Driving
three bundles of love
to nowhere specific
but loving
the journey

Lawrence Hall
[email protected]  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                    I­ will not Mourn for Summer

                                            for Jean in Canada!

I will not mourn for the summertime
Those six sour months of soul-withering heat
Desperate leaves and crispy grass and weeds
Dust devils exhausting their metaphor

Our November is everyone else’s September
With morning mists at last, sweet cooling rains
That ease the wounds of summer’s injuries
A cooling drink for a patient before he dies

Thanksgiving is coming; we will give thanks indeed
If the air-conditioning is silent at last

Us poet's collide with the shore,
with our expression and
drawn out breathes.

It's like the birth of a star
but it's too dimly lit at first.

Until the galaxy gets ahold of our word's.

It pulls and tugs on our poetic tongue's forcing explosive expression to burst forth, and here we are.

Last night I dreamed I was somebody else.
Me inside another body.
A teen with another kind of life.
And I’m 30 actually.
This girl was still at school.
Had arranged to meet up with a friend that night.
Had a lot of fake black leg tattoos who would come off from a couple of washes.
I’m just curious about this seeming so normal, not remembering my actual life.
Only somewhere hidden in the back.
I knew myself.
But not everything from this life.
My actual one right now.
Is it worth it to go through all of this pain if I don’t remember?
Why am I learning, I know I’m growing but in my dreams I’m back to the base.
The developments are less present.
They do have an influence I suppose but the core is just plain me inside.
Without knowing, remembering everything.
Will I remember what I learned?
I must keep the growth, can I exist with it?
For the the collective.
Still being me.