Someday soon
He's gonna ride up
On a hog; it was a Norton,

Actually.

I will jump on the back.
Away we will ride into
Our history.

Actually. . .

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                                            Schrodinger’s Lover

                                      Cf. Shakespeare, Sonnet 48

I have always kept things carefully hidden
Especially the secrets of my heart
But a lover cannot be secreted away
Nor would anyone want this to be so

And because you are no one’s possession
You cannot be kept from the gaze of the world
Locked away in a metaphorical box
Because of anyone’s inappropriate fears

I have always kept things carefully hidden
But you, brave happy spirit, will not be bidden

with one eye at the end of a telescope
and the other the end of a microscope
the science of distance comes into view

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                                    After a Night of Thunderstorms

The zinnias are rich with the works of the bee
Meanwhile the mosquitoes are working on me!

Some poems don't
work.
No amount of
tweaking will
fix it.
You can't finger it until
it comes.

Push the delete
button and
start over.
You write because
you have to.
It's in your cells.

You're a salmon,
swimming up
stream to stay
alive.
You write because
the nuthouse yawns,
and beckons.
It waits.

The cage door is
open, and the
water is
tainted with
mercury.
Fly away, or die.

If the writing
isn't working,
go fishing,
eat a tangerine or
some brussel sprouts.
Be livid
Be silly.
Study the *****
and the orchid.

Think about what the
color black tastes like, or if
pink whispers or yells.
And write until
the trivialities take
flight from your
life.
In the surrendering,
triumph will come.

When I’m in the dark
All I want is him,

Blurred silhouette warm to the touch,
Skin to skin in the dim.

When the contours in the corners loom,
Hold me without sight.

In the dark, and nothing else,
We are one shadow, slight.

When the lights come on,
Unfortunate details grow.

Like a **** from a crack,
A blemish in the snow.

In the savage of the day,
The barriers of our skin discrete,

We just can’t make sense,
When light and eyes meet.