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

                   Beowulf and the Danish Passport Officer

                     From a recently discovered manuscript

The clapped-out Boeing         wheezed to the gate
The ground crew jumped                 name-tags rattling
And swiftly moored                 the shining ocean-bird

Behind his plastic shield                 a Danish official watched
The travelers approach         their passports raised
He stood peeking down         at the naughty selfie
His girlfriend sent         to his bold smart-phone
Shaking his rubber stamp                 he spoke:

“What is                 the purpose of your visit?
Business, or pleasure?                 Hwaet! I’ve stood
At this same gate                 longer than you know
Keeping our gift shops free         from British footer hooligans
No commoner carries                 such fine matching luggage
Unless his Rolex                 and his boyish good looks
Are lies                         You! Tell me your name
And your home address         and your email!
The quicker the better                 I’m off-duty in ten minutes.”

Beowulf answered him          Unlocking his smart-phone:

“We are the Geats           the mighty, mighty Geats!
Men who follow Malmo FF           Malmo FF the great!
And we have come seeking           Parken Stadium
Greatest of all stadia                   Its shining seats polished
By cheering generations                   of fat-full footer fans
We have come to cheer           Malmo FF
While they whup up on           Dansk Boldspil Union
Instruct us, watchman                   Where is the stadium
But first, where is the beer?”

                          The worthy officer
Answered him boldly:

                          “A true fan knows
The difference between           fighting on the field
And puking in the stands                   and keeps that knowledge clear
In his beery brain                   I believe your babbling
Go forward, credit cards and all           on into Denmark
Spend your money!                   Our exchange rate is generous!
And then go home bearing our love           while we bear your money.”

(Stamp, stamp, stamp)          “Tram stop to the left
Taxis to the right”

(Scholars everywhere will regret that here the burnt and torn manuscript breaks off.)

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

                   The Weekly Transport of Discarded Hopes

                                “They didn’t let me finish!”

                     -attributed to Isaac Babel upon his arrest

Bumping the weekly trash along the lane
Along the lane and through the colding dusk
A sack of faith appeals and banana peels
And coffee filters with no grounds for hope

Bumping the weekly trash along the lane
Out-of-date beans and last month’s magazines
Used printer ribbons, with words left to die
And crumpled notes for projects never begun

Arrested, jailed within a plastic bin
Awaiting a lorry and some big, strong men

The truth hangs caught between your teeth
Like some unfortunate rodent
About to give up the struggle,
Fleeing when you tire of the game.
Your lips still tell me everything,
The vowels insisting on a taste
And all about you a halo
Streetlamping this September rain,
The thunderbolt still rattling
Like a Johnson outboard motor
On a runabout,  me tethered
By a fraying rope, doing tricks
On one old narrow, wooden ski--
You glancing back to see me smile.

An afterglow read
in leaves fallen
as long shadows, earlier than before,
stretch tales of easy warmth
to breaking

We are here

Toe roots touching soil
that’s gathering in
at the sharp memories
of ****** frosts

Across the rec
the final shouts of bike rides
and punted ***** are heard
to defy the dry prickle of central heat
and the long, magic dark

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

                                  Censorship by the Proletariat

There is a topic in the news today
Most worthy of a throw-away line
But in our cultural lockdown there is no way
To share a joke, however benign

Shall what cannot be finished
Be abandoned?
What should be done with love,
So strong and mortal--
The answer
To a question
Impossible to frame.
Hard work with poor material;
We should have made
A better god
I suppose,
Though what we have now
Must suffice,
Patched up and resurrected--
Blasphemous poets,
Lovers,
Something overwhelming,
Undefined,
A path not going
Anywhere we haven't been
And yet tonight--
Good earth our destination--
I see you and cannot
Reply,
Except to say,
As simply as a stubborn fool,
This is what we are.
And knowing that
Is far too much
To leave behind
Or otherwise believe.

-

four hours into a slow night with little
else to do but sip coffee. images through
the window wound me with new ways
to feel older, draping me out with all the

ribbons from New Year's past which got
ripped from those babies who later grew
up to become waiters and waitresses—

from what i can make out, some kid is
busting a table across the street wearing
a button-down shirt with a black tie,

he will likely work a couple more hours
and head out some place wearing the
reverse of this with an abundance
of youth to flaunt for all those
girls who actively seek

something
                       Better–

Ohhh !
He is looking
this way now !!!
i think..


somehow i feel this brushing of
unfamiliar shoulders as our worlds
of witnessing empties between these
panes of our circumstance, my ambered
line of sight cross–ray'd  with the beams
of his hot-white glare–

i watch dimly as he smiles at that
young lady with the red umbrella
crossing the street between us..

Yeah..

a few blinks later he will disappear
behind a partition and i will then
turn my attention inwards,

day-dreaming away the remainder
of my shift about hopeful
exchanges for

Something–
                        better...


s jones
2021


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