Light Raindrops Upon the Withered World

A collection of summery poetry by Lawrence “Mack in Texas” Hall


Thoreau-ly August

“The mass of men live lives of quiet desperation,”
Protested Thoreau in hopeless exasperation.
One would not enter into disputation
With a famous writer of great reputation

But

Alas that here our lives are rank perspiration.

[From The Road to Magdalena, 2012; available on amazon]


Ever England

Brave Hurricanes and Spits still claw and climb
Far up into the English summer sky
At the lingering end of a golden time
As wild young lads and aging empires die

The Hood and Rodney still the Channel guard
Against the strident Men of Destiny
Then shellfire falls; the helm is over hard
But the brave old ships keep the Narrow Sea

Dear Grandpa and the boys sport thin tin hats
In Sunday afternoon’s invasion drill
Gram says he’s too damned old for all of that
But she too smells the smoke of Abbeville

Faith does not pass with ephemeral time:
Brave Hurricanes and Spits still claw and climb

[Previously published in longbowsandrosarybeads.blogspot.com]


Like Love Withdrawn

After months of dreary drought and heat
Light raindrops fall upon the withered world
A few, a very few, and then they stop
Like love withdrawn upon waking from a dream

At dusk the paving into dryness steams
Only the hot and heavy air is wet
And smells of disappointment, dark and sour
Like love withdrawn upon waking from a dream

The westering sun shines briefly, and then is gone
Like love withdrawn upon waking from a dream


The Junior Woodchuck Manual

The Junior Woodchuck Manual is online now
But there it loses some of its magic
I’m keeping the tattered hardback of our youth
The trusty companion of our childhood days

When every summer oak concealed a dragon
And paths through the woods led to Neverland
The cattle pond was a mysterious sea
With a magic kingdom on the other side

Worlds better than this one, and far more true –
Oh, yes, I know that you remember too!

[Thank you, Uncle Walt, for everything.]


The Reality of the Lunar Month

The reality of the lunar month
A tiny bat jerking and jinking through the dusk
In pursuit of its evening mosquitoes
Beneath a far-up vapor trail

The reality of the lunar month
Calculated by wise ones in the long ago
With night far gentler than the solar heat
And minds more subtle than the glare of day

Each a mathematical autocrat
(Smoking an after-dinner ziggurat?)


Where the Fairies Hide

In the dreary weary heat I crawled
Burrowing deep within a thickety bush
To saw and cut and clip away the growth
That had long formed a formless cloud of green

There might be little elves or fairies, I hoped
Long hidden away among broken bits of pots
In a childhood world of secrets and dreams
Among dappled shadows dizzying me

I thought I heard soft giggles and soft feet
But maybe it was only the dreary weary heat

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