Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                A Geriatric Motorcycle Gang Stops at Joe’s Eats

Grammies and Pappies in their backwards caps
Headbands, leathers, and chain regali-ay
Rolling thunder before their afternoon naps
Roughing up the pancakes at the breakfast buffet

Menacing any muffins in their steam-table raids
Yelling at the pancakes; they rattle the chef
They all seem to have forgotten their hearing aids:
“YOU DON’T HAVE TO YELL; I’M NOT DEAF!”

“NOW, HONEY, WHERE’S MY DIABETES KIT?!”
“THE BISCUITS AND MAPLE SYRUP? RIGHT OVER THERE!”
“HE SAID HE’S GOTTA GO AND TAKE A **!”
“HE’S MAKIN’ US LATE FOR TH’ RUMBLE, AND THAT AIN’T
           FAIR!”

The pack leader takes his gang back on the road
On a three-wheeler bike named Thunder Toad

Certain people notice numbers,
Finding patterns everywhere.
And their mania encumbers
Those of us who do not care.
Numerologists’ obsessions
Even lead to odd progressions.

Delusionary mathematics
Dominates their fervid brains.
Numerary acrobatics
Circus-trapeze height attains.
Madness drops from their twisted tree:
The fruits of numerology.

Noticing coincidences,
Forcing patterns where there’s none;
Counting up the incidences
Leads them to psychotic fun;
Adding the numbers that they see
Until they total thirty-three.

Their Q-**** superstitions vex;
Their Bible codes are all askew.
To us, such patterns do perplex—
Yet seem apparent, to their view.
We question thus their sanity
(As well their Christianity…)

Their book of numbers got them lost
And wandering the wilderness,
Awaiting some new Pentecost
In which to add, subtract, obsess—
Then, like an I-ching divination
Sum it up as revelation.

Counting sidewalk cracks for meaning,
O.C.D. meets calculator:
Synchronistic fields for gleaning
To a low denominator;
Indulging in Gematria
For God and king and patria.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                         Two Pilgrims, Two Paths, One Path


                     “Where many paths and errands meet”

                                               -Tolkien


Perhaps we are seeking the same sacred grail -
If you find a poem in the cleft of a tree
Or hear a bird singing softly along the trail
Be assured – it’s only me

(is that a kitten I hear…?)

the leafless tree branches.
clouds drift in the pale sky
and the deer leave footprints
in the snow

and all flowers fade,
so, throw the dead flowers
across my grave

and with time
winter's wounds will heal
so spring can follow
when the river sheds its skin of ice
and the deer footprints turn to mud

and the earth forgets the cold.
sunlight kisses, the flowers sigh,
tulips bruised red,
for-get-me nots whisper,
daffodils linger.

the sunrise whispers anew
and trembling in sunlight
the green leaves wave

as the wind dances with newborn flowers
that for tell of the Grace.

O, my wild garden.

If you don’t know who’s side you’re on,
Come stand by me, it’s mine.
If you don’t know who’s right or wrong
We’ll sort it out in time.

If you don’t know what choice to make
For none of them look good
Come join me for convenience sake
It’s something that you should.

If you don’t know what you should do
Come sit by me and learn
I’ll tutor you the whole way through -
Teach you which way to turn.

If you don’t know who I might be
Come here and take my hand
We’ll help this country to be free
And once again the promised land.
ljm