You can say all roads lead to Rome
And a few lead to Wytham
Yes, a few lead to Wytham
As quiet as it is, but roam
Your way, on your bus, on your car:
I only know one, I only want one
And it may be long to go so far
On so little, but I shan't be gone
Unless it be by foot or on a bicycle
Run past the ruins of Godstow, the road
A minefield in sweet quiet from the bridge, tickle
The Trout, press the hedges at the goad
Of yet another motor, on bike or foot
On bike or foot, that I may kiss the ground
In pilgrimage to memory and childhood
Before the shades in which we're lost, we're found.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                        Does Cambridge Have a Comma Too?

Oh, Oxford Comma, let all hail to thee
You sorter-out of tidy sequencings
Who suffer not confusion in categories
And marshal your strong words in battle lines

Oh, Cambridge, poor Cambridge, you have not
A comma of your own; your sequencings
Were lost among the fens in Hereward’s days -
You might want to go a-fishing for them

Oh, sure, Cambridge,

You have your arts and poetry and drama
But only Oxford boasts her very own comma

And now the night shades fall,
Day's brightness leaves sway for evening's gown.
Tall shadows join and darken all
And naught but spires remain of our old town.

This night, our herald of tomorrow's coming dawn,
Warmed by the heat breathed back from these old walls,
Now wraps close all deeds and sorrows drawn,
And soothes us as her darkening curtain falls.

Despise us not who sit and meditate
For 'neath thy cloak reason has its way
And comforts in those silent hours late,
The toils and hardships of departing day.

Ancient stone vibrating with life sighs deeply in my memory
In my mind my feet still explore
The hidden paths of that fair city
Peace permeates my spirit as I lay dreaming
Of broad greens and cloistered gardens
Shaded courtyards of quiet blooms
Of wood-worked halls and book lined rooms
Her subtle charm, her poised beauty
Warm heart beating even beneath the snow
To inspire , to teach and to sow
In the hearts of all who know her
The seeds of joy, of love, of loyalty
Reaped in measure from us all
We who have walked her cobblestone streets
And awakened to her tolling bells
Even across the miles and years
My soul resonating in time with hers
And I am there again, walking out of mist and woods through slanting sunbeams
Curving around carved towers
And all around and within there is light

I took the first sip of white wine in
trepidation for the aftermath of drunk
people in movies is not very pleasant.
I downed it all, faster than an intruder
who wiretaps an important building
somewhere in America. I had vowed to
not drown in the poison I had just consumed.
But what happened later proved me wrong.
I swam in clouds and I floated in shallow
waters for the slurs that lay on my tongue
were not something I would utter in a
sober state. I cavorted. I danced. I showed
skin. I was the frog that clandestinely dances
in the rain and hides away before the ground
is dry again. I swirled like a whirlpool. My cheeks
were red and I emitted happiness. I made silly
jokes about a plant named Wisteria and lay
in bed, twirling away in my drunken madness.

Earthworms dead on the sidewalk,
Maybe they're lucky--
It's also fishing season.

Under a tree
In a park
A city once unknown
I buried a part of me

I wanted to leave myself there
In order to bring myself back
To feel the magic of the city
Once again I’ll find myself under that tree, I swear

I left pieces of my heart
In London, Oxford, Bath
I’m ready to move on, live my life
It’s in that city where I buried myself I’ll have my start

I met an artist yesterday,

sat in solitary silence,

In the shadowy corner of an affluent bar.

And cloaked he was,

by babble of students,

Boasting of wealth and test results.



molested In the attire of a catholic school,

His cigarettes born from bible pages;

and -- Inebriated from the blood of Christ --

surrounded by empty glass apostles,

He paints the papers,

In a masterful stroke --

Of pointilistic precision --

In a viscous hash oil

That he had melted on a crucifix.



The artist drunk, and drunk

He drowned himself,

Deafened by his liver

Drowning in a sea of expensive whiskey --

It was a miracle that he could walk on it.



And began to rack

the coke he'd wrapped

in a losing lottery ticket --

In plain sight of those

'sophisticated' enough

To use a bathroom cubicle.

And hoovered the diamond shards into his nostril,

Through a rolled up scrap of paper --

A letter for an Oxford Interview

he could not afford to get to.