She is equipped with sensitive *******
and those other secret places
that ladies give out as prizes
to deserving guys as long as
they adopt the right disguises
of gods, gurus, intellectual giants,
goats, children, father figures, macho brutes,
sugar-daddies, supermen, seminal vessels,
house-repairers, jar openers, jocks, hate objects,
handy shoulders to cry on, emotional support systems,
sensitive, intuitive, yet strong silent types
who can also pay the bills,
tall dark and handsome total strangers,
toy boys, clowns, jugglers, jokers, millionaires,
wood choppers, ******* removers,
bottomless reservoirs of reassurance
or just plain spunky studs when the moon is right.
In fact, anything but woffly wimps.
Oh God, no.  Anything but woffly wimps.
Yes, but what about stoic, steadfast SNAGS,
you know, the Sensitive New Age Guys
who won’t face-shift for a ****?
Yes, well, let's try to sum all this up here right now.
I think that the woman is dripping
with a brimming reservoir
of luscious and sensitive resources on tap for  
the man who can figure out her cosmic kaleidoscope  
of swirling dreams and desires,
which is definitely not to say she can’t be totally independent.
Although please don't be confused.
Friendly boy-next-door types who are handsome,
aren't too hairy, who like to laugh, who have a boyish braggadocio,
who are students, who appear to be intellectuals,
who are not nerds,
and who can **** it in the kitchen, who  can be oh, so cool,
who can convince a maiden that she is in distress,
and is in need of rescuing, while he has
a swaggering hard-on will do, too.
Oooh. You devil.
And if you think this poem is misogynist, misanthropic or myopic,
well, I’ve been around and by now, well,
I really should be panoptic
because I’ve seen all the fads,
and really, it’s sadly too bad
about those poor old
earnest SNAGS.
But you know what?
I don't think I understand anything, because
I'm really a victim of worshiping women.
I'm bedazzled and as blind as the next man, and
yes,
I'm just happy whenever I'm with them.

It may dig at your skin,
What you need to do is lift up your chin,
The voice may echo at the back of your head,
They are not even the worth of a single thread,
Don't waste your time on those who don't mean well,
These are the people who you do not want to dwell,
Those who simply take advantage of you,
Those who are, oh so very narcissistic,
Learn to have a spine,
Learn to stand up straight,
Learn to be up on your feet and appreciate,
Those who would run to keep you up,
Than those who wouldn't look back as you fall down,
Learn about your self worth,
Learn about who mean well,
Learn from those bad experiences,
The ones where you saw the true people,
The ones who stood by you every time,
The ones who never asked for something in return,
The ones who will never want to see you at your worst.
And from it all,
You are left to decide whether,
You want to learn or bring them closer together
Because in the end just remember,
from now until -December,
They were Eye-Openers.

It's not that I’m hurt, it’s that I think I’ve been wounded.
If you wanted to be animals you should have done it outside.
I said you made me too sad and he sends his condolences in a get well soon card and he asks if he can sign the cast.
I KEEP PLAYING IT BACK:
HIS HANDS ARE BOTTLE OPENERS. SHE'S A RAKE IN HIS LAP. THIS FEELING IS LUKEWARM AND YOU DESERVE ALL THE BITTER IN THE ALCOHOL.
IF YOU WANTED TO BE ANIMALS YOU SHOULD HAVE DONE IT OUTSIDE.
I COULDN'T SLEEP IN MY BED
MY ROOM WASN'T MINE
I WANTED TO THROW MYSELF FROM THE BALCONY
I WANTED TO SEE
JUST HOW MANY BONES
I COULD GET AWAY WITH BREAKING
...
That night left a bruise.
And I'm
                 Still reeling.

They were lounging on the white sanded beach crusted over with bits and scraps of broken seashells. They were lounging in the hot Santa Anna sun baking in the ultraviolet rays. They were lounging as if they did not have a care in the world and like they were a million miles away from the everything's that had contaminated their lives up to and ended at this point.

There was the buxom Chéri Ann trying to forget the trial coming up in the next few weeks that had been a long trying time coming. She laid sprawled out stomach side down on her beach towel feeling the sun tan her back. Her hands were busy rolling a tea stick but her eyes were looking past the girl in front of her; also laying down on a beach towel but on her backside; at the waves crashing effortlessly into the surf. Her fingers expertly broke up the green leafy bud that smelled of lavender and coffee. She placed them in  a rectangular piece of rolling paper and still looking ahead of her towards the sea, rolled it into a medium sized stick. She took it to her lips lighting it with a lighter that she pulled out of the sand and inhaled its jade smoke. She held the smoke in for what seemed like an eternity and blew it back out onto the small flame still burning at the edge of the sticks tip, snuffing it out. She smiled and she passed it to her left where David who was wanting a cold beer and a cigarette after the past few days and also lying prone but facing away from the sun declined and grabbed it and sat up and forward and passed it to Heather who was the girl lying supine in the view of Chéri Ann. He grabbed a pack of cigarettes from his shirt lying beside him and pulled one out. He lit it. He took a drag and inhaled. He blew smoke out of his nose for a second before switching and blowing the rest out of his mouth in floating O shapes, sending them off towards the light blue sky.

Heather's face was enjoying the feel of the suns rays burn her face and bring out her freckles again. She was smiling. She took the stick from David who had sat up on his beach towel and leaned forward and arose her from her splendor. She still smiled. The tea stick went to her lips and she inhaled with a soft peaceful sigh. She smiled bigger. She could not remember her life before and nothing existed before and she was happy.

The sun shined down. The ocean was blue and the waves were crashing into the surf still with white foam beading on top of the waves. The sand was still white and littered with broken sea shell fragments.

Heather passed the stick to Bob sitting on the sand writing in his leather bound note book with a shortening black number two pencil sharpened to a point with a three inch strip of fine grit sandpaper and the edge of pocket knife passed down to him from his grandpa who got it from his dad who got it from his grandpa and so forth for another generation or two each on the day of their deaths. Bob sat facing the sun but looking at the cursive being written on the white five by seven lined notebook paper thinking not of anything but the words being written. He stopped writing and put the pencil down in the note book and closed it and laid it on the sand and took the joint and inhaled and held it and took another hit and held it. He exhaled. He took another hit and held it for a shorter time and breathed it out thru his nose. he passed it back to Chéri Ann who took another hit before passing it to Heather and he grabbed two beers from a cooler sitting next to him on a communal large sized beach towel that Chéri Ann had packed. He tossed one to David who caught it without looking or any warning at all.

Sometime alcohol screams to the blood in us.

David and Bob both snapped off the tops of the bottles in unison with bottle openers attached to their key rings. They saved the tops for Heather who made decorative art with them. They both drank them. Feeling the coolness of the liquid go down their throats and cool their stomachs. The cold amber felt good against the hot sun. They inhaled the beers and opened two more a piece and inhaled them. A breeze started to pick up.

I just wanna listen to you inhale for a moment and exhale the next
I just want a little time to remind you why I'm here with you and just what you did that caught my eye on that funny little day way back last October  
I could do with some quick glances your way while you're not looking as to catch you in those moments you let your true feelings show, when you think no one is watching.
I just want a few chances to brush my hand along yours in a crowded room of people we sort of know
If only, if only to give a quick reminder of the familiarity that is still there.
I want your tshirt smell to be my calm down after a stressful drive home from work and I want to share spaghetti with red sauce and cheap wine
Kiss my neck and be my friend and hold me close because I need you so much more than I would ever show because the fact that I just wanna hear you inhale for a moment and exhale the next scares me into a million tiny pieces of worries
But here I am wishing for another day in October to see if I could really be yours in the way I wished to be for so long

This is the desk I sit at
and this is the desk where I love you too much
and this is the typewriter that sits before me
where yesterday only your body sat before me
with its shoulders gathered in like a Greek chorus,
with its tongue like a king making up rules as he goes,
with its tongue quite openly like a cat lapping milk,
with its tongue -- both of us coiled in its slippery life.
That was yesterday, that day.
That was the day of your tongue,
your tongue that came from your lips,
two openers, half animals, half birds
caught in the doorway of your heart.
That was the day I followed the king's rules,
passing by your red veins and your blue veins,
my hands down the backbone, down quick like a firepole,
hands between legs where you display your inner knowledge,
where diamond mines are buried and come forth to bury,
come forth more sudden than some reconstructed city.
It is complete within seconds, that monument.
The blood runs underground yet brings forth a tower.
A multitude should gather for such an edifice.
For a miracle one stands in line and throws confetti.
Surely The Press is here looking for headlines.
Surely someone should carry a banner on the sidewalk.
If a bridge is constructed doesn't the mayor cut a ribbon?
If a phenomenon arrives shouldn't the Magi come bearing gifts?
Yesterday was the day I bore gifts for your gift
and came from the valley to meet you on the pavement.
That was yesterday, that day.
That was the day of your face,
your face after love, close to the pillow, a lullaby.
Half asleep beside me letting the old fashioned rocker stop,
our breath became one, became a child-breath together,
while my fingers drew little o's on your shut eyes,
while my fingers drew little smiles on your mouth,
while I drew I LOVE YOU on your chest and its drummer
and whispered, "Wake up!" and you mumbled in your sleep,
"Sh. We're driving to Cape Cod. We're heading for the Bourne
Bridge. We're circling the Bourne Circle." Bourne!
Then I knew you in your dream and prayed of our time
that I would be pierced and you would take root in me
and that I might bring forth your born, might bear
the you or the ghost of you in my little household.
Yesterday I did not want to be borrowed
but this is the typewriter that sits before me
and love is where yesterday is at.

To those who rise at 4 in the morning.
Sin cannot win and faith cannot fail.
For those rising not for the occassion
But for the necessity of being.
This one's for you.

For all the coffee spilled on leather car seats,
And the evidence that the caffeine runs
Differently through your veins.
Because let's face it. You need it.
You were told the youth of Germany
shared your taste in coffee and cigarettes
For breakfast.

Here is to those who have never seen the sun set,
but greet its rise with a forsaken smirk,
as it has lost its luster by now.
You can take a shower later, for that
final fifteen minutes could equate a
winters hibernation at this point.

They say for every step forward, you take
two steps back, but that's hard to believe
When the world is standing still.

the man nearby on the train clacks his laptop offensively
like the annoyance of noisy writers in school exams
when I was stultified by writers block
I wonder what the black girl would taste like
passengers feed their fatness with crinkly cellephane food substitutes

did you have a good weekend?
conversation openers start to chorus
corporate cockwombles
talk in jargon tongues
as they sell their souls
to white shirt organisational ambition
common sense takes a back seat
in the street car of Progress
there's talk of profit and effiencies
from men who never made their wives moan
there's talk of scalability and security
from those who know nothing of flexibility and risk
there's talk of innovation
from those whose personal best
is a smart phone

have you seen the latest?
what do you think?
hey, that's what I think!
we must be brothers!
in a cozy co-ordinated mediocrity.

Capture the moment
Joyous and pure
I tell you I love you
Shouting affectionate honesty
Can openers to reveal the unknown

My mothers my sister
My brothers her brother
Our fathers our cousin
His parents are his brother and sister
And I their grandchild  

Kinship connected by blood
Our eleven toed tribe
Live rich lives of hard work
Keeping to ourselves

Peaceful loving
Yet looked down on
Put in the corner
But we digress

Can you contain it;
the call,
one animal?

*

A baby hurt,
sometimes―
you enjoy.

*

The full moon was―
as poor as,
a church mouse.


*

Sitting in court
watching a
finch play with water.

does everything change
window washers
door openers
now
top suite pimpin’
used to think the life
was about big, tall buildings
and suite offices
was it all a fairytale in the wind
was it all a memory
gone bad
did we imagine
our greatness
take it to another level
only to be wooed
by cake
and free beverages
work
aholic
mentality
fogged out
by love
and
freedom

One thing that get's me all venty
Is bad talk of jolly 'T' 20.
  It's much better by half
  So much more of a laugh
Because 50 is far more than plenty.

England play Pakistan later.
I think that our players are greater.
  But Gul bowls great yorkers,
  And other rip-snoters,
And the ball, oh Afridi, he ate her!

For England the openers are wrong
Neither will give it a biff or a ****.
  We need someone tough
  And aggressive enough
To win it for us when on song.

Our bowling is coming on nicely
The spinners are landing it precisely
  But the quicks can get hit
  When missing length by a bit
Shouldn't do it like that more than twicely

Will we win it today, well who knows?
By then I'll stop blowing my nose.
  I'm now on my knees,
  So a close contest please.
I cannot wait to see how it goes.

Iphone, laptops, and the internet is to make us all smarter
But it makes us all dumber, and life alot harder
Microwaves, bread makers, electric can openers so we can save time
To help us make supper on less of a dime
We no longer talk to friends we text
Ment to bring us closer but it's more like a hex
Want to see a sunset just look on a screen
Don't go outside that would be obscene
We spend all our time at work to buy possessions
It's like an obsession
This material world perplexes me
It's all around me, you see
Ment to bring us closer, save us money, and time
But we are always working so much, it's more like a crime
No time for family, friend or mother nature
In this material world we've fallen into a crater
Wouldn't it be funny if the plug was pulled
And we would have to go back to using hand tools
I think we all would turn into drooling fools

I cannot believe
I have not noticed before
When you have been
Right there all along
Every waking hour
Never mind the weather
I stand in front of you
In that silence of reflection
There is a token so true.

And I thought I had seen it all
Studied every single detail like my
Favorite painting on the wall
Then out of the blue,
When the color of the sky
Was everything but blue
Gawking at me
The tip of the tower
The tallest one in the city
Hovering over my shoulder.

It is ravishing, and a riddle
How I failed to spot it
Up until this second
And it struck me
I had been fortunate
Without ever minding it
Having had this view
Whenever I wanted.

Perhaps therein lies the mystery
Life filled with eye-openers
Even in the midst of certainty
Yet for all one knows
You are able to see
Clearly; only once you are
Truly ready.

Life piles up,
Each detail
Already beautiful
But such a different sight
A better one, that is right
After it dawns on you
The top of the tower is
Shedding the appropriate light,
Regardless how long it took
For you to figure out.

Now I see;
And I appreciate it
Much more lately
Perhaps because
Now I am ready.

You are the
Cherry on my sundae
The one that makes
My life landscape
More poignant
More significant
With each passing day.

Iphone, laptops, and the internet is to make us all smarter
But it makes us all dumber, and life alot harder
Microwaves, bread makers, electric can openers so we can save time
To help us make supper on less of a dime
We no longer talk to friends we text
Ment to bring us closer but it's more like a hex
Want to see a sunset just look on a screen
Don't go outside that would be obscene
We spend all our time at work to buy possessions
It's like an obsession
This material world perplexes me
It's all around me, you see
Ment to bring us closer, save us money, and time
But we are always working so much it's more like a crime
No time for family, friend or mother nature
In this material world we've fallen into a crater
Wouldn't it be funny if the plug was pulled
And we would have to go back to using hand tools
I think we all would turn into drooling fools

Lawrence Hall 3d
A Poem is not a Helicopter
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                     ­    A Poem is not a Helicopter

                                                  For­­ Al Duquette

A helicopter is not a poem
A helicopter flies in three dimensions
If all of the systems are fitted just right
Otherwise, it does not fly at all

A poem is not a helicopter
A poem flies only metaphorically
If we rearrange the parts aesthetically
The poem might fly much better than before

One carries our friends wherever they want to go
The other carries our love to our friends




More exposition than I have ever written:

Al is my fellow volunteer in prison and was one of my mentors when I began. I am in awe of him because he flew helicopters with the Air Cavalry in Viet-Nam and then offshore with Petroleum Helicopters Incorporated. He is almost obsessively left-brained in all things and I am an old hippie so we are often on two different metaphorical channels.  After some mutual suspicion we came to the realization – because the prisoners pointed it out to us - that in working with a class together we communicate the same ideas in different ways, and so are more effective.

Al sees no point in poetry, although he appreciates the little poems I hand out to the lads as class openers. I think this is because they (the poems, not the prisoners) are short and simple, almost always rhyme, and are mostly Victorian parlour poems which contain a moral lesson and encouragement. This week, while waiting for the guards to bring us the fellows, Al said that prose is made of words and poetry is made of words and in both categories we choose the most effective words, and so what makes a difference. I replied that a poem is not a helicopter, that not all the bits have to fit together in only one way. Prose is indeed a matter of the right words in the right places but that a poem is a matter of even better words placed in even better places (This is not an original thought; I don’t remember where I learned it.). Al accepted my answer, but of course maybe he was merely being polite!

Written by
Lawrence Hall

We spat watermelon seeds across the sidewalk
And I know that secretly we both wished that beautiful things could grow from cement
We would've weaved the vine into my hair, because green is your favorite texture
And you've never been able to run your fingers through my eyes the way you can this mane
Love
Sometimes
I took a pocket knife and cut the skin from tomatoes
Because seeing something raw and untouched like that made me wish I could peel your thoughts away just as easily
But none of my can openers worked the way they promised they would
So it's up to you to open your cans of worms, I suppose
Dump them in the dirt of my mind
I promise beautiful things grow here
Somewhere
It's just that you haven't planted any kisses in a while
And I'm waiting for the rain before I invite you to do something rash and wonderful like that
Can you believe I snapped the handle off my ***** today
The ground was just so difficult
I couldn't make room for the new thoughts I'd like to grow
Or even succeed in throwing out the dreams hanging from dead cherry blossoms in the yard
Well, the second is not really because of my *****, I have spares
But must I be distracted by your beautiful eyes glancing through the peepholes in my fence as I work
You have so many beautiful things to tend to in your own yard, love
Make a book of poetry about them
And send it to me when you get lonely for feedback or compliments

Can I tell you a secret nobody knows
I hate the part where I must follow the trail of realities to the back door where my dog is chained to meet me
Once again, abandoning my attempts to grow beautiful things from this paper
For you

'Souvenir' comes from the french word meaning remembrance. It is an almost universal behavior to collect tiny mementos while traveling, some tangible object that holds all of the intangible memories and joy that came with the moment. Souvenirs are a quite lovely sentiment when you really think about it - before the plastic and mass-production and tourism industry come into the picture. In Japan, souvenirs are called omiyage, which travelers bring back home to loved ones and friends as a sort of apology for their absence, a way of saying "sorry you couldn't make it" or "wish you were here."
Today, the top ten most popular souvenirs are ornaments, t-shirts, postcards, shot glasses, tattoos, sand in a bottle, fridge magnets, tea towels, key rings, and random gifts. My mother has chosen to cherish the seventh most popular form of souvenir: fridge magnets. Manmade refrigerator magnets were popularized in the 1960's for educational and functional purposes but very quickly evolved into fun and inexpensive decor. She has so many state shaped magnets from all around the US, and a few from outside of it.
The thing with my mother though, is that she has always been a self-proclaimed homebody. I sometimes worry that she has agoraphobia but I think most of it is just that she never really had the opportunity to explore the world outside of the dead end street she grew up on (and still lives on to this day). She was raised by her grandfather who was a merchant marine and traveled often during her childhood, but she married and had kids at a young age and never really had the time or money to go on her own adventures. She was a stay-at-home mom to my four siblings and I, as well as to all of the neighborhood kids. Her door and arms and ears were always open for them. Now those neighborhood kids are all grown and so am I and they're off having their own kids and I'm off having my own adventures, but we all make a point to bring her back a magnet from the places we visit.

The wide variety of magnets you can find in a single gift shop in every city surprised me at first. There is now an art to choosing the perfect one for my mom - I went to four different shops in Portland, Oregon trying to find the perfect one. I never found the perfect one but still, that's dedication. I stray away from the boring traditional ones with the state name and shape (although this type is one of the less creative neighborhood kids go-to) and try to find ones that will make her laugh or show her some of the culture or sights from the city instead.
A green-eyed squirrel from North Carolina, a candy skull from Cancun, the mysterious Bigfoot from Washington, a sailboat from Maryland, a front porch with a lamppost from Puerto Rico, manatees from Central Florida, and entirely too many Los Angeles cityscapes and Smoky Mountain bottle openers adorn the kitchen. So many, in fact, that she ran out of room on the refrigerator and had my dad mount a magnetic board in the kitchen hallway to fit them all.

I know it makes her happy to see all of her children having these experiences and seeing the world but most of the time it just makes me sad that she couldn't be there with me. I hate to think that she ever looks at them and feels like she's missed out on too much or that we held her back in any way, though I know she would never admit that. We bring her souvenirs so she can live vicariously through us, so that she can cherish our memories in place of her own. Even now that I've moved away, I mail her magnets from Florida as an apology for my absence.  
I rate them three out of five stars.

Stumbling around Ikea together
For fun on a rainy day, road trip
Admiring things yet to have
Can openers and dish racks
Aisles and aisles of flatware
Fitz and the Tantrums emerges from the ceiling speakers
One of my favorites
I start to sing quietly to myself
As we careen around the displays
I catch you humming to the tune as well
And something just rung in my heart
As the radio intoned
"You were just the right kind,
*Yeah, you are more than just a dream"

when i was a sophomore in highschool
it seemed like half of my class gave themselves stick and pokes,
homemade DIY tattoos out of india ink and mom’s sewing needles
etched dot by dot into their skin.
we were sixteen;
we all wanted to be something permanent.
but even the ink fades eventually
and all that’s left is discolored skin and scars.
everything fades eventually.
even we all decompose eventually,
but i’ve been trying not too hard to think in terms of a legacy
because words like that are so heavy.
i don’t want to work so hard to have something to leave behind
that i have nothing while i’m here.
everyday the number of our hours fluctuates
with every little decision we make,
everyday the length of our legacy is determined
by what we’re leaving behind in our wake.
i'm afraid i've been taught to plan for the future so thoroughly
that it has stolen my lust for the now.
i could tell you my five year plan
but i’m not sure if i could tell you why i want to get up out of bed tomorrow
or what makes me excited to be alive.
in planning i’m always looking down at my hands,
always looking ahead of me but never right in front of me.
i’ve been trying to build a monument
but i forgot to make it mean anything.
so wash me away like footprints in the beach,
i was never really here unless i was with you anyways.
i have an ink-stained love letter and camera roll full of memories
as a testament to what was, or better yet to what wasn’t.
and everybody told me not count hours, but you know i never listened.
none of us ever listened, cautionary tales like warning signs
and we ignored them all.
we were all sixteen, getting chipped down and broken up
for the first time and we all wanted to be whole again.
you can put back together fragments,
but you’ll still see where the cracks were.
you take your broken bones and you learn to splint them
until they heal up,
until you only remember when it’s raining and you’re aching
for something you thought you buried.
we just a bunch of fistfight kids getting out of love
with ****** knuckles and smirks like “you should see the other guy”
we were all each other’s punching bags
and i think we all liked bruises
because we thought if we pressed them than they’d scar,
then at least something would stay permanent.
but it was 4 AM, all the hours flew away and all my tattoos were stick on.
you were always right and i was always wrong.
so let’s pretend that all this empty street in front of us is really ours
and let’s get pulled over for noise disturbances
like we were always laughing too loud, scared shitless
and staring at each other’s faces
in the red and blue lights until everything looks purple.
let’s stay out until the sun starts to rise like we’ve got nowhere to be,
fumbling around with bottle openers and each other’s hearts.
let’s do things not just to collect experiences,
let’s do things not just to say we did.
let’s do things that will only be immortalized by stories
because i think that’s why we tell stories, or at least i know that’s why i do:
the need to be remembered staves off the fear of being forgotten.
and i am no exception,
i don’t care about the slowly expanding sun, i just… want to be someone.
you see it’s just that a lot people want to go out with bang,
but i ain’t trying to go out at all.
because i used to be terrified of being forgotten,
i used to be terrified of leaving this world without so much as a foot print.
i remember i wanted to be quoted,
i wanted my words to live forever even if i had no pulse.
i wanted to know about immortality.
and i’m not all talk, i’m all writer’s block;
unable the eloquently string myself together like poetry.
because i’ve learned words don’t make you permanent,
they just make you a little harder to wash away.
and photographs don’t keep things from fading,
they just make it hurt more to remember them.
i’ve learned words just prolong death, they don’t dispel it.
so let’s do this.
it’s the closest i’ll ever get to the fountain of youth,
to undeniable truth, to lasting.  
let’s do this, let’s tell stories, let’s talk tongued tied with poetry.
again and again, every night.
let’s get on stage and root around in our chest cavities,
try to find where we misplaced our hearts for a start
and then try to find all the truths hidden inside ourselves
we always swore were there.
because this is the only time i feel like the world can’t knock me down,
because this is the only time that i wouldn’t even care if it did.
because i always want to feel like this.
i want to feel like i matter for one fleeting, fleeting moment.  
because if i could capture this moment in my hands like a firefly
then it would still die.
it would still die even if you had to pry it out of my cold dead fingers.
so something is not good because it lasts.
something is good because it matters while it did.

Of eye-openers, and time-dilation;
Thoughts' blossom at the fall of night:
Dusky lamplight below
a post-autumnal horizon,
The vista's indigo
tear-drop splotches
scar the skyglow

while wishing for moonlight.

When war comes
Not a matter of if
But when

History repeats
Itself
Again and again

Have to stay fit
Have to stay thin

The food supply
Will dwindle down

Perhaps U.N. troops
Will be occupying our towns

Those muscle bound men
WIth so much mass
It will be harder
For them to last

There will be
Barely enough to eat

I will be grateful to
Own many pairs of good socks
And good running shoes
On my feet

I have two can openers too
Just look what I can do

Our own supply will last a month
Or two
After that, we are just plain *******

If I could save up enough money
I would buy more

For there are terrible times
In store

The glow of the smart phones
Lulls them away
Living in a dream world

But there is trouble today

America broke
And at her end
This economy will not mend

Dig your holes deep
Pile earth and wood
Exposure to radiation
Is no good

If there is a war
I just hope

That there are no
Nuclear bombs

They are no joke

That's right
I rule OAS other openers

I wonder if elli or Eliot thinks I'm good, does he even kin


I dout it . But you do ,. Writ)(/ isn't that right

It's a little abstract I haven't I've hardly rhymed



Ya think I can spell of not antididdesterblismentarianlid


Alright IDE that's right walken

I'm really thrilled you're here and you'd read my own poems it

It's
It's just effective really really repenen

Truth has no greater friend than poetry.
I would go as far as to say they are bowling buddies
on the weekends and share stories over coffee regularly
during the weekdays, reveling in their perfect experiences
together.

When they talk, they don’t simply chat. No,
they communicate, walking the same walk because one is
as it is and the other proves very adaptable. Words uttered
with the constraint of structural dominance lose their oomph,
only flickering with what could have been.

I had a dream today that orange flowers and
purple thoughts could one day rise up and live together in
the confines of our minds.

No thinker is more instinctual than a poet and thus requires
a reactive art form. Trust me, I have sat down and thought deeply
about this after a long walk without destination where I scrutinized
the look and feel of my surroundings until I got bored
and got the usual at the bagel shop.

Explanation in conversation never really explains anything.
Better to leave breadcrumbs behind for someone else to find,
pickup and eat their way to an answer. If you think of a poem as a
wood littered with pieces of starch then consider my message received.
Unfortunately no letter openers exist and it may or may not have been
written in Icelandic depending on what day of the week it arrived.

Try to remember that words provide the only route to realities
of the past and so word choice is paramount. Recollection need not
contain any buildup or letdown; just get to the point stupid.

If you want to waste time then flip through magazines that
don’t really interest you or eat food that you don’t actually desire or
perhaps write a novel that takes way too long to finish. If, on the other
hand, you grasp the enormity of my plea and desire to communicate with
the world as a ambassador of truth and explore the darkness like a
21st century Columbus then by reading these last few words here
you are                     that much closer.

You Know You’re Getting Older When…©

The scroll bar for an online application
takes forever to get to your year of birth

The creaks you hear are your bones
not the floor boards

Younger people take the time to hold the door
open even without asking

Taking an escalator or elevator instead of stairs
is the only option

Switching the phone from ear to ear
doesn’t make hearing any easier

Can openers and jars become the enemy

You swear your arms are getting shorter
making tying your shoe laces a challenge

“Say again” are the most commonly used
words in your vocabulary

You save money on haircuts and shampoo
as there is less to work with

Grey becomes your new favorite color

Slow now feels fast

Cat naps are mandatory

The right lane on a highway becomes your domain

You need eye glasses to find your eye glasses

The remote is an extension of your hand

“Skip to the lou my darling” are
more than words to a song

And that’s just the short list

Don’t laugh, someday you’ll be there

Andreas Simic©

the skeptical scientific me
who wonders if it’s a show
people putting their best selves forward
for me and thee?

the faithful me who chooses to believe
in resurrection and life after earth
the me who remembers rebirth
and the joy that rained in my heart?

the me that lets go and falls into love
of the greeters and door-openers
happy to see smiling faces
on a day with parted clouds above?

the me bruised
with the bumps of reality and loss
nailed daily by the boundaries I cross
forgetting prayer and missing cues?

I know something of the person I am
but which self in which place
I fall into isn’t in a program.
In my better moments that fickle self
stumbles and falls into grace.

I can't get rid of anything.
books I'll never read borrowed from my sister
worn navy-blue middle school band t-shirts
grandmother's photo albums of adventures I look at once every half decade
a spider-man lamp I plugged in maybe once
three different digital cameras dating back before 2007
white rose, silver ribbon dried flower corsage from senior prom
two can openers... I can't explain this one
memory jar of trinkets and treasures collected in single digit years
ten scarves cluttering my wall that I will definitely wear "one day"
cleats for who knows what sport
the orange nev surfboard from my uncle. I don't know how to surf.
Marshmallow, the ratty threadbare cat with the pink velvet nose
quarter collection--why haven't I spent yet?
store bought seashells, metro cards, old medications, empty make-up bottles, broken jewelry and flats a half size too big
Baggage.

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

                   If This Were Kabul We’d Call It Nation Building

           At Least 6 Killed, 56 Wounded In Chicago Labor Day
                                    Weekend Gun Violence

                                            -CBS 2 Chicago

Maybe one of the civilized nations
Will send us aid: food packages, nylons
Chocolate for the children, used clothing
Cigarettes for the old men, can openers

Maybe one of the civilized nations
Will send their young soldiers to guard our streets
And missionaries to teach us the Bible
And volunteer nurses to teach us hygiene

Maybe one of the civilized nations
Will pity us, and make us a protectorate


(From a reminder by Anthony Germain)