People say that I'm foolish,
a bundle of velocity.

These magnificent stylings,
the simple joy of being me.

Stares curious and curiouser,
cocked eyebrows and murmurs.

Astonished minds bleat society,
cower from smiling performers.

dont talk about it
today
if you wont talk about it
tomorrow.

the day might change but we never do.
stuck in the mud
stuck in the mud
stuck in the mud

The only way,
You’ll pick me,
Is in a line up.
“Who’s heart was it sir? Who’s heart was the one you crushed up and ruined for everyone else?”
That one there.
The girl with the honest eyes
And the irrelevant freckles.
That’s her. I’m sure of it.
Well that’s when I was handcuffed.
Taken into custody.
Into a cell, a familiar place, but uncomforting for the first time.
There were walls, casing me in
made up of your words.
And when I turned to escape I felt your arms
Around me.
They weren’t holding me with love this time though.
No, they were holding me back.
They were crushing me,
With hope,
And longing,
And the muscles of the past
Which will always hit you right between the eyes
When you least expect it.
And I managed to escape.
I turned away and ran for what seemed like an exit
But in reality was just
An illusion.
A filler,
In my heart to replace what
Can never be.
So I collapsed, and thought over
The crimes I had committed
To get me here.
I remembered the writing.
The lyrical stylings of pen against paper,
Provided by yours truly, for you wholly.
Inspired by and dedicated to you,
Created by love, published by vulnerability.
And then I thought about the skin.
The flesh that we shared.
And it must not have been soft enough,
Or warm enough,
Or have had enough electricity,
To power the whole world,
Just a few continents.
I thought about time. The clocks,
That ticked, slowly, but surely,
Filled with me,
Adoring you.
My placing in this room mustn’t have been
A mistake.
My thoughts were far too fast and far too strong
To be legal.
Far too much for me to handle.
So I must need help.
But then it’s your face that hits me, and I feel it.
I feel it all again.
I remember what the sun looks like and what fresh air smells like and what it feels like not to be
Alone.
Alone.
And that was it.
I knew why I was here. I knew why i was alone in this place that was made up of you.
You escaped.
You *******,
What a smart guy you are.
You found the spoon.
You dug your way out of the cell you had enclosed us in,
And I didn’t even notice.
You slowly but surely carved away
At what I found sacred,
And hallowed.
And I never even knew it, until you were gone.
And then I was here.
Serving my life sentence.
Awaiting trial.
” Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the evidence has been laid before you. Have you come to a verdict?”
And no one spoke.
Because they had nothing to say. And they didn’t understand,
Just like me, how someone guilty,
Could get off free.
But you did.
And I know, that the scars,
On the left side of my chest,
Are all,
I’ve got to show.

broken lines of tragic poetry
spread *****-nilly across the imitation hard-wood flooring
polyurethane broad leaf maple
complete with swirls and lines
as if it were somehow damaged in a lightning storm and forced to grow
twisted and bent
I stare into the abyss of half-written sentences
and six rhyme sets
bent, rent, dent, cent, divergent, spent
home, gnome (Alaska or little dwarf), poem, loam, roam, beachcomber
draft, raft, laughed, giraffe, bath, Taft (little town near Lincoln City)
and so on and so on and so on
til death –
grasping at passing visions and mental images
attempting to reconcile this pile into worthwhile stylings
and filing them alphabetically …

there I did it accidentally….
as if to prove the point on my head
has a friend.

Revolving floor of soreness
my pores ooze from unrest
able to fully digest
what I peruse and use for
my next ‘write’ fest
something about ****** and recess…
and the best dressed in the west
confessing diabetes….
I digress
and pretend this never happened –

your voice is still echoing in my head
and through my walls; entire blocks
drearily sinking deeper into the night
as i shrink into my corner of this block.
i swear i heard you singing that song
that you'd been whispering in my ears
and that i've been humming; i don't know
the words to the music constantly in my head.


                                                           i know the words to the music
                                                          that i'm making up as i go along.
                                                              they're simple in their meter
                                                         and matrices that they're filling in.


i'd written you a love song, but you're gone
and when i see you, i don't think the words
that i'd spoken to you over the phone;
i think in the stylings of love that'd been forgotten.
it seems like they linger through to the dawn,
and they hang on every whisper that i still hear.
they hang around, never quite leaving here.
they're hanging on, and they're still so clear.

i place the configuration
of bones,
commonly known as hands
against the convex cusp
of my cheek,
then place the whole mad
contraption ,
elbow first onto the bench,
that seperates you
the bartender,
from me,
the person wishing,
to inhale copious amounts
of alcohol....
and say in my finest
of linguistic stylings....
"can i  ave  another....of
da ***** mules....ta

.....muchly luv...."


upon your denial,
of my well worded request,
i being both,
discombobulated and distraught,
cry,
into some one else's beer,
before leaving,
to stagger and stumble home....

where i puke $73.00+ dollars,
worth of cocktails,
into the porcelian bowl
of the only restroom,
in the apartment...

There is no shame or disgrace in exposing the deepest darkest corners of this spirit
In fact without the comradery of this family of artist surrounding our craft there would be no audience to appreciate the stylings of the soul.
Some may be timid and reserved, afraid of judgement
Lost in the image of perfection defined in another's eyes
Oh if only we as humanity were more approving and accepting of differences
We would have solutions to issues of the world
Cruelty would have no home here
We would all have the same dream of equality and love of thy neighbor.
It saddens this poet to see the pure evil displayed in this world
No matter what the cause or reasoning
Deep inside my prayer is for love
Love pure and strong
Love in the innocence of a child's heart
That can see no difference, that only can see love
Love like our creator has for us
Unconditional, unwavering
With each word I can give
I give all a piece of myself
Exposed and naked
I give it freely and in hopes that another can see and sympathize
or empathize or recognize a piece of themselves in my reflection.
Unable to stop, knowing if I ceased those thoughts and dreams
My being would also cease to exist

Exactly on target, we shoot words with silence
In each glare of violence, we re-do the stylings
Of mental athletics, brains jumping through hoops made of fire
We tight rope across all of these verbal tripwires
Got your thoughts in a circus the ringmasters nervous
But **** he deserves it Oh god I deserve it

The rambling I'm ambling I'm scrambling to make it back home
Screaming how did this happen
I softened my landing but still fell with passion
I've laid a foundation but misread the pavement
Got ****** up and ****** down, I'm raining these statements
Is this what the pain meant? My minds train in derailment

I love, the moments, that I spend, beside you
But crumple, inside in, the moments, I lie to you
Lost in verbal warfare tounge twister suicide I'm fighting a battle to my death my heart and brain either way it goes I know I'll feel the pain I'm talking lying to myself so convinced I speak the truth, that when you catch me in my lies, just know I think I caught me too

Tripping on the patches of ice built from frozen tears.
Got a semi-conductive, convulsing electrical jukebox, playing some music to die for to die to
I'm slipping on brain juice, I'm hoping it stained you, I'm driving this nail under influential musings, right through my skull
Dulling the pain turning to my drug
Breathing in the ashes of a devastating love

And it's tuned to the doves
The peace of mind in my lungs
All i keep is the love
You take it all and then some
Cause I've been running on E
But life has never been this easy

Hello and I am at the southfest festival in Tuggeranong where I just witnessed the great musical stylings of the Tuggeranong valley band and I can tell you they were absolutely amazing
They played great medleys like YMCA and aha’s take on me and other great songs and it got a few people singing in the crowd and when that was over
I started to head over to the other stage and there is mellow melodies performing and they are playing some great songs like love me do from the Beatles and Jolene from Dolly Parton
And yes it was totally cool,
And as it went on, they did a tribute to the king of rock and roll who is elvis Presley and these singers from mellow melodies are really in fine voice mate, I tell ya they are, they dragged out the ukeleles and sang this very catchy song
Valerie was the name of the song and mate it was catchy
And now they are singing read my mind, I don’t know this song but they make it sound nice and then they played time after time, a cyndi lauper song, they are two beautiful singers and they are showing the melodies like their name says and their voices sound great singing an old folk song called blowing in the wind and mate they sound great they hit the right note, a great pick for this years southfest, and this is a note to Stevie nicks they sing Fleetwood Mac so well and meanwhile at the back the Tuggeranong ukelele gang are setting up and mellow melodies are still playing very strong, I would hire them for a party, wouldn’t you and now mellow melodies are playing crowded house’s don’t dream it’s over and they are a great act to cover the tugs Tuggeranong ukulele gang and I like the look and sound of the ukelele and
Mellow melodies are playing everywhere from Fleetwood Mac and they sound so amazing, like their voices are from nirvana or something
And you should hear the Tuggeranong ukelele gang
Their music is for the really cool cats, from sweet little sixteen
And many more sixties hits and a hit from the jungle book and one little kid was having a cool dance as a monkey and yes that was cool and they sang Route 66 and they even sang a Johnny cash song and they are also playing riptide which is great playing music that pleases each generation and even a song from Santana which is black magic woman and this sounds so groovy and they finished with chubby checkers let’s twist again and the ukeleles were the coolest yet and then I went over to look at sing Australia and they sang songs like I dream a dream and que Sara Sara and 2 seekers songs like Georgy girl and a great Christmas dream song called morningtown ride and they sang Danny boy which was sang with great beauty and at the end they sang I am you are
We are Australian and after that the belly dancers came on and really got the crowd interested in what they do and they were shaking their bellies in a really cool way and then I walked through the market and relaxed with the music there and I walked back to where the ukeleles were an operatic Christmas carols and it was I come with Ye faithful which had a very high voice, southfest this year was really cool, everyone had a lot of fun and I couldn’t see any troublemakers to spoil it for the rest of us but it was a very cool festival
Here is a poem about the day
I headed to Tuggeranong
On the last Saturday in November
To see a great festival
For all the young and old
There were Tuggeranong bands
And great melodies
And ukeleles really playing well
Then there were choirs and belly dancers and kids dancing which could have been cool
And Christmas carols to celebrate a great new yule
And only one coffee place
Out of the whole festival
I didn’t see it but I am sure the bush dancers wee cool as well
Go tugs go tugs have a cool time

soon my children will fly from my firm embrace
to that worldly gaggle of spit, and fire and chance and
unleased all... opportunity, happiness, love, and desire

but for now, I'm holding tight to their smiles and stylings...
and petulance and arguments and laments... pitched battles
that end up soon in smiles and hugs goodnight

and dressing up.. posing and posturing for a tik tok
dance or feisty Instagram... silly but so now...
flippancy and admonishments roll out like a lucky seven

going out, coming in, that's up and then down
here's the doorbell being rung one, two, three times
fast, so fast... "open up Dad keys are in our backpacks"

a blink from diapers to destinations... on their own
with friends and futures in tow... be home soon
maybe midnight, maybe three... really not sure

time waits ready to treat the destiny for each one's
sonnet, symphony... jazz riff or rap synapse...
solely and uniquely fitted like a fine dovetail joint

Right on the money dude
Right on the money dude
Doing what they do is
Right on the money dude
They play afl very well
And at rugby league their stylings are swell
At basketball they play and they sweat
And in water polo they get very wet
But when their team wins
They say one thing that sends
Them to a state where they are
Right on the money dude
right on the money dude
They are right in everything they do
As they rock and roll like they do
Yes as they play and sweat in their sports
Maybe buy a watch a Rolex or a Swartz
Right on the money dude
Right on the money dude
Having fun getting blind
Waiting for you to unwind
We just say as long as you say
You are right on the money
You will find yourself happy as a bee making honey

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                              Nones as a Religious Category


                               …afterwards our pupils
                               will not forgive in us what we forgave

                                             -Yevtushenko, “Lies”


If children ask for bread will we give them

Musical stylings of abysmal mediocrity
Packaged in the poster-art palettes of the sixties
When the altars and the hymnals were stripped
Of everything beautiful, true, and good

When

Latin missals were reduced to baby-talk
Felt banners appeared like refrigerator art
The Body of the Lord was shoveled aside
In a malformed tabernacle of hammered scrap

And maybe that’s why the young people leave -
We’ve given them little in which to believe