A Bucketful of Short Poems

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Abercrombie & Wal-Mart

As vain as any Paris boulevardier
The mighty hunter stalks the latest fashion
The latest camouflage is his only way
If it’s declasse’, his face turns ashen

When hunting wary deer through mud and mire
He must have a new suit of latest sheen
For all of his good buddies to admire
In leaf-mold green - so that he won’t be seen!



Blocking Progress

We must shore up crumbling institutions
Not because they are crumbling
Or even because they are institutions
But because they are right


A Republic

No God and no kings, no givers of rings
Only the scripted yelpings of a mob
Admiring each other’s piercings and tats
By the flickering light of burning books



Premium Unleaded Dinosaur

Drive faster, farther, more and more!
The gas tank’s full of dinosaur -
Faster than feet, faster than mules,
Just gotta love those fossil fuels!



Teach a Man to Fish

Give a man a fish and he’ll eat that day
Teach a man to fish and then he will say

“Forget this; gimme another ****ed fish.”




Prose and Poetry

Prose is nothing more than an untanned hide
From a bunny rabbit beaten to death
With a large stick, a rock, an unwashed fist

Poetry is a Sheffield-crafted knife
Well-sharpened and well-oiled, a work of art
Carefully cradled in an artisan’s hand


A Windy Day in Rome

If hungry children ask their father for bread
Will he then give them climate lectures instead?


These Floors Have Character

“These floorrrrrrrrs have characterrrrrr,” the
buyer purrrrrred,
Dragging trailing consonants to their deaths
Along the continuum of puffery
And then she stepped on the charactered floors



A Wireless God

A crucifix, an ikon on the shelf -
But how does Talk Guy venerate himself?



“But They Didn’t Let Me Finish!”

For Isaac Babel

Babel, you hated Russian, Pole, and Jew
You wrote the same old bigotry, nothing new
You wrote as you were told, in ink all Red
In gratitude dear Stalin shot you dead


Kennkarte

In Hitler’s time the Kennkarte was required
As proof that Aryan blood had not been
mired
By interbreeding with us lesser folk
Thus contaminating that Nordic yolk

The Kennkarte…

Once properly despised as grievous sin

But now…

Who dreamed the Kennkarte would be back
again?