My army stands behind me
Where you cannot harm them.
And, with them to defend me,
You cannot harm me too.

President Mujica, Emporer Jimmu,
Jesus, Buddha and Scrappy Doo.
Gazoo, Kung Fu
And most of all you

The ranks of soldiers unfallen
Always unreachable by you.
They are my past, my knowledge
And my future.

This morning, out in lightly falling snow, I heard geese
as flights of them flew overhead. Like a shot
I was ten again, Grammy and I at the lake. I’d sit in the bow
of my canoe, pulled awkwardly ashore, neck craned back to watch the sky.
I was always sad to see them go; their calls so many cold goodbyes.
Ice encrusted water slushed against the dock in slow motion waves.

It was time to seek new horizons, where waves
of Floridian waters would embrace the geese.
My grandmother said that every new adventure started with goodbyes
to one thing or another. If I were ever to have a shot
at following my dreams, there’d be farewells as I reached for the sky.
Instinct would lead me onward to my accomplished bow.

One year Momma and Poppa Goose stayed behind, a nest in the bow
of my boat. The wintery sky turned black with departing waves.
They would call out as the flying ones filled the sky.
Wounded wing grounded Poppa. (Canada geese
mate for life.) Momma would not leave her mate, recently shot
during hunting season. She would not yet say her goodbyes.

This, then, was the winter of no cold goodbyes.
Before school, pony tailed hair with ribboned bow,
blowing in the stiff breeze, I’d take a shot
at keeping ice from the edge of the lake, waves
arrowing out as they swam. The geese,
with an itch in their wings, anxious for a return to their sky.

That summer Poppa introduced his flock to the sky,
practiced formational takeoffs leading to goodbyes.
Clouds overhead gathered gray with unfallen snow as the geese
took flight. My two watching for a moment, dipping heads in an elegant bow,
before joining in the aerial ballet of strong winged waves.
Grammy’s strong hand gripped my shoulder, then-- the parting shot.

Grammy joined the geese beyond the horizon. No miracle shot
or endless love could keep her with me. Heaven was in the sky.
I knew she was watching although there’d been no time for final waves.
Her new adventure started without time for goodbyes.
Outside, snow blanketed as I cried myself to sleep. Her final bow
had been silent, but she’d been telling me, as had the geese.

Overhead the geese are shaftless arrows shot
from an instinctual bow piercing the morning sky
with their raucous goodbyes. Time waves.

I

A Genesis! The Exodus, the Exodus!
A departure from all terrestiality
Always immoral and depraved, bathed in filth, in self-loathing
Abattoir of our souls, it entrenches us

Also, we too must be of the same make
And bear with our corpses the same proceedings, the same caliber
Allowed to their subversive candor,
All that broke the Carthaginians upon their own passage
Across the peninsular pathways

S'il in our conquest we find, however, that the pachyderms have run aground,
Vous must aggregate our conscious thought
Plaitcate the ravenousness within the heart of victory.

II

Bring victory, the winged harbinger of the conquest,
Beg for tyrannical proclamations: the end of man, the end of men,
By now, the greater of the concepts is lost to its own devices, devices,
Belching out smoke, that bend the corpses upon their backs.
By wrenching from their life a sense of purpose,
Byproductively, they feed heroic romanticisms of combat.

Brought yet upon these fields, there lies no stranger enemy
But that of the tide
Being self-effacing, masochistic,
Belittling, She breaks herself upon the shore, ravaging the bodies of
Both, Playing as ******* and as subservient

III

Come! Wave upon Wave upon Frothing
Crest, to shores of golden enfrenzied ******
Calmed by the liquid of our ***** *****
Charging forth as we
Charge forth armies upon the field of slaughter
Callously, for you, our gilded monarch
Can you see? They cannot see, and we hope to elucidate your presence, they
Cannot comprehend or fathom what they
Cannot see.

IV

Ceaseless now the charges
Come further upon the front
Crashing 'gainst the openings of each
Clangor and madness
Coalesce to form death

Dripping anew with sanguine libations
Drawn fresh from naked lambs, freshly cut for their country
Dionysian warriors return,
Desire forming their mental undulations

Effortlessly they overtake their feminine fortunes
Effacing their identities, removing from them with their clothing, the
Entirety of their selves.

V

From carnal conquest they rejoice,
Flaunting the destruction they wrought
Flinging husks of women about the room,
Foisting these shells on other patriarchs

Given no choice, they return to fields of battle
Godspeed, gods' will, and god-granted
Gaian soil is retreaded by their sodden flesh.

VI

Hellish, infernal is their presence
Having lost no measure to revelry or rest, neither
Halting nor slowed, the march quickens in time with their lustful bellows
Hastened to madness by infinity
Harkened back to prisons of mental anguish by their creators
How proud they are, the Old Gods,
Hacking away the pounds of flesh to reveal the
Haphazard construction to their instruments of torture.

VII

Into the bloodshed, into the fiery cavernous opening of the crusade
Ignited by righteous scraps of cloth and metal
Ignobly formed into crudely significant, textured shapes
Iconoclasts to their own ideals
Idyllic in their self-mockery.

Jabbering like hellbeasts, the warriors drive into the flesh of the conflict
Jettisoning armaments in the process, their
Joie de vivre having been lessened by mechanical limits.
Jocular slaughter synthesized with demonic cries.

Kapellmeisters to the symphony of death,
Keeping in the rhythm of mutilation, counterpoints of steel clashing against breastplates, giving shape to a
Kleptocracy of life.

VIII

Languishing now in the refuse of the struggle,
Laden with corpses, the warriors remain restrained by fatigue
Lurching through the mud, calling out feebly with voices
Long since bellowed to pulpy masses of throat tissue.

Masses of flesh crawling across the fields of strife,
Macerated ground, weak and shifting, struggles to support the
Multitude of half-corpses now in eternal respite upon the bloodied pasture.

IX

Now broken with regret and shame they collapse
Nestled into the marrow of the fallow earth,
Needing only rest in the cooling tendrils of dirt and blood that trickle across them.
Né de nouveau, their trek leads them towards the grave
Necrosis having taken hold in their limbs,
Nascent corpses, they subside with grave finality into a dead collective.

X

Opaque irises await those who uncover the un-burial mound
Oafish sockets containing them like marbles
Open to the elements, decaying with their corporeal encasement, shaded by
Oaken leaves that remain unfallen, while
Obsequious maggots go about their task of cleansing the remains

Paralyzed in the final moments of their mortal coil, the bodies lay stagnant,
Pacified only by the removal of sentience.
Pagan rituals surround such corpses, and the intrepid discovers
Patiently await the arrival of some necromantic spirit.

Quasi-instinctively, the pioneers of the superterranean mausoleum
Quell their fears and remove the bodies from their conclusive locale,
Quantifying their deaths by the armaments and metal carapaces upon them.

XI

Reeling across the path, weighted by the bodies,
Returning, the archaeological presence brings a pall over society, which
Remained reticent despite the presence of such suffocating solemnity
Repressed by its own intent

Solitude is given no quarter, and the bodies
Strung up like scattered marionettes
Silently serenade the town with a deafening cacophony.

XII

To Hell their souls desperately charge, frothing about the shackles of undeath
Torn from corporeal existence, yet unable to
Transgress the mortal plane
Torturous paradox!
Torment the fallen of Carthage's vestigal might no more
Traducer of the human condition
Tragedy is loosed at thy whim
Try not the patience of demi-gods of wrath and bloodshed.

XIII

Undulating by the beckoning of the wind,
Un-beautiful, un-ironed, the shrouds of the coffins
Under grey sky hang softly like leaden sheets
Unaware of the gravity beneath the few inches of oak
Un-aesthetically masking the dead warriors' forms

Visceral is the movement of the procession,
Vermicular, they wind a course to the peak of the foothill
Vehemently the priest urges them onwards, although he is
Visibly ill on this occasion of the anti-hero.

Warlike, the battle up the ***** claims the lives of those already claimed
Wastrels left to rot in the carcass of a long-dead conflict,
Wanting nothing more than solace eternal.

XIV

Xenophobes of the Inferno fear the inevitable presence of these
Xoana, false representations of humanity.
Xanthic is their fear, for inside the malebolges themselves
Xanadu is sought for those of the fallen soldiery.

Yet funerary proceedings dictate descent for these souls, and the coffins
Yaw slightly in the wind, disturbed by the
Yanks of the ****** rabble who bear their weight.

XV

Zeus himself presides over the ferrying of these souls,
Zion awaits them, their final collective fate at hand,

Yet slowly it turns its back upon them,
Xenophanes mocks from his post,
Wailing, they fall
Velocity increasing infinitely,
Until they see no more the lustrous light
Trapped eternally in dark
Stabbed with betrayal and fear, their souls
Run amok, fleeing from the source of their anguish
Questioning existence.
Periodically in the abyss, the helpless aggregate conscious is
Overwhelmed with memory of Paradise
Now to them denied for eternity.
Mephisto remains, their only companion,
Leeching from them the final vestiges of hope now left within, once
Kept hidden to protect the warriors, now
Jabbed and pummeled to death.
In this state of perpetual umbra
Heaven so distant, now only faded, as if on parchment,
Gained by the souls is a sense of locality, once
Forgotten but now reattained, and
En masse, the group instantly
Derives that they have returned from beyond the mortal plane, the terra once again
Collates beneath their soles, and the collective decides they must return
Before the open sun, to bear themselves
Against the gods, against sanctity itself, and thus they cry:

Hearing nothing but my breath
I wander this war torn city alone.
A cool moist breeze hits me from behind
Signaling the start of a summer thunderstorm.

The smell of the unfallen rain is heavy
As I find my way to an old abandoned park.
The brush consumes an old rusted swing set
I rest at an old bamboo picnic table.

All around me is destruction and rubble
On my left, lightning surrounds black clouds
Quickly moving in to consume the city
The perfect euphemism for this country’s inevitable fate

As the rain begins to fall, the sun dips below the tree line
Casting a shadow on an old apartment building.
Across from it, the swaying palm trees glow orange
A luminous contrast to the storm above them

To my right, a couple is sitting on their balcony
Swallowing the chaos, welcoming the rain
Surrounded by rubble, in this infamous country
They find peace in being together

Here, where precipitate Spring with one light bound
Into hot Summer's ***** arms expires;
And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night,
Soft airs, that want the lute to play with them,
And softer sighs, that know not what they want;
Under a wall, beneath an orange-tree
Whose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier ones
Of sights in Fiesole right up above,
While I was gazing a few paces off
At what they seemed to show me with their nods,
Their frequent whispers and their pointing shoots,
A gentle maid came down the garden-steps
And gathered the pure treasure in her lap.
I heard the branches rustle, and stept forth
To drive the ox away, or mule, or goat,
(Such I believed it must be); for sweet scents
Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts,
And nurse and pillow the dull memory
That would let drop without them her best stores.
They bring me tales of youth and tones of love,
And 'tis and ever was my wish and way
To let all flowers live freely, and all die,
Whene'er their Genius bids their souls depart,
Among their kindred in their native place.
I never pluck the rose; the violet's head
Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank
And not reproacht me; the ever-sacred cup
Of the pure lily hath between my hands
Felt safe, unsoil'd, nor lost one grain of gold.
I saw the light that made the glossy leaves
More glossy; the fair arm, the fairer cheek
Warmed by the eye intent on its pursuit;
I saw the foot, that, altho half-*****
From its grey slipper, could not lift her up
To what she wanted: I held down a branch
Was come, and bees had wounded them, and flies
Of harder wing were working their way thro
And scattering them in fragments under foot.
So crisp were some, they rattled unevolved,
Others, ere broken off, fell into shells,
For such appear the petals when detacht,
Unbending, brittle, lucid, white like snow,
And like snow not seen thro, by eye or sun:
Was fairer than the first . . I thought not so,
But so she praised them to reward my care.
I said: you find the largest.

This indeed,
Cried she, is large and sweet.

She held one forth,
Whether for me to look at or to take
She knew not, nor did I; but taking it
Would best have solved (and this she felt) her doubts.
I dared not touch it; for it seemed a part
Of her own self; fresh, full, the most mature
Of blossoms, yet a blossom; with a touch
To fall, and yet unfallen.

She drew back
The boon she tendered, and then, finding not
The ribbon at her waist to fix it in,
Dropt it, as loth to drop it, on the rest.

Here, where precipitate Spring with one light bound
Into hot Summer's ***** arms expires;
And where go forth at morn, at eve, at night,
Soft airs, that want the lute to play with them,
And softer sighs, that know not what they want;
Under a wall, beneath an orange-tree
Whose tallest flowers could tell the lowlier ones
Of sights in Fiesole right up above,
While I was gazing a few paces off
At what they seemed to show me with their nods,
Their frequent whispers and their pointing shoots,
A gentle maid came down the garden-steps
And gathered the pure treasure in her lap.
I heard the branches rustle, and stept forth
To drive the ox away, or mule, or goat,
(Such I believed it must be); for sweet scents
Are the swift vehicles of still sweeter thoughts,
And nurse and pillow the dull memory
That would let drop without them her best stores.
They bring me tales of youth and tones of love,
And 'tis and ever was my wish and way
To let all flowers live freely, and all die,
Whene'er their Genius bids their souls depart,
Among their kindred in their native place.
I never pluck the rose; the violet's head
Hath shaken with my breath upon its bank
And not reproacht me; the ever-sacred cup
Of the pure lily hath between my hands
Felt safe, unsoil'd, nor lost one grain of gold.
I saw the light that made the glossy leaves
More glossy; the fair arm, the fairer cheek
Warmed by the eye intent on its pursuit;
I saw the foot, that, altho half-*****
From its grey slipper, could not lift her up
To what she wanted: I held down a branch
And gather'd her some blossoms, since their hour
Was come, and bees had wounded them, and flies
Of harder wing were working their way thro
And scattering them in fragments under foot.
So crisp were some, they rattled unevolved,
Others, ere broken off, fell into shells,
For such appear the petals when detacht,
Unbending, brittle, lucid, white like snow,
And like snow not seen thro, by eye or sun:
Yet every one her gown received from me
Was fairer than the first . . I thought not so,
But so she praised them to reward my care.
I said: you find the largest.

This indeed,
Cried she, is large and sweet.

She held one forth,
Whether for me to look at or to take
She knew not, nor did I; but taking it
Would best have solved (and this she felt) her doubts.
I dared not touch it; for it seemed a part
Of her own self; fresh, full, the most mature
Of blossoms, yet a blossom; with a touch
To fall, and yet unfallen.

She drew back
The boon she tendered, and then, finding not
The ribbon at her waist to fix it in,
Dropt it, as loth to drop it, on the rest.

things are blurry
I can't think straight
thoughts are bouncing off the walls
I'm losing my mind
make it stop
I need you here
why aren't you here
where did you go
why did you leave
when are you coming back
the thoughts are filled with you
you
you
you
I ****** up didn't I
I ****** up
I'm sorry
please come back
it's all I want
I want things to be okay again
are you okay
is the night treating you well
are you ever going to come back
why did I say that
why did I have to **** things up
I can't function without you
I'm trying not to cry
it's hard
it's hard to catch my breath
my lungs are collapsing
my throat is closing
my eyes are covered by unfallen tears
make it stop
is this what death feels like
I'd rather be dead than feel like this
I'd rather be in your arms
I'd rather things be okay
but they're not
I'm sorry
please come home
I worry about you
I worry something bad will happen
please I'm sorry
I didn't mean it
I was mad
I never should've said it
I'm gasping for air
I'm holding on
I'm a piece of nothing
a piece of ******* ****
my body is heavy
my heart is panicking
my lungs won't inflate
my mouth is wheezing
my mind is in a state of insanity
I keep writing
nothing seems to be working
you're not back yet
what if you're hurt
what if you're crying
what if I ****** up for good this time
I can't lose you
I can't contain these thoughts
I'm experiencing insanity
I keep thinking the same things
over and over again
hoping for a change
hoping you'll come home
but you won't
you won't
you won't
you won't
I miss you
I love you
I'm sorry

Would that I could
paint the world as poetry,
to waltz each sunset in time with love
this would be my gift to you.

But since I cannot
I shall pluck each ogre hair
that grows upon your conscience
and with that weave a silken tie
the colour of unveiled mystery
the texture of unfallen tears.
And this will become my proud plumage.

Before we search for adventure
in the folds of all flesh, remember
the stars that you stole for your eyes.
And I will remember
that the world is poetry
and sunsets do not waltz in time with love.

You carried a sack of feathers
over your shoulder
when I met you.
One by one I stitched them back
and then I took you out
and flung you to the wind.
You circled a few times
before you disappeared
and I when I turned to go
I found you walking at my side.

Everything is barren now.
The leaves have fallen and the bugs have all
Retreated into the warm houses.
I saw one in my shower this morning
And as I turned on the faucet, it flew
To the next wall. I worried that
The water bouncing off my body
Might drown it or make its wings too wet to survive the winter
But I did nothing to move it.

I understand that the only reason
You don’t like riding home from school with me anymore
Is because you can’t smoke cigarettes in my car.
But now I have to drive by the twin oaks alone—
Those twin oaks where I sat with a girl I was sure
I would soon come to love.
Staring up at the leaves with her, I’d thought maybe
That girl and I were just like the oaks:
Two separate bodies joined at one point.

Now the way snow hangs makes it clear.
Those canopies could only spread and grow
Once the oaks had parted, leaning in opposite directions.
You used to distract me as we drove by,
Keeping my mind from the haunting reminder
Of the future that failed to pass.
Without you with me there, I’m left to question
What I’ll see when this pristine white landscape
Finally melts.

That bug on the sterile white porcelain
Seemed to scream this morning as I idly hummed a tune
Written by some friends who moved to Athens.
It screamed with the smog of unsmoked cigarettes
And leaves that can never be unfallen.  
My humming
Was screaming too.

i lie still
in the morning
and watch the sunrise
creep up
my wall
to the white
of my ceiling

bathed in grey light
subdued
by unfallen rain

i wish the rays
of sun
were your eyes
moving
over me

I daydream
Till it becomes a real dream
Then I dream away my sadness
I dream away my fears
Then I dream away all my fathers unfallen tears
Till morning comes
Oh the morning that comes!
When life is not but others dream
Or a dream is not but anothers life

15th Sunday in Ordinary Time

We are scattered, like the Tribes of Israel
Sown not in rejection but as word and work
Planted everywhere, and commanded to grow
In the rich earth of divine Creation

There is no veto in birds, rocks, or thorns
Let them instead serve in their own poor ways
As dutiful as humans, maybe more so
Unfallen either as seed or as beings

To tend and guard the ancient unities
That grow forever in Jerusalem

The human suffering is my life's project
How could I ever turn my back on it

All the images of loss I had painted
On my own cold concrete Berlin wall
Paintbrush dipped into a catalog color
"Dark ocean of despair"
Smearing it cautiously on the rough surface
Protecting the still innocent from the ricochets

Oh the number of books that I had written
About another restless soul stuck in limbo
Circling the globe on a boat called "Oblivion"
I shoot them into my not so public library in the sky
Riding on the back of a spark flying from my sympathetic heart
Only to allow their sad glow to forever illuminate the top of my head

An archive of movies stored in a chamber of my heart
Categorized into natural human disasters
All written and directed by me
Starring every soul that ever exposed itself to mine
On a hot sticky night with a glass of wine
In a dusty desert wearing dark green uniform
On the grassy banks of a beautiful European canal
Their silent cries for help are the soundtrack of my life
The shot of an unfallen tear I could never cut out

The pain of a life lived internally,
A bag of beautiful intentions bursting at the seams
Are the substance of the blanket I cover myself with
When I try to fall asleep
Who would I be without it?

Tonight, I’m just a little bit gloomy,
with eyes to match the clouds outside;
The sky is swollen with unfallen precipitation.
A blast from the past
bruised my happiness,
and a shot of anxiety left me shaking in my love’s arms.
But I’m just a little bit sad,
and there’s no need to fear,
all I need is some beauty sleep for my smile to return.

i thought i saw you walking
between the morpheus trees

the leaves in autumn auburn
dancing in their descending

to lay themselves at your feet
as welcome, your charity

each soft step kissing the earth
i gave chase, for what it's worth

but i turned one way, and you
another, leaving no trace

and now this place keeps secrets
of stories that could have been

and now all but a few leaves
remain unfallen, and i

deep in the still and quiet
patient, await their return

i thought i saw you walking
between the morpheus trees

with a little luck, next time
it will be you seeing me

....No one really makes me happy anymore
More like half smiles to a face broken in many places
by unfallen tear streaks
and frowns
Emitting noise just to see if it would be heard
Saying I love you, just to see if
I believe the words
coming from my own mouth.
I said I'd stick around
but those machines inside are running
down
down
down and soon the energy
keeping me up
is going to run out
So I should start running now....?

Unfallen tears glisten
unsaid words choke
unspent rage fades
at the back of my throat
I stare at the wet windscreen
my phone in my hand
the silence still falling
draining like sand
through fingers that stop grasping
as my eyes close to see
that this is the close
of our long closing scene

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

                  Chuck Lorre is Shakespeare with a Laptop

Chuck Lorre is Shakespeare with a laptop
Bill Prady is Wodehouse at a whiteboard
Their Pasadena is the Forest of Arden
Or Totleigh Towers at a city bus stop

They have built for us an unfallen world
Of Woosterian plots and app-crossed lovers
At play in the laboratories of the Lord
Where the magic works but the elevators don’t

Chuck and Bill’s stories are always well-wrought
And they end each one with a provocative thought


(Nothing rhymes with “l’envoi.”)