family is extremely wealthy but can barely afford to keep up to their title. What is one thing that society does not know yet the children do about the mother? They know that their mother does not love her own children. She gives them everything they need and want except for one thing. And that one thing they do need is love. One knows love by the look in their eyes. It is much more difficult to lie with eyes than with words and actions. She is materialistic and adores money and extravagance. I think we all agree that the mother is oblivious to her situation. How are we not like the mother? The truth is, we are exactly like the mother. She doesn't realize that love is not a number, money or products but that love is looking into one's eyes and showing true affection. We are in complete illusion that wealth leads to happiness. We think the same thoughts when the more we have, the more successful we may be however in reality, it is false. A perfect example is Black Friday. Companies, businesses and customers all decided to cut the Thanksgiving holiday to purchase more "stuff" to make them "happy". They decided to cut the time to spend with family, friends and relatives to spend for themselves and others. Who is the villain in the story? Most believe villains are a something or a someone who prevents the "good guy" from achieving their goal, also known as an antagonist, however the villain in this story cannot be seen, touched, smelled or even tasted. It can only be spoken and heard of. It is an imaginative villain. It is merely the manipulation of the mind of the misconception that luck is associated with wealth. This begins the entire issue with obsession and materialism. I'm sure we all agree that luck is something that happens to you without you possibly deserving or expecting it. But what is luck when others are given it? For example, if a random stranger gives your friend $100, another $1,000, but gave you only $20. Would you still feel lucky? Well, in all honesty it all depends on our circumstances, which then determine our values. Shouldn't it be reversed where our values determine our circumstances? In the end, over the many years of bets and deference, Paul has been riding his rocking horse to find the true winner and to find luck.
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Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 10:00 PM UTC
The Rocking-Horse Winner
In the short story, "The Rocking-Horse Winner" written by D.H. Lawrence, the young boy, Paul, associates luck with wealth and bets large amounts of money on the soon-to-be winning horses. His family is extremely wealthy but can barely afford to keep up to their title. What is one thing that society does not know yet the children do about the mother? They know that their mother does not love her own children. She gives them everything they need and want except for one thing. And that one thing they do need is love. One knows love by the look in their eyes. It is much more difficult to lie with eyes than with words and actions. She is materialistic and adores money and extravagance. I think we all agree that the mother is oblivious to her situation. How are we not like the mother? The truth is, we are exactly like the mother. She doesn't realize that love is not a number, money or products but that love is looking into one's eyes and showing true affection. We are in complete illusion that wealth leads to happiness. We think the same thoughts when the more we have, the more successful we may be however in reality, it is false. A perfect example is Black Friday. Companies, businesses and customers all decided to cut the Thanksgiving holiday to purchase more "stuff" to make them "happy". They decided to cut the time to spend with family, friends and relatives to spend for themselves and others. Who is the villain in the story? Most believe villains are a something or a someone who prevents the "good guy" from achieving their goal, also known as an antagonist, however the villain in this story cannot be seen, touched, smelled or even tasted. It can only be spoken and heard of. It is an imaginative villain. It is merely the manipulation of the mind of the misconception that luck is associated with wealth. This begins the entire issue with obsession and materialism. I'm sure we all agree that luck is something that happens to you without you possibly deserving or expecting it. But what is luck when others are given it? For example, if a random stranger gives your friend $100, another $1,000, but gave you only $20. Would you still feel lucky? Well, in all honesty it all depends on our circumstances, which then determine our values. Shouldn't it be reversed where our values determine our circumstances? In the end, over the many years of bets and deference, Paul has been riding his rocking horse to find the true winner and to find luck.
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2
I Am Waiting I am waiting for my case to come up and I am waiting for a rebirth of wonder and I am waiting for someone to really discover America and wail and I am waiting for the discovery of a new symbolic western frontier and I am waiting for the American Eagle to really spread its wings and straighten up and fly right and I am waiting for the Age of Anxiety to drop dead and I am waiting for the war to be fought which will make the world safe for anarchy and I am waiting for the final withering away of all governments and I am perpetually awaiting a rebirth of wonder I am waiting for the Second Coming and I am waiting for a religious revival to sweep thru the state of Arizona and I am waiting for the Grapes of Wrath to be stored and I am waiting for them to prove that God is really American and I am waiting to see God on television piped onto church altars if only they can find the right channel to tune in on and I am waiting for the Last Supper to be served again with a strange new appetizer and I am perpetually awaiting a rebirth of wonder I am waiting for my number to be called and I am waiting for the Salvation Army to take over and I am waiting for the meek to be blessed and inherit the earth without taxes and I am waiting for forests and animals to reclaim the earth as theirs and I am waiting for a way to be devised to destroy all nationalisms without killing anybody and I am waiting for linnets and planets to fall like rain and I am waiting for lovers and weepers to lie down together again in a new rebirth of wonder I am waiting for the Great Divide to be crossed and I am anxiously waiting for the secret of eternal life to be discovered by an obscure general practitioner and I am waiting for the storms of life to be over and I am waiting to set sail for happiness and I am waiting for a reconstructed Mayflower to reach America with its picture story and tv rights sold in advance to the natives and I am waiting for the lost music to sound again in the Lost Continent in a new rebirth of wonder I am waiting for the day that maketh all things clear and I am awaiting retribution for what America did to Tom Sawyer and I am waiting for Alice in Wonderland to retransmit to me her total dream of innocence and I am waiting for Childe Roland to come to the final darkest tower and I am waiting for Aphrodite to grow live arms at a final disarmament conference in a new rebirth of wonder I am waiting to get some intimations of immortality by recollecting my early childhood and I am waiting for the green mornings to come again youth’s dumb green fields come back again and I am waiting for some strains of unpremeditated art to shake my typewriter and I am waiting to write the great indelible poem and I am waiting for the last long careless rapture and I am perpetually waiting for the fleeing lovers on the Grecian Urn to catch each other up at last and embrace and I am awaiting perpetually and forever a renaissance of wonder
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May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
LAWRENCE FERLINGHETTI
I Am Waiting I am waiting for my case to come up and I am waiting for a rebirth of wonder and I am waiting for someone to really discover America and wail and I am waiting for the discovery of a new symbolic western frontier and I am waiting for the American Eagle to really spread its wings and straighten up and fly right and I am waiting for the Age of Anxiety to drop dead and I am waiting for the war to be fought which will make the world safe for anarchy and I am waiting for the final withering away of all governments and I am perpetually awaiting a rebirth of wonder I am waiting for the Second Coming and I am waiting for a religious revival to sweep thru the state of Arizona and I am waiting for the Grapes of Wrath to be stored and I am waiting for them to prove that God is really American and I am waiting to see God on television piped onto church altars if only they can find the right channel to tune in on and I am waiting for the Last Supper to be served again with a strange new appetizer and I am perpetually awaiting a rebirth of wonder I am waiting for my number to be called and I am waiting for the Salvation Army to take over and I am waiting for the meek to be blessed and inherit the earth without taxes and I am waiting for forests and animals to reclaim the earth as theirs and I am waiting for a way to be devised to destroy all nationalisms without killing anybody and I am waiting for linnets and planets to fall like rain and I am waiting for lovers and weepers to lie down together again in a new rebirth of wonder I am waiting for the Great Divide to be crossed and I am anxiously waiting for the secret of eternal life to be discovered by an obscure general practitioner and I am waiting for the storms of life to be over and I am waiting to set sail for happiness and I am waiting for a reconstructed Mayflower to reach America with its picture story and tv rights sold in advance to the natives and I am waiting for the lost music to sound again in the Lost Continent in a new rebirth of wonder I am waiting for the day that maketh all things clear and I am awaiting retribution for what America did to Tom Sawyer and I am waiting for Alice in Wonderland to retransmit to me her total dream of innocence and I am waiting for Childe Roland to come to the final darkest tower and I am waiting for Aphrodite to grow live arms at a final disarmament conference in a new rebirth of wonder I am waiting to get some intimations of immortality by recollecting my early childhood and I am waiting for the green mornings to come again youth’s dumb green fields come back again and I am waiting for some strains of unpremeditated art to shake my typewriter and I am waiting to write the great indelible poem and I am waiting for the last long careless rapture and I am perpetually waiting for the fleeing lovers on the Grecian Urn to catch each other up at last and embrace and I am awaiting perpetually and forever a renaissance of wonder
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Lawrence Hall [email protected] The Luna Moth The moon does not in fact wax anything, She does not wane; she simply ever-is; She rules the softly-sung, soft-summer nights, A willing queen, and willingly obeyed. The luna moth, her winged votary, Clings to indulgent oaks of their kindness, Their moon-sent goddess from another world, And strangely robed and crowned in lunar green, Pheroming softly for some other moth To come perform with her those rituals Of love illogical, of sacrifice; For all a luna moth can do is live A summer week or so, but in those hours She loves In lunar beauty, strangely eternal Who needs a dying luna moth? We do.
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Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 7:12 AM UTC
The Luna Moth
Yes, I do believe in something. I believe in being warmhearted. I believe especially in being warmhearted in love, in ******* with a warm heart. I believe if men could **** with warm hearts, and the women take it warmheartedly, everything would come all right. It’s all this coldhearted ******* that is death and idiocy. - D.H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley’s Lover
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Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 9:29 AM UTC
D.H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley’s Lover
An Open Letter to Really Important People                      The Old Dime Box, Texas Statement            A Manifesto Made Manifest in Manifesting Manifestingness We post this serious looking document Bloated with long vocabulary words Sodden with weak dependent clauses Marshaled in numbered ranks, down, down they go To the GossipNet all serious like And everyone has to pay attention to us Because it’s AN OPEN LETTER, y’know - You may sign it if you’ve got letters behind your name Signatories: Apostle-Disciple Magic Dawn, DD., Non-Binary, Author of Green Polar Bears I Am, Co-Equal-Director of the Anti-Oppressionist Theatre Against the Occupation, Agent of the Revolution, Auteur, Guest on The Wheel of Fortune and Parent of Two AMAZING children of indeterminate Gender with Their AWESOME and AMAZING Life-Partner Sven-Marie. Massive Ferguson, M.Ed., Poet, Rector of Admissions, The University of Where the Old Circuit City Use to Be Poncy Tworbst, M.A., PUBLISHED Author, Seeker, Inspirational Singer-Songwriter, PUBLISHED Heather-Mistee La’ Thwitte-Tworbst, Ph.D., Director of Library Resources at Saint Margaret ****** Homeschool Resource Authority Collective, Inc., Certified Ordained Consecrated Priest in The Worldwide Church of Me-ness and Pastor of the World-Famous Weddings ‘R’ Us Chapel of Rainbow Dreams in Magdalena, New Mexico Lawrence Hall, HSG, Thinker of Thinky-Ness and, Like, Stuff, Endowed Chair he found at Goodwill, His Mark: X (Sean Ian Johann Johnson, MBA, J.D., Chief Photocopier Operator at Donald Trump University and Fashion Editor at Gun, God, and Guts Magazine, was not able to sign today; he is sharing a cell with other White House staff and patiently awaiting The Day of Greatness.)
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Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 3:48 PM UTC
An Open Letter to Really Important People / The Old Dime Box, Texas Statement
An Open Letter to Really Important People                      The Old Dime Box, Texas Statement            A Manifesto Made Manifest in Manifesting Manifestingness We post this serious looking document Bloated with long vocabulary words Sodden with weak dependent clauses Marshaled in numbered ranks, down, down they go To the GossipNet all serious like And everyone has to pay attention to us Because it’s AN OPEN LETTER, y’know - You may sign it if you’ve got letters behind your name Signatories: Apostle-Disciple Magic Dawn, DD., Non-Binary, Author of Green Polar Bears I Am, Co-Equal-Director of the Anti-Oppressionist Theatre Against the Occupation, Agent of the Revolution, Auteur, Guest on The Wheel of Fortune and Parent of Two AMAZING children of indeterminate Gender with Their AWESOME and AMAZING Life-Partner Sven-Marie. Massive Ferguson, M.Ed., Poet, Rector of Admissions, The University of Where the Old Circuit City Use to Be Poncy Tworbst, M.A., PUBLISHED Author, Seeker, Inspirational Singer-Songwriter, PUBLISHED Heather-Mistee La’ Thwitte-Tworbst, Ph.D., Director of Library Resources at Saint Margaret ****** Homeschool Resource Authority Collective, Inc., Certified Ordained Consecrated Priest in The Worldwide Church of Me-ness and Pastor of the World-Famous Weddings ‘R’ Us Chapel of Rainbow Dreams in Magdalena, New Mexico Lawrence Hall, HSG, Thinker of Thinky-Ness and, Like, Stuff, Endowed Chair he found at Goodwill, His Mark: X (Sean Ian Johann Johnson, MBA, J.D., Chief Photocopier Operator at Donald Trump University and Fashion Editor at Gun, God, and Guts Magazine, was not able to sign today; he is sharing a cell with other White House staff and patiently awaiting The Day of Greatness.)
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18
I started growing measuring each incremental inch in the doorway frame grinning as it clearly showed a spurt. Although my bones were aching I ran as fast as I could to the corner and back time and time again Challenging my small young frame to ache and grow And, oh, the pleasure of those growing aches as I leaped to push upward taller older. Those aches felt so good! lawrence j klumas © july 2014
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Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 5:07 PM UTC
Aching Bones
i said goodbye to the first part of you in Lawrence thirteen days ago walking pastthatantiquemall.itrailed my fingers on its brick and thought of you reclaiming my heart in its basement and i did not want to turn into dust, did not feel like melting into the nearest gutter. i simply took my hand from the stone, continued telling jillian about how they closed our hookah bar, breathed the early fall air.
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Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 1:38 AM UTC
sagittarius
Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me; Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings. In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside And hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide. So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour With the great black piano appassionato. The glamour Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.
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May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 1:08 AM UTC
Piano (by D. H. Lawrence)
Lawrence Hall [email protected] https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/ poeticdrivel.blogspot.com                              The Geometry of Intersectionality 1. Crossroads Intersections aren’t crossroads, you know Where you can choose to stop a while and talk With a man walking some other way in life And learn something over a borrowed cigarette 2. Intersections At intersections you never meet anyone It’s all about obedience to lights and signs And painted arrows in the road that seem To point everywhere except where you want to go 3. Stop-for-awhile signs There are stop signs in life. You have to stop But then you go – a stop sign isn’t forever
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Nov 9, 2020
Nov 9, 2020 at 8:50 AM UTC
The Geometry of Intersectionality
If Napoleon had read Lawrence's 'Lady Chatterley's Lover' he would stay in bed all day long with Josephine instead of waging war in Russia.
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Apr 26, 2018
Apr 26, 2018 at 9:22 PM UTC
NONSENSE VERSE 5
I keep collecting books I know I'll never, never read; My wife and daughter tell me so, And yet I never head. "Please make me," says some wistful tome, "A wee bit of yourself." And so I take my treasure home, And tuck it in a shelf. And now my very shelves complain; They jam and over-spill. They say: "Why don't you ease our strain?" "some day," I say, "I will." So book by book they plead and sigh; I pick and dip and scan; Then put them back, distrest that I Am such a busy man. Now, there's my Boswell and my Sterne, my Gibbon and Defoe; To savour Swift I'll never learn, Montaigne I may not know. On Bacon I will never sup, For Shakespeare I've no time; Because I'm busy making up These jingly bits of rhyme. Chekov is caviare to me, While Stendhal makes me snore; Poor Proust is not my cup of tea, And Balzac is a bore. I have their books, I love their names, And yet alas! they head, With Lawrence, Joyce and Henry James, My Roster of Unread. I think it would be very well If I commit a crime, And get put in a prison cell And not allowed to rhyme; Yet given all these worthy books According to my need, I now caress with loving looks, But never, never read.
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Book Lover
September's ploughed earth sows the rains it is something like D.H Lawrence's ' The Rainbow', that you love the Polish cleaning lady so my Soul's countryman, dear poet of the North for now, Persephone still walks the earth fair Kore, soon to descend to the underworld back to an aged God in love were I thus loved by a man as to become his queen as to be kidnapped by him instead, all I have is you, a woman's love unrequited for a boy & growing stale as far off winter calls like a theatre scene too much rehearsed
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Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 9:24 PM UTC
In vino veritas
There is no moon tonight just the cold stars in the unfeeling sky yet I cling on to dreams the gypsy caravan I stood & gazed at as a child in the City museum is still there painted, gilded calling for the carefree road & in my heart long before I met you lived my fascination for your mysterious people enchanters,  fortune-tellers, some say, child & horse thieves portrayed thus in my Mother's Russia - the wild people of the endless road the people & whose fiery songs I wanted to follow- & now, in a far off world, bewitched by you, I find out that your dark eyes are that of a gypsy - Romany & it's like fate like D. H Lawrence ' The ****** & the Gypsy' so why, Northener, do you not love me like your people, I am also a wanderer a creature of the road a castaway with no home than the one my heart happened to find if you or fate somehow cast this love spell upon me if this was meant to be, you should love me, Gypsy only that would make sense take me away let us go a-wandering across the land, moors & hills beautiful boy, sweet poet do you know I once tread the winter's frost all the night's way to town for you, hoping to seal my love's fate the dark sky above me doesn't know how to lament lost love the summer of it's heart has passed, drunk long away in quiet pubs there is only this poem poorly written - my heart bleeding on my sleeve
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Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 9:44 PM UTC
Gypsy
Lawrence Hall [email protected]   https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/ poeticdrivel.blogspot.com                                      The Stupidest Metaphor                          Do these camouflage knee-pantsies                        make my 250-pound *** look too big? He never formed up with a skirmish line To **** and snoop to some distant trees Across a death-hot field of weeds and mud With some idiot yelling, “Dress it up!” He never feared that a 40-mike-mike Would blow his guts and spine into ****** rags Which would get his air-conditioned C/O In Saigon another medal and promotion His PTSD is from watching TV But he is pleased to claim that he is a                                                                       warrior
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Dec 29, 2021
Dec 29, 2021 at 8:33 AM UTC
The Stupidest Metaphor
Lawrence Hall [email protected] Dispatches for the Colonial Office A Child Asked me a Reasonable Question about God A child - She asked of me One day, you see A question wise For one her size It wasn’t odd: “I believe in God But then does He Believe in me?
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Sep 5, 2025
Sep 5, 2025 at 11:58 AM UTC
A Child Asked me a Reasonable Question about God
THE TRUE STORY The wolf sat on the ground. Little Red Riding Hood sat at his feet. "Well, well, well, so here we are again!" said Mr. Woolf in a faux English accent he had picked up from watching Peter O'Toole be Lawrence of Arabia. "Some apple juice my dear have some apple crumble do!" enquired Mr. Woolf of his fairy story cohort. "I baked it myself you know molasses instead of sugar gives it that dark flavour oh and a little touch of ginger!" Little Red Riding Hood wolfed down the apple crumble. Sipped...slurped noisily through a bendy straw annoying the silence that gathered itself around her. There was a piece of apple crumble on her nose. For a little girl she had a big appetite. The wolf ate nothing. "We can't go on like this any minute now a child somewhere in another somewhere will start our story by opening a book. I will be called upon to eat you and Granny up. I don't even like grannies for gawd's sake!" Mr. Woolf had tears that refused to fall. It's got...it's...got to somehow stop!" Little Red Riding Hood burped. "Pardon!" So, when the child I used to be opened the story once upon a time it was simply not there. There was nothing there. Nothing but a great big ****** blank. Somewhere in another somewhere Little Red Riding Hood swung on a swing Mr. Woolf pushing her higher and higher into a summer blue sky.
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Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 3:27 PM UTC
THE TRUE STORY
Lawrence Hall [email protected] https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/ poeticdrivel.blogspot.com                                 Peter Pan in Bowring Park                  For Dan, who knows something of magic                         “Do you want an adventure now,                       or would like to have your tea first?”                                           -Peter Pan Sweet little bunnies browse and squirrels climb And tiny mice and fairies give delight To all the little ones of Newfoundland Who visit Peter Pan in Bowring Park He plays his pipes for them, and they can hear The joyful music of his magic world Where they may celebrate their pixie-dreams At this bright second star from Kensington And sing in peace their happy morning hymn For darling little Betty, who waits for them ...the history behind Bowring Park's Peter Pan statue? — Historic Sites Association of Newfoundland & Labrador
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May 29, 2021
May 29, 2021 at 9:10 AM UTC
Peter Pan in Bowring Park
-arriving at eglington west station- there's the fragrance drifting off of her shoulders as she checks her reflection on smartphone mirror app, floral pattern matching the bright of her nails, the sun shining onto sequined flats that show no wear. -glencairn, glencairn station- there's her youth indicated by backpack, baseball cap, and conversation subject matter discussing video game system merit, there's the hand me down excitement of muddy knees and torn jeans, -arriving at lawrence west station- each millimetre contributing to grimace, beard whisker, wrinkle stationed to the sides of each of his eyes, weary traveller, seemingly ignoring everyone with grocery bag occupying chair like child, -Yorkdale, Yorkdale station- we used to weave through these crowds and people watch together, and the people would watch us, young love, so simple, oblivious to stage, fingers interlocked, blocking crowds from passing by, there was the taste of strawberry banana smoothie, freshly squeezed, on your lips, we'd race up escalators, only to circle back down, we'd find the nook of book store, to steal a moment, you'd ignite, ignoring the clatter of barrista, starbucks adjacent, and there would walk by or sit dolled up princess, adolescent tomboy, aging cantankerous senior, these faces haven't changed as much as ours have. -please stand clear of the doors-
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Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 1:12 AM UTC
subways
Lawrence Hall [email protected] Last Sunday after Pentecost A calling-crow-cold sky ceilings the world, Lowering the horizon to itself All silvery and grey upon the fields Of pale, exhausted, dry-corn-stalk summer The earth is tired, the air is cold, the dawn False-promises nothing but an early dusk As calling-cold-crows crowd the world with noise, Loud-gossiping from tree to ground to sky Soon falling frosts and fields of ice will fold Even those fell, foolish fowls into the depths Of dark creek bottoms where dim ancient oaks Hide darkling birds from wild blue northern winds Crows squawk of Advent disapprovingly, For Advent-autumn drifts to Christmastide When all the good of the seasonal year Then warms and charms the house, the hearth, the heart.
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Oct 30, 2016
Oct 30, 2016 at 9:06 PM UTC
Last Sunday after Pentecost
Lawrence Hall [email protected] https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/ poeticdrivel.blogspot.com                             On the Unlocking of Words            Their leader answered him, Beowulf unlocking            Words from deep in his breast:  "We are Geats…”                     -Beowulf to the Danish Coast Watcher In bold and sturdy four-beat lines Beowulf keeps his knowledge clear With kennings well-crafted and careful caesurae And never needing to raise his voice But thus the Grendel-voice responds: “Woo woo that’s just my person opinion that’s what I’m talking about follow your passion learn to code no offense, but *** oh my God oh my God woo woo hey hey ** ** something-something has got to go woo woo only dead fish go with the flow tear it down shut it down burn it down woo woo lock her up there is no I in team woo woo not my president it’s not rocket science it is what it is woo woo say it loud say it clear this is what something looks like woo woo is there an app for that woo woo that’s what I’m saying woo woo…” But you - be brave like Beowulf, and boldly dare To unlock your words with creativity and care
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Jun 13, 2021
Jun 13, 2021 at 8:15 AM UTC
Beowulf on the Unlocking of Words
Lawrence, it’s um, doll… or i see, i met a con executioner.
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Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 5:43 AM UTC
FILLER HAIKU