"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.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 7:47 AM UTC
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."
8k
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*
Oct 24, 2010
Oct 24, 2010 at 7:28 PM UTC
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
Nov 1, 2016
Nov 1, 2016 at 9:06 PM UTC
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.
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 10:00 PM UTC
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
May 9, 2015
May 9, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
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.
Apr 13, 2017
Apr 13, 2017 at 7:12 AM UTC
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
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 9:29 AM UTC
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.)
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 3:48 PM UTC
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
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 5:07 PM UTC
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.
Nov 6, 2014
Nov 6, 2014 at 1:38 AM UTC
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.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 1:08 AM UTC
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
Nov 9, 2020
Nov 9, 2020 at 8:50 AM UTC
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.
Apr 26, 2018
Apr 26, 2018 at 9:22 PM UTC
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.
3k
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
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 9:24 PM UTC
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
Oct 12, 2015
Oct 12, 2015 at 9:44 PM UTC
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
Dec 29, 2021
Dec 29, 2021 at 8:33 AM UTC
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?
Sep 5, 2025
Sep 5, 2025 at 11:58 AM UTC
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.
Oct 7, 2018
Oct 7, 2018 at 3:27 PM UTC
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
May 29, 2021
May 29, 2021 at 9:10 AM UTC
-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-
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 1:12 AM UTC
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.
Oct 30, 2016
Oct 30, 2016 at 9:06 PM UTC
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
Jun 13, 2021
Jun 13, 2021 at 8:15 AM UTC
Lawrence, it’s um, doll…
or i see, i met a con
executioner.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 5:43 AM UTC