This Moon is not Eternal

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

This Moon is not Eternal

 

This moon is not eternal; it only seems

To be because in the mysterious night

It falls upon the earth in silent waves

Of memories drifting across the floor

In the dawn-drawn hours of dream-sheaving sleep

Before the eyes of an old man even as

It made shadowy mysteries for the boy

Shifting memories to leafy childhood days

And back again, a reflection of the real

This moon is not eternal, but that one is.

Searching for Sight

Mack Hall, HSG
mhall46184@aol.com

Searching for Sight

 No one assures you that lenses are green

That spectacles are recycled from waste
That the optometrist’s glow-in-the-dark
Boxes, little lights in white, green, and red,
Are cultivated by fair-trade farmers
Along the Neckar River in Hungary
Where no one needs glasses to speak Magyar.
Eyes, like cans of squash, have expiration dates
And must be renewed and refreshed each year
With little boxed lights in white, green, and red
And a thirty-something voice assuring you
That your eyes are good – for someone your age.
Words spilling out like a soft cataract
Of diffuse, bubbling comfort for a year
With eyes recycled once again the seer
Seeks for the book store and the coffee shop

New books, fresh cups, old dreams held at odd angles

Irrelevant -- a Poem

Mack Hall

Irrelevant

For Tod

How wonderful to be irrelevant:
An old car rusting in sere autumn weeds,
An unheard voice no longer pertinent,
A silent solitary bidding his beads.

In youth one roams the glades with Robin Hood,
Sails dream-ships far beyond the classroom wall,
Dances with fairies in a moonlit wood,
Gives homage to our King in Arthur’s hall.

A man, alas, drags Dante’s darksome dreams
Through corridors haunted with smoke and mist,
Where truth is bought and sold by mad regimes,
And lies are given a sly, sensitive twist.

But, oh! Peace! To be nothing at the end,
Nunc dimittis, thou happiest of men!