The Cycle


A fog
thick… billowing… engulfing a nation
impermeable
hiding from many that which is
teasing swirls of uncertainty beckon
unclear in shape and content
only to disappear back into the grey
leaving the child within them to interpret
that which was not there

Puffs of incoherence coalesced
a new abstract born of vapor…
there one instant and gone the next
bowing to a breeze, or
destroyed by the light of day exposing
that born in the dark…
that born from vapor returns to vapor
to engulf those who cannot see
through the fog they create

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The Book


Seems to be ever more relevant today than in 2012…

stevehallsbooks

Old Book

I can still see it
in this old man’s mind’s eye…
even after the great cleansing
the picture burns brightly
every story told contained within…
so large it was.

I remember the burnings;
and those that would protect it
would burn also.
They called it “The Enlightening”…
thoughts controlled, and words unliked
removed from common intercourse
it… being the source of knowledge…
obliterated.

New words acceptable to the Learned
now control us…
our native tongue infected;
we can no longer express that which we think.
Silence has given way to a term long forgotten
but kindred to its former use
as we flock to the speak-easy
where those of old
share wisdom long since vanquished…
sharing words forgotten…

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For Pat


Time for me to slow down and take in
… a deep breath
So many distractions I have constructed
but there is only so much room and time…
my cup overflows leaving tracks…
stains of unfinished tasks running down my shirt

Time to break the cup and let
the waters of distraction drain away
What is left behind…
those things of importance
to be picked up and protected…
Time for… us

One Way Ticket


Wisps of incoherence seek refuge in
empty caldrons
new and untainted
free of scratches and dents
absent the scaring of rusty thought

A canvas awaits
ideas to be absorbed in permanence
someone else’s ideas anchor
the canvas to hold them as truths
for its life cycle

Empty spaces filled and
new track laid with followers held
to pre-determined paths
windblown sands hide remnants
of those who escaped the yoke

The Journalist’s Playground


Wallowing in the information abyss
Children playing in alphabet soup
A splattering of letters mixes with
Never changing streams of thought
Slipping away before they congeal
Leaving nothing of value
In their wake

Half truths, no truths, twisted words
Purveyors grasping for pieces
Hoping a length of tape
Can hold these fragments as one
Long enough to garner
Admiration and respect
And then they are gone

Segments reappear with
Signs of wear as each attempted use
Peels the shine of potential
Brilliance from each letter and word
The newness gone
Admiration and respect wane
And players pray for a new batch

A Shooting Star


A shooting star
one in a million
a moment in time
bright and beautiful
making all around it
pale in comparison
as it burns into memory

Each sighting…
a place… a time
each one bringing back
all that came before
bringing a smile
as special times remembered
never to be forgotten
one in a million

mom… you are my shooting star