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And the death we endured
Dissipates into the fading darkness.
Dawn awaits us.
In the springs of delight,
Philosophy fills our forgone failures.
The stone is cast.
But the paths are forgiving;
All that remains is the will to persist. ... See MoreSee Less
Dean Hall is with Gaynor Allen.
Poetry lives in the strangest of places
In books and in stars and in fair people’s faces
That curious child still walks ‘long beside you
But you’ve quit listening ‘cause life’s quite consumed you
You dash for the dollar; rush to the commerce
To squeeze every dollar from all that you’re worth
Your poetry withers—written by others
As your curious child dies trampled and smothered
So they tossed on some dirt and propped up a stone
A clay plated casket of soon-to-be bones
Words they were said but people soon scattered
‘Cause you killed long ago the one thing that mattered ... See MoreSee Less
We were born around the same time, in different places, under different circumstances. I noticed you one day while I was fishing—a young, budding pine standing there against the elements. You seemed happy, your branches and needles outstretched towards the raging sun; your roots planted firmly in the Earth.
Somehow you made it out of the safe canopy of the dark forest and onto the bank of Old Man Walter’s pond. We sat on the bank together every day. I would try to catch a bluegill or a sunfish big enough to brag about back at Fred’s Tire Store and bait shop, which sat adjacent to the old family cemetery.
We were friends. At least I thought so. You were even there for me during the harsh winter. The bitter cold would cut through me like a whaler’s shank, but you stood strong. I admired you. The winters always passed, and each spring brought new stories ready to escape from the dreams and imaginations conceived during the boredom of cabin fever.
We talked, we laughed; sometimes we cried—together—there in the warm Kentucky sunlight that shined on us like fortunate sons of the Commonwealth. You always listened. Now and then it rained, and we both got wet. The smell of rich pine needles always drifted in from the crowded evergreen forest from where you came. We both grew taller and taller above the fertile soil.
Several years passed; I never forgot you.
Then one December day—just before Christmas—I walked that path to Old Man Walter’s pond I’d walked a thousand times. I froze in my tracks. My heart stopped. You were gone. All that was left was an empty hole in the ground. A few mangled roots marked your struggle to no avail. I turned to hear the forest weep, but it was silent. Detached in the distance.
I sat down in the snow and cried a mother’s cry—a cry to an indifferent universe. ... See MoreSee Less
Dean Hall added 4 new photos.
Amazing moments from the new Cirque de Soleil presentation of TORUK—The First Flight at Nashville’s Bridgestone Arena, inspired by James Cameron’s movie AVATAR. Great dinner with friends at Midtown Cafe too. First thoughts: I really need to bump up my stage show—like wear something besides a black T-shirt. ... See MoreSee Less