Coifs of lightning disentangle
under a black cloud lattice.

Thunder rustles to rude growl,
bracelets of leaf are trembling.

We're eastbound, hundreds of us
on this loosened buckle

of corrugated silver flash.
The rain attacks the window

in excoriating scrawls
slivering down into a sluice.

Red-shirted woman, run now,
over the yawning pool

that shivers with addition.
Blue-breasted runner, fly,

fly into clay-colored false dusk
that heaves with humid breath.

Escape from this wet hunger
that walks over us so indifferently.

We stumble nightward. Rain laces
our eyes shut. We're alone here.

Fickle the temperament
Fickle the change
In the far South land
Where wild West winds rage.
One minute quiescence
The next falling snow
Then hot melting asphalt
Burning toes as you go.
Fickle the changes
Best that you plan
For four seasons per day
As well as you can.

Easterly is blowing hard
Raking over land
Flattening the Western waves
As only East wind can,
Shoreline denuded
Black rock exposed
Sea foam extruded
On windlanes, imposed.
Kinda feels unnatural,
Kinda feels unreal,
Suspect the **** solstice
Encroaches to steal.

Late sun’s reflection
Mirrored off sea
From elevated viewpoint’s
Glare blinding me
Brass hard refraction
Now blacking out light
Reminded lock chickens
Securely for night.
For East turns to South East
Surmounting to gale,
Destruction of forestry’s
Shredding with hail.

Such are the ways
Of this far South land
Where climatic moods
Impose, as they can.
Where the flavors extreme
Sweep enticement aside
As the promise of youth
Swops a hag for a bride.
Such are the ways
Of this ****** South land
Where you savor each moment
Indeed, whilst you can.

M.
11 August 2022
Mid winter New Zealand.

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

                                Oppos­ite the House of Sculptures

“…unchanging, shrill, crazy exclamations and demands, which became progressively more impractical, meaningless, and unfulfillable…”

                  -Doctor Zhivago, Part Two, Chapter 13,
                        “Opposite the House of Sculptures”

O strong man, strong man, Supremo Alpha-******
Please be our Putin, ******, or Mussolini

O strong man, strong man; tell us what to think
Pour us some Jim Jones; we’ll take a real deep drink

O strong man, strong man; tell us what to do
We’ll happily go to prison just for you

O strong man, strong man; clench your mighty fist
You put for us the “GO” in your “jingoist”

O strong man, strong man, you are our latest god
Please break us to obedience with your mighty rod

O strong man, strong man, you are our highest law
Whatever dribbles from your mouth we hear in awe

O strong man, strong man, we are your little elves
We promise to stow our history upon the shelves
And never, ever again think for ourselves

look close, the old world moldering,
unsightly damage year by year,
the yellow sun yet billowing,
indifferent to all we fear--
the sacred disappearing,  god
reduced to holding seances
behind an aging, thin facade
of emperors and witnesses,
whose outer dark is just the street
gaslit by hawkers selling shade
half guaranteed to stand the heat
on sidewalks chalked where children played,
as life gets marked down, sold by lots,
and mothers visit mounded plots

What is “stuff” you ask?  What on earth does it mean?
It’s easy to know, but hard to explain.
It’s one of those words with a dozen “faces”
That can be used in so many different places.

When you pull out that one kitchen drawer
And it’s full of everything from a key ring to a flashlight,
To a package of gum, a pencil and a screwdriver,
That drawer is full of miscellaneous “stuff.”  

When you go to the store and then to the bank
Next to the florist and then to the barber and
Anywhere else you might have on your list,
You are out and about, and just doing “stuff”.

When your shoes are by the VCR and your shirt’s
Across the chair, while your jacket’s on the
Sofa, and your clothes are everywhere
Your mother or your room mate may have a word to say
Like “Would you gather up those things and put your “stuff” away.

“Stuff and nonsense” is an old time saying often
Interjected when a speaker runs amok
With nonsense on a foolish theme or topic.
Stuff in this case scolds the speaker
For deluging you with verbal *******.

When someone is showing off and doing it quite well
The skills he shows are called that word
That’s why they say he “struts his stuff.”
Someone with  lot of learning about a special thing
Is told by his admirers that he “really knows his stuff.”

This is the stuff of arguments, I think you might agree.
I hope you learned a little, because it all came for free.
ljm

Grandmother used to tell me tales
Of same-feathered birds seeking each other,
But the crows I know
Prefer the company of sparrows
Blackbirds and Magpies tend to bond
Into yin-yang twins of neutrality
And sharp-toothed Hawks
Run with soothing Owls,
Both aware of Sheep and Wolves.