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

                                     ­     Word Sung as Light

         Upon hearing a recording of the Orthodox Christian Monks
                               of the Svetogorskaya Monastery

A deep, slow stream of tones, of modes, of chants
Where time and all eternity flow as one
Through voices and dreamlike echoings
Among the Altars of the earth and sky

The song begins upon the Bosporus
Ascends up to and beyond the spheres of Heaven
Then gently rains upon the souls of men
Forever and ever, in this world and the next

The Word first sung as Light, sung as Creation
And sung again as the Incarnation

When  I was a small child in a little town up in Washington State, there was a kid’s radio show that came on every day at 3:30 PM starting each December first.  It was called “The Cinnamon Bear” and was the fantasy story of two children trying to get back the star for the top of their Christmas tree that had been stolen by a bad character. Each show was only 15 min. long, and half of that was taken up reviewing what happened the day before.  There were endless twists and turns to the plot and the kids showed their plucky spirit  in order to overcame all sorts of little obstacles and finally get the star back on Dec. 24.  The show ended with them putting it atop the tree.
We neighborhood kids always raced home from school to hear the program and we let nothing get in our way. It played every year from a radio station in the nearest big city, which was Portland OR.  By the time we were too old for the story, we practically knew it by heart. In all my years I’ve never encountered anyone outside of South-west Washington who ever heard of it.  But “The Cinnamon Bear” was magical to us kids.  I searched for years and finally found a cassette tape of the entire show.  It’s one of my treasures.
                           ljm

For every craven decision
undecided, so chums can slide,
callous in pursuit of cash,
kings of the UK trash pile

Borders discussed through arrogant huffs
on last minute deadlines that always die
rolling from meeting to meeting
indicated by all that foreign wine and cheese:
such is the country, such is the disease

I learned love like
half truths and white lies;
A shifting labyrinth of deadends and pitfalls.
What I mean is,
in my anxiety-ridden daydreams,
you remind me of the King, babe.
I mean,
I'm sorry for what I can't control.

I learned love like
chasing a rabbit through a nonsense forest
where only questions exist.
What I mean is,
in my best case nightmares,
You live in a timeless place of teatime madness.
I mean,
I'm sorry for what I don't understand.

I learned love like
conditional, contractual rules unveiled by a
crazed chocolateer as honest faults are revealed.
What I mean is,
in my fantasized ever-afters,
you get everything you ever wanted, and I lose.
I mean,
I'm sorry for what I can never be.

I learned love like a riddle
so, I never learned love at all.
What I mean is,
I'm sorry, but I don't know why.

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

                 Assorted Broken Saints, Some with Parts Missing

               to Saint John Marie-Baptiste Vianney - a petition

After doing some time in this fallen world
We all are broken, and missing a few of our parts
Having lost some hopes and strengths along the way
But we keep chooglin’ along, making it work

And shoveling (life) with us, our parish priest
Just as Chaucer wrote, beginning at dawn
Five of six cylinders from church to church
Ignored by the bishop and unknown to Rome

Our daily saint in his well-worn chasuble
His old shoes squeaking to the Altar of God

*Saint John Vianney, pray for our laborers

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

                  Decorating for Christmas – “What Can I Do?”

A little girl tugged at my arm and asked
“But what can I do?”
I sent her to Senora Anil because I didn’t know

She came to me again and sadly asked
“But what can I do?”
I sent her to Miz Bev because I didn’t know

She came to me once again and sadly asked
“But what can I do?”
I sent her to Senor Nicho because I didn’t know

Some sturdy young teens brought in the Creche
And there the little girl knelt and placed the straw
And then each figure in turn; she talked to them
And cautioned them all to keep Baby Jesus warm

And that’s what a little girl can do

Today’s slow cooked ragu
has a lot of familiar ingredients
but spun a little different

The devil in the pork grease
gave me such a wink
I lost my place in the recipe

Liberal with salt, chili flakes,
zest and anything,
this quixotic cook’s hand
throws much freer than weekdays

I only lack the fat slack
of pappardelle for this,
as they were out at the supermarket

Penne will have to do