mhall46184@aol.com
Janus Laughs
Old Janus surely laughs at our mistakes
In thinking that the world begins again,
That pages turned in calendars and books
Reduce mysteries into measurements
Sunday, December 31, 2017
Janus Laughs - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Old Janus surely laughs at our mistakes
In thinking that the world begins again,
That pages turned in calendars and books
Reduce mysteries into measurements
mhall46184@aol.com
Old Janus surely laughs at our mistakes
In thinking that the world begins again,
That pages turned in calendars and books
Reduce mysteries into measurements
Saturday, December 30, 2017
Man Screams at Trump Robot Doll - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Just why would anyone scream at a doll?
A Disney doll in the Hall of Presidents
Apped up to creak and speak, but not to hear
(For even human presidents don’t listen)
So yelling safely at a dummied-down
Emmanuel Goldstein 1 of wires and wax
Is not unlike protesting a doorknob
Or verbally abusing a thermostat
Poor old rebel dude – is this all he’s got?
Whatever he feels he is, he’s surely not
1 1984
mhall46184@aol.com
Man Screams at Trump Robot Doll
-news item
Just why would anyone scream at a doll?
A Disney doll in the Hall of Presidents
Apped up to creak and speak, but not to hear
(For even human presidents don’t listen)
So yelling safely at a dummied-down
Emmanuel Goldstein 1 of wires and wax
Is not unlike protesting a doorknob
Or verbally abusing a thermostat
Poor old rebel dude – is this all he’s got?
Whatever he feels he is, he’s surely not
1 1984
Friday, December 29, 2017
The Beggar at Canterbury Gate - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
The beggar sits at Canterbury Gate,
Thin, pale, unshaven, sad. His little dog
Sits patiently as a Benedictine
At Vespers, pondering eternity.
Not that rat terriers are permitted
To make solemn vows. Still, the pup appears
To take his own vocation seriously,
As so few humans do. For, after all,
Dogs demonstrate for us the duties of
Poverty, stability, obedience,
In choir, perhaps; among the garbage, yes,
So that perhaps we too might live aright.
The good dog’s human plays his tin whistle
Beneath usurper Henry’s1 offering-arch
For Kings, as beggars do, must drag their sins
And lay them before the Altar of God:
The beggar drinks and drugs and smokes, and so
His penance is to sit and suffer shame;
The King’s foul murders stain his honorable soul;
His penance is a stone-carved famous name
Our beggar, then, is a happier man,
Begging for bread at Canterbury Gate;
Tho’ stones are scripted not with his poor fame,
His little dog will plead his cause to God.
1 Henry VII, who built the Cathedral Gate in 1517, long after the time of Henry II and St. Thomas Becket
mhall46184@aol.com
The Beggar at Canterbury Gate
The beggar sits at Canterbury Gate,
Thin, pale, unshaven, sad. His little dog
Sits patiently as a Benedictine
At Vespers, pondering eternity.
Not that rat terriers are permitted
To make solemn vows. Still, the pup appears
To take his own vocation seriously,
As so few humans do. For, after all,
Dogs demonstrate for us the duties of
Poverty, stability, obedience,
In choir, perhaps; among the garbage, yes,
So that perhaps we too might live aright.
The good dog’s human plays his tin whistle
Beneath usurper Henry’s1 offering-arch
For Kings, as beggars do, must drag their sins
And lay them before the Altar of God:
The beggar drinks and drugs and smokes, and so
His penance is to sit and suffer shame;
The King’s foul murders stain his honorable soul;
His penance is a stone-carved famous name
Our beggar, then, is a happier man,
Begging for bread at Canterbury Gate;
Tho’ stones are scripted not with his poor fame,
His little dog will plead his cause to God.
1 Henry VII, who built the Cathedral Gate in 1517, long after the time of Henry II and St. Thomas Becket
Thursday, December 28, 2017
Hitler's Ride is for Sale - column
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
One of Hitler’s sets of wheels, a ‘way-happenin’, straight-eight 1939 Mercedes 770K Grosser convertible, is up for auction in Arizona next month. You might want to drop by Scottsdale and kick a few tires.
Some features might still be under warranty. There is some slight damage from Vladimir Putin bench-pressing it.
Next year’s model will be made in China.
One imagines Hitler and Stalin, who were BFF until they began tiffing in June of ’41, drag racing along their demarcation line through Poland.
The big Mercedes was a good car for its time, but wasn’t a match for the American Studebaker. Or the Sherman.
Hitler’s car features armored glass and panels, which makes it just the thing to cruise American cities these days. The convertible top makes catching some rays as easy as strudel.
There is no mention of how many miles to the gallon, kilometers to the liter, or broken treaties to the leader.
The Mercedes Grosser doesn’t come with a sound system, and the radio is A.M. and with only one station, Radio Berlin. You might find a retro-fit at Montgomery Ward’s Electric Avenue. Siriusly.
There is no backup camera because anyone that close just didn’t need to be there, so tough keks.
Inside the glove compartment is a 1943 catalogue of Eva Braun’s spring clothing line. She was quite the designer. And her perfume – “When It’s Air-Raid Time in Heidelberg #6” – was a blast. There is also a road map showing the quickest routes home from Stalingrad, a fan letter from the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem, a Margaret Sanger fan magazine, and a picture of Ernst Rohm in a swim suit. More than just friends?
No doubt some guy will ask the seller if he will take a post-dated check: “Like, I don’t get paid until next week, like, you know, but I’m good for it; like, you can ask anyone around here who knows Ol’ Skeeter. Yeah, like, they’ll go ‘Yeah, Ol’ Skeeter’s good for it, like, you know.’”
“So what will you give me on this Ford Fiesta for a trade?”
Hitler was certainly a guy for our time – he was a teetotaler, a non-smoker, and a vegetarian, and sported some quirky face-fuzz. Outfit him in some knee-pants and a Che’ tee-shirt and he’d fit right in the queue at a coffee house in Seattle.
And his car – simply to die for.
But who would want that thing?
mhall46184@aol.com
Hitler’s Ride
One of Hitler’s sets of wheels, a ‘way-happenin’, straight-eight 1939 Mercedes 770K Grosser convertible, is up for auction in Arizona next month. You might want to drop by Scottsdale and kick a few tires.
Some features might still be under warranty. There is some slight damage from Vladimir Putin bench-pressing it.
Next year’s model will be made in China.
One imagines Hitler and Stalin, who were BFF until they began tiffing in June of ’41, drag racing along their demarcation line through Poland.
The big Mercedes was a good car for its time, but wasn’t a match for the American Studebaker. Or the Sherman.
Hitler’s car features armored glass and panels, which makes it just the thing to cruise American cities these days. The convertible top makes catching some rays as easy as strudel.
There is no mention of how many miles to the gallon, kilometers to the liter, or broken treaties to the leader.
The Mercedes Grosser doesn’t come with a sound system, and the radio is A.M. and with only one station, Radio Berlin. You might find a retro-fit at Montgomery Ward’s Electric Avenue. Siriusly.
There is no backup camera because anyone that close just didn’t need to be there, so tough keks.
Inside the glove compartment is a 1943 catalogue of Eva Braun’s spring clothing line. She was quite the designer. And her perfume – “When It’s Air-Raid Time in Heidelberg #6” – was a blast. There is also a road map showing the quickest routes home from Stalingrad, a fan letter from the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem, a Margaret Sanger fan magazine, and a picture of Ernst Rohm in a swim suit. More than just friends?
No doubt some guy will ask the seller if he will take a post-dated check: “Like, I don’t get paid until next week, like, you know, but I’m good for it; like, you can ask anyone around here who knows Ol’ Skeeter. Yeah, like, they’ll go ‘Yeah, Ol’ Skeeter’s good for it, like, you know.’”
“So what will you give me on this Ford Fiesta for a trade?”
Hitler was certainly a guy for our time – he was a teetotaler, a non-smoker, and a vegetarian, and sported some quirky face-fuzz. Outfit him in some knee-pants and a Che’ tee-shirt and he’d fit right in the queue at a coffee house in Seattle.
And his car – simply to die for.
But who would want that thing?
-30-
Rachel, Weeping for Our Children - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
No soldiers come, with glaring eyes, with death
To drag our children out into the road
To thrust away their lives into the dust
With pilum, gladius, or manly fist
No Romans as advisors standing by
Amid obscenities, curses, and screams
A fog of witness for that old excuse:
It’s all about the quality of life
Confusion now persuades with soft, soft breath
And therapists come, soothingly, with death.
mhall46184@aol.com
Rachel, Weeping for Our Children
From an idea suggested by Kelly Rogers
No soldiers come, with glaring eyes, with death
To drag our children out into the road
To thrust away their lives into the dust
With pilum, gladius, or manly fist
No Romans as advisors standing by
Amid obscenities, curses, and screams
A fog of witness for that old excuse:
It’s all about the quality of life
Confusion now persuades with soft, soft breath
And therapists come, soothingly, with death.
Wednesday, December 27, 2017
The Desperate Princewives in Toronto - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
On Christmas eve a lineman hoists herself
Far up into the blowing ice to mend
The power that keeps our children warm at night
While waiting for good Santa Claus to come
On Christmas Day a cop patrols the streets
Alone against snipers with ‘47s
Keeping us safe while we grumble about cops
She’s left her children with her mom to watch
The morning after Christmas another mom
Jump-starts her ten-year-old car so she can drive
The slushy streets to her shift at Dairy Queen
For her career ladder at the deep fryer
In a studio in Canada two men
Well-guarded by their secret services
Well-fed, well-dressed well-chauffeured in their ‘zines
Escorted, piloted, guided, scripted
Express their happiness that working folk
Are wealthier and healthier than ever
mhall46184@aol.com
The Desperate Princewives in Toronto
On Christmas eve a lineman hoists herself
Far up into the blowing ice to mend
The power that keeps our children warm at night
While waiting for good Santa Claus to come
On Christmas Day a cop patrols the streets
Alone against snipers with ‘47s
Keeping us safe while we grumble about cops
She’s left her children with her mom to watch
The morning after Christmas another mom
Jump-starts her ten-year-old car so she can drive
The slushy streets to her shift at Dairy Queen
For her career ladder at the deep fryer
In a studio in Canada two men
Well-guarded by their secret services
Well-fed, well-dressed well-chauffeured in their ‘zines
Escorted, piloted, guided, scripted
Express their happiness that working folk
Are wealthier and healthier than ever
Tuesday, December 26, 2017
Children Visiting for Christmas - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
“No! I mean no! Don’t make me get out of
this chair! No! In or out! No! Be inside or
outside! No! Don’t touch that! No! I said no!
No! No candy before lunch! No! Okay, but
No more! No! I said no and I mean no!
I mean no! No! Don’t make me get out of
this chair! No! In or out! No! Onnnne…Don’t make me
Go to two! Don’t touch that! No! I said no!
Onnnne…! I mean it this time! I said no! No!
No! Don’t make me get out of this chair! No!”
“No, YOU! No! You can’t make me! No! No! No!
I want outside! No! I want inside! No!
No! I don’t have to! No! You can’t make me!
No! But I want it! Don’t tell me no! No!
I tell YOU no! You can’t tell ME no! No!
No! You can’t make me! No! No! No! No!
I want outside! No! I want inside! No!
No! I don’t have to! No! You can’t make me!
No! But I want it! Don’t tell me no! No!
I tell YOU no! You can’t tell ME no! No!”
mhall46184@aol.com
Children Visiting for Christmas – a Tragedy in Two Parts
I. A Mother to Her Child
“No! I mean no! Don’t make me get out of
this chair! No! In or out! No! Be inside or
outside! No! Don’t touch that! No! I said no!
No! No candy before lunch! No! Okay, but
No more! No! I said no and I mean no!
I mean no! No! Don’t make me get out of
this chair! No! In or out! No! Onnnne…Don’t make me
Go to two! Don’t touch that! No! I said no!
Onnnne…! I mean it this time! I said no! No!
No! Don’t make me get out of this chair! No!”
II. A Child to His Mother
“No, YOU! No! You can’t make me! No! No! No!
I want outside! No! I want inside! No!
No! I don’t have to! No! You can’t make me!
No! But I want it! Don’t tell me no! No!
I tell YOU no! You can’t tell ME no! No!
No! You can’t make me! No! No! No! No!
I want outside! No! I want inside! No!
No! I don’t have to! No! You can’t make me!
No! But I want it! Don’t tell me no! No!
I tell YOU no! You can’t tell ME no! No!”
Monday, December 25, 2017
Within the Octave of Christmas - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
The wan, weak winter sun has long since set
And on the edge of stars a merry fire
Sends sparks to play among the tinseled frost
That decorates the fields for Christmas-time.
Within this holy octave, happy men
Concelebrate with beer, cigars, and jokes,
This liturgy of needful merriment.
Because
The Holy Child is safe in Mary’s arms,
Saint Joseph leans upon his staff and smiles,
The shepherds now have gone to watch their sheep,
And all are safe from Herod for a time.
Our Christmas duty now is to delight
In Him who gives us joy this happy night.
mhall46184@aol.com
Within the Octave of Christmas
For Eldon Edge, Patron of Christmas Bonfires
The wan, weak winter sun has long since set
And on the edge of stars a merry fire
Sends sparks to play among the tinseled frost
That decorates the fields for Christmas-time.
Within this holy octave, happy men
Concelebrate with beer, cigars, and jokes,
This liturgy of needful merriment.
Because
The Holy Child is safe in Mary’s arms,
Saint Joseph leans upon his staff and smiles,
The shepherds now have gone to watch their sheep,
And all are safe from Herod for a time.
Our Christmas duty now is to delight
In Him who gives us joy this happy night.
Sunday, December 24, 2017
But the Animals were First - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
The ox and ass are in the Stable set
In service divine, as good Isaiah writes
A congregation of God’s creatures met
In honor of their King this Night of nights
And there they wait for us, for we are late
Breathless in the narthex of eternity
A star, a road, a town, an inn, a gate
Have led us to this holy liturgy:
Long centuries and seasons pass, and yet
The ox and ass are in the Stable set
mhall46184@aol.com
But the Animals were First
“We read in Isaiah: ‘The ox knows its owner,
and the ass the master’s crib….’”
-Papa Benedict, The Blessings of Christmas
The ox and ass are in the Stable set
In service divine, as good Isaiah writes
A congregation of God’s creatures met
In honor of their King this Night of nights
And there they wait for us, for we are late
Breathless in the narthex of eternity
A star, a road, a town, an inn, a gate
Have led us to this holy liturgy:
Long centuries and seasons pass, and yet
The ox and ass are in the Stable set
Saturday, December 23, 2017
Horseshoe, and it Crucified - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
A hoodie girl outside the truck stop leans
Against a wall, huddled against the wind
While no one’s looking, sneaking a cigarette
A vision of desperation through the windshield
She’s selling Cowboy-Jesus “for the missions”
A table of lacquered cypress crosses
But instead of the Corpus a horseshoe
A horseshoe crucified – and, too, a girl
A poor, sad girl outside the truck stop leans
She’s selling Cowboy-Jesus for some boss
Or else
mhall46184@aol.com
Horseshoe, and it Crucified
A hoodie girl outside the truck stop leans
Against a wall, huddled against the wind
While no one’s looking, sneaking a cigarette
A vision of desperation through the windshield
She’s selling Cowboy-Jesus “for the missions”
A table of lacquered cypress crosses
But instead of the Corpus a horseshoe
A horseshoe crucified – and, too, a girl
A poor, sad girl outside the truck stop leans
She’s selling Cowboy-Jesus for some boss
Or else
Friday, December 22, 2017
How we Teach our Children Hymns and Carols - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Joy to the world at Canadian Tire
And free shipping until sing of Mary
Amazon roasting on an open fire
And no payments until January
O holy night down at the shopping mall
Adeste fidelis in a traffic jam
I saw three ships in large, medium, and small
O Christmas tree buy a Pajamagram
A new Rolex watch on this silent night -
But park with your packages out of sight
mhall46184@aol.com
How we Teach our Children Hymns and Carols
“We have seen His star in the east at a 20% discount”
Joy to the world at Canadian Tire
And free shipping until sing of Mary
Amazon roasting on an open fire
And no payments until January
O holy night down at the shopping mall
Adeste fidelis in a traffic jam
I saw three ships in large, medium, and small
O Christmas tree buy a Pajamagram
A new Rolex watch on this silent night -
But park with your packages out of sight
After-Christmas Christmas - column
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
From 2010
Liturgically, Christmas begins at midnight on Christmas Eve and continues until the Feast of the Epiphany on January 6. The four Sundays before Christmas constitute Advent, not Christmas, and certainly not the dreary “Christmas Season” for so long inflicted on a suffering world. Too few understand this, and those who follow the Christian season as intended are to be found only in the history museum, between the reconstructed mastodons and the faux cavemen warming themselves at the flickering light-bulb fire behind school-trip-fingerprinted glass.
Christmas trees are nice at any time, though, and Bing Crosby singing “White Christmas,” presents, candles, decorations, cards, festive meals, happy-sad remembrances of those who now grace an even happier Table, and the liturgy on Christmas Eve.
After Christmas dinner there is sometimes a feeling that Christmas is over for another year, but in reality the season is only beginning. And this works out nicely because now one can enjoy Christmas itself, free of the sometimes unreasonable demands of the preceding month.
If the weather is fair, the kids can go outside to kick the new football – and each other, kids being kids. If not, they have plenty to do inside with new games, new books, and new toys, and the adults can have coffee and a second helping of pie, and then maybe another nibble of that turkey. No one has to go to the store for anything, and no one has to dress up for yet another do of any kind.
Yes, there is much to be said for the low expectations of Christmas afternoon.
The tree, compounded of toxic chemical waste in a country far, far away, need not be taken down anytime soon, though getting rid of the Komsomol-Operative-on-a-Shelf spying on your household and reporting any incorrect speech or behavior to Stalin-Claus is tempting.
One acquaintance concluded that the Tattle-tale-on-the-Shelf is a way of preparing American children for a life of surveillance. Once upon a time little boys and girls wanted to be cowboys and doctors and firemen and railroad engineers; now they are prepped to function as OGPU and STASI operatives: Big Elf is Watching You. Another acquaintance dismissed the Fink-on-a-Shelf as creepy, a Peeping-Tom-on-a-Shelf.
Once upon a time, little boys were made of sterner stuff, ripping off the heads of their sisters’ Barbies, but now they fear to take the Commie elf outside and dispatch him with their plastic pirate swords or Robin Hood bows and arrows. And that is if boys are now permitted plastic pirate swords or Robin bows and arrow at all: “Gee. Mom and Dad. A Greasy-Bake oven. In pink. Just what I’ve always wanted. Thanks. Wow. You shouldn’t have. Really.”
Soon enough the Epiphany will be here, and everyone will have to get down to the serious business of winter without colored lights and festive music. No matter what your shift is, you go to work in the dark and come home in the dark, and comfort yourself with the thought that at least January is not August with its merciless heat.
And then sometimes you can dig into the sofa cushions and find a chocolate candy misplaced during December’s merriment, and chocolate tastes even better in January.
If you find a plastic Easter egg from last year, well, that’s fun too, but you probably shouldn’t eat the goodies inside.
Happy, happy after-Christmas, everyone.
mhall46184@aol.com
From 2010
After-Christmas Christmas
Liturgically, Christmas begins at midnight on Christmas Eve and continues until the Feast of the Epiphany on January 6. The four Sundays before Christmas constitute Advent, not Christmas, and certainly not the dreary “Christmas Season” for so long inflicted on a suffering world. Too few understand this, and those who follow the Christian season as intended are to be found only in the history museum, between the reconstructed mastodons and the faux cavemen warming themselves at the flickering light-bulb fire behind school-trip-fingerprinted glass.
Christmas trees are nice at any time, though, and Bing Crosby singing “White Christmas,” presents, candles, decorations, cards, festive meals, happy-sad remembrances of those who now grace an even happier Table, and the liturgy on Christmas Eve.
After Christmas dinner there is sometimes a feeling that Christmas is over for another year, but in reality the season is only beginning. And this works out nicely because now one can enjoy Christmas itself, free of the sometimes unreasonable demands of the preceding month.
If the weather is fair, the kids can go outside to kick the new football – and each other, kids being kids. If not, they have plenty to do inside with new games, new books, and new toys, and the adults can have coffee and a second helping of pie, and then maybe another nibble of that turkey. No one has to go to the store for anything, and no one has to dress up for yet another do of any kind.
Yes, there is much to be said for the low expectations of Christmas afternoon.
The tree, compounded of toxic chemical waste in a country far, far away, need not be taken down anytime soon, though getting rid of the Komsomol-Operative-on-a-Shelf spying on your household and reporting any incorrect speech or behavior to Stalin-Claus is tempting.
One acquaintance concluded that the Tattle-tale-on-the-Shelf is a way of preparing American children for a life of surveillance. Once upon a time little boys and girls wanted to be cowboys and doctors and firemen and railroad engineers; now they are prepped to function as OGPU and STASI operatives: Big Elf is Watching You. Another acquaintance dismissed the Fink-on-a-Shelf as creepy, a Peeping-Tom-on-a-Shelf.
Once upon a time, little boys were made of sterner stuff, ripping off the heads of their sisters’ Barbies, but now they fear to take the Commie elf outside and dispatch him with their plastic pirate swords or Robin Hood bows and arrows. And that is if boys are now permitted plastic pirate swords or Robin bows and arrow at all: “Gee. Mom and Dad. A Greasy-Bake oven. In pink. Just what I’ve always wanted. Thanks. Wow. You shouldn’t have. Really.”
Soon enough the Epiphany will be here, and everyone will have to get down to the serious business of winter without colored lights and festive music. No matter what your shift is, you go to work in the dark and come home in the dark, and comfort yourself with the thought that at least January is not August with its merciless heat.
And then sometimes you can dig into the sofa cushions and find a chocolate candy misplaced during December’s merriment, and chocolate tastes even better in January.
If you find a plastic Easter egg from last year, well, that’s fun too, but you probably shouldn’t eat the goodies inside.
Happy, happy after-Christmas, everyone.
-30-
Thursday, December 21, 2017
Never Trust a Guy Who Irons His Jeans - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Strong canvas is the stuff of adventure
Like a cowboy lassoing horses wild
It captures the ocean’s galloping winds
And to even wilder ships harnesses them
Strong canvas is the stuff of manly work
Defense against fierce cactus and desert dust
Loops for the hammer, pouches for the nails
Sacred vestments anointed with sweat and dirt
A good man works hard, and says what he means
But never trust a guy who irons his jeans
mhall46184@aol.com
Never Trust a Guy Who Irons His Jeans
Strong canvas is the stuff of adventure
Like a cowboy lassoing horses wild
It captures the ocean’s galloping winds
And to even wilder ships harnesses them
Strong canvas is the stuff of manly work
Defense against fierce cactus and desert dust
Loops for the hammer, pouches for the nails
Sacred vestments anointed with sweat and dirt
A good man works hard, and says what he means
But never trust a guy who irons his jeans
Wednesday, December 20, 2017
Love in the Corner Booth - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
His ducktail haircut from 1957
Fading to white, her voice without makeup
Sharing scripture verses and something about
Her latest operation and her miseries
Outside along the row of pickup trucks
A green-haired waitress smokes a cigarette
The fuzz of her Harley-Davidson coat
Pressed flat for love against the window glass
They’ve got a sale on tires down at Wal-Mart
Along the four-lane Christmas passes by
mhall46184@aol.com
Love in the Corner Booth
Somewhere along US 96
His ducktail haircut from 1957
Fading to white, her voice without makeup
Sharing scripture verses and something about
Her latest operation and her miseries
Outside along the row of pickup trucks
A green-haired waitress smokes a cigarette
The fuzz of her Harley-Davidson coat
Pressed flat for love against the window glass
They’ve got a sale on tires down at Wal-Mart
Along the four-lane Christmas passes by
Tuesday, December 19, 2017
A Conversation about Whiteness - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Wedding dresses, clouds in a summer sky
Those new tenny-runners in junior high
The towels the Navy issued all of us
Liquid Paper™ for covering typos
Wild geese winging the seasons, moved by God
The much-prayed pages in MeeMaw’s Bible
A sidewalk made playground with colored chalk
A blank page in the typewriter positioned
Ready, waiting for the next Langston Hughes
To write about rivers, or about…you
mhall46184@aol.com
A Conversation about Whiteness
Wedding dresses, clouds in a summer sky
Those new tenny-runners in junior high
The towels the Navy issued all of us
Liquid Paper™ for covering typos
Wild geese winging the seasons, moved by God
The much-prayed pages in MeeMaw’s Bible
A sidewalk made playground with colored chalk
A blank page in the typewriter positioned
Ready, waiting for the next Langston Hughes
To write about rivers, or about…you
Monday, December 18, 2017
Why do We Write? - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
If we accept that art helps us reveal
The hidden structures of the universe
As beauty transcendent in color and form
Harmonious truth in music, word, and dance
Then choosing sides in old men’s deadly games
Is merely empire-building, trunkless legs2,
And focusing upon our hurts and harms
Is but a dark Endorian3 conceit
If we build art in love, not for ourselves,
But for all others, we live beyond all time
1 Prince Myshkin in The Idiot
2 Shelley, “Ozymandias”
3 1 Samuel 28
mhall46184@aol.com
Why do We Write?
“Beauty will save the world.”1
-Dostoyevsky
If we accept that art helps us reveal
The hidden structures of the universe
As beauty transcendent in color and form
Harmonious truth in music, word, and dance
Then choosing sides in old men’s deadly games
Is merely empire-building, trunkless legs2,
And focusing upon our hurts and harms
Is but a dark Endorian3 conceit
If we build art in love, not for ourselves,
But for all others, we live beyond all time
1 Prince Myshkin in The Idiot
2 Shelley, “Ozymandias”
3 1 Samuel 28
Sunday, December 17, 2017
Saint Mary Magdalene's Recycled Mobile 'Phone - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Her ‘phone was passed on to a parish priest
But they forgot to change the numbers and so
Her client-base kept telephoning him
At night, when the moon and the johns were full
“Confessions on Friday evening at seven”
Didn’t ring-a-ding anyone’s ding-ding
Maybe the lonely men in lonely rooms
Remembered then what their dear mamas said
And maybe they didn’t – life falls apart
Both in the street and at the Airport Inn
(predicated on a real event)
mhall46184@aol.com
Saint Mary Magdalene’s Recycled Mobile ‘Phone
Her ‘phone was passed on to a parish priest
But they forgot to change the numbers and so
Her client-base kept telephoning him
At night, when the moon and the johns were full
“Confessions on Friday evening at seven”
Didn’t ring-a-ding anyone’s ding-ding
Maybe the lonely men in lonely rooms
Remembered then what their dear mamas said
And maybe they didn’t – life falls apart
Both in the street and at the Airport Inn
(predicated on a real event)
Saturday, December 16, 2017
The World in Your Hands - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
A little bead between your fingers slips
And then another, and another yet
Linked with a bit of cord, in corde1 linked
Like planets all in rhythm with their sun
Each bead is our created world in small:
Each ocean a baptism, each island a hope
Each wind a prophecy whispering to
An exiled people waiting for the dawn
And for your fiat mihi to that Light
A little bead between your fingers waits
I 1n corde - "in the heart" from "In corde Iesu," "in the heart of Jesus"
2 Fiat mihi - St. Luke 1:38
mhall46184@aol.com
The World in Your Hands
A little bead between your fingers slips
And then another, and another yet
Linked with a bit of cord, in corde1 linked
Like planets all in rhythm with their sun
Each bead is our created world in small:
Each ocean a baptism, each island a hope
Each wind a prophecy whispering to
An exiled people waiting for the dawn
And for your fiat mihi to that Light
A little bead between your fingers waits
I 1n corde - "in the heart" from "In corde Iesu," "in the heart of Jesus"
2 Fiat mihi - St. Luke 1:38
Friday, December 15, 2017
"Dear Valued Customer" - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Dear Valued Customer:
Old Hearth & Home Mutual Bank & Trust
Is changing its name to Cosmos Banking
And now to Financial Solutions Inc
And tomorrow to New Heritage Bank
Same familiar faces, same great service
A broader range of personalized products
Because, neighbor, you’re still our good neighbor
(We’ll need two kinds of identification)
But that’s enough bank sign-changing for now -
We’re all out of two-sided Velcro® tape
mhall46184@aol.com
“Dear Valued Customer”
Dear Valued Customer:
Old Hearth & Home Mutual Bank & Trust
Is changing its name to Cosmos Banking
And now to Financial Solutions Inc
And tomorrow to New Heritage Bank
Same familiar faces, same great service
A broader range of personalized products
Because, neighbor, you’re still our good neighbor
(We’ll need two kinds of identification)
But that’s enough bank sign-changing for now -
We’re all out of two-sided Velcro® tape
Thursday, December 14, 2017
Hobo Jungle - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
It’s a jungle out there – across the road
A hoodie-man carrying a shopping bag
A turn, a thought, a blink, a pause – he’s gone
Like the silent lynx, disappeared among the trees
The stock market is up, the woods are dark
Beyond the lights, the refuge of lost men;
The old folks spoke of hobo jungles back when
Along the tracks, not near an office block
Beyond the glass, beyond the walls, beyond:
It’s a jungle out there – across the road
mhall46184@aol.com
Hobo Jungle
It’s a jungle out there – across the road
A hoodie-man carrying a shopping bag
A turn, a thought, a blink, a pause – he’s gone
Like the silent lynx, disappeared among the trees
The stock market is up, the woods are dark
Beyond the lights, the refuge of lost men;
The old folks spoke of hobo jungles back when
Along the tracks, not near an office block
Beyond the glass, beyond the walls, beyond:
It’s a jungle out there – across the road
Christmas in Exile - column
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
The citizens of William’s Harbour, Labrador, will not celebrate Christmas in their old homes because now, except as a geographical expression, there is no William’s Harbour.
The 1992 moratorium on cod fishing ended the island’s chief industry, and summer tourism and subsistence fishing and harvesting were not enough to sustain the small and aging community. The government of Newfoundland and Labrador (now there is a forced marriage) set out a schedule for ending all services and offered everyone compensation in exchange for the titles to their homes.
Beginning in August the people of the island began boarding the ferry with their household goods for new lives away. And now William’s Harbour is dark, and the ferry sails no more.
While governments compute in terms of housing stock – not homes – and budgets, those subject to the probably necessary decisions in St. John’s have said farewell to their homes, their fisheries, their trap lines, St. Andrew’s Church on its little hill, and the graves of their ancestors.
Resettlement in denotation is neutral; in connotation one is reminded of the many misuses of the word as a euphemism: the many Trails of Tears of the First Nations, the Hitlerian "resettlement to the east," the Communists' resettlement of peoples in every land that ideology has ever infected, Le Grand Derangement of the Acadians, and Smallwood's forced resettlement of people from Newfoundland's outports.
There were no soldiers with bayonets dragging the people of William’s Harbour out of their homes or forcing them onto boats, but still the thoughtful man or woman can only be uncomfortable with the destruction of a culture as well as the dislocation of individuals and families by the decisions of distant rulers.
And, after all, the rulers will be in their own warm homes this Christmas.
On Christmas Eve the exiles will find other churches for the liturgies, maybe even another St. Andrew’s, but it won’t be on their island. As they light the candles and sing the ancient hymns at midnight they will know that over their old church and over Mama and Papa’s graves there is only darkness, only silence, only the cold Atlantic winds.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
mhall46184@aol.com
Christmas in Exile
The citizens of William’s Harbour, Labrador, will not celebrate Christmas in their old homes because now, except as a geographical expression, there is no William’s Harbour.
The 1992 moratorium on cod fishing ended the island’s chief industry, and summer tourism and subsistence fishing and harvesting were not enough to sustain the small and aging community. The government of Newfoundland and Labrador (now there is a forced marriage) set out a schedule for ending all services and offered everyone compensation in exchange for the titles to their homes.
Beginning in August the people of the island began boarding the ferry with their household goods for new lives away. And now William’s Harbour is dark, and the ferry sails no more.
While governments compute in terms of housing stock – not homes – and budgets, those subject to the probably necessary decisions in St. John’s have said farewell to their homes, their fisheries, their trap lines, St. Andrew’s Church on its little hill, and the graves of their ancestors.
Resettlement in denotation is neutral; in connotation one is reminded of the many misuses of the word as a euphemism: the many Trails of Tears of the First Nations, the Hitlerian "resettlement to the east," the Communists' resettlement of peoples in every land that ideology has ever infected, Le Grand Derangement of the Acadians, and Smallwood's forced resettlement of people from Newfoundland's outports.
There were no soldiers with bayonets dragging the people of William’s Harbour out of their homes or forcing them onto boats, but still the thoughtful man or woman can only be uncomfortable with the destruction of a culture as well as the dislocation of individuals and families by the decisions of distant rulers.
And, after all, the rulers will be in their own warm homes this Christmas.
On Christmas Eve the exiles will find other churches for the liturgies, maybe even another St. Andrew’s, but it won’t be on their island. As they light the candles and sing the ancient hymns at midnight they will know that over their old church and over Mama and Papa’s graves there is only darkness, only silence, only the cold Atlantic winds.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sire's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.
-Gray, “Elegy in a Country Churchyard”
-30-
Wednesday, December 13, 2017
Saint Garden Gnome - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
An obscure barefoot friar in Italy
Long labored in the Perugian sun,
Heaped rocks upon rocks, and then other rocks,
Up to a wavery roof of broken tiles,
Repairing with his bleeding hands God’s church
Then, better known – it wasn’t his fault – this friar,
With others in love with Lady Poverty,
In hope and penance trudged to far-off Rome
To offer there his modest Rule of life,
Repairing with his mindful words God’s Church
Along the delta of the steaming Nile
He waved away the worried pickets, crossed
Into the camp of the Saracens
Preaching Christ to merciful Al-Kamil,
Offering with a martyr’s heart God’s Faith
Saint Francis is depicted in fine art
In great museums and in modest homes -
And you can find him too, down at Wal-Mart,
Between the plastic frogs and concrete gnomes.
mhall46184@aol.com
Saint Garden Gnome
An obscure barefoot friar in Italy
Long labored in the Perugian sun,
Heaped rocks upon rocks, and then other rocks,
Up to a wavery roof of broken tiles,
Repairing with his bleeding hands God’s church
Then, better known – it wasn’t his fault – this friar,
With others in love with Lady Poverty,
In hope and penance trudged to far-off Rome
To offer there his modest Rule of life,
Repairing with his mindful words God’s Church
Along the delta of the steaming Nile
He waved away the worried pickets, crossed
Into the camp of the Saracens
Preaching Christ to merciful Al-Kamil,
Offering with a martyr’s heart God’s Faith
Saint Francis is depicted in fine art
In great museums and in modest homes -
And you can find him too, down at Wal-Mart,
Between the plastic frogs and concrete gnomes.
Tuesday, December 12, 2017
Hello Poetry - unreliable
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Hello Poetry, aka HelloPoetry, He Po, and other unfortunate variants, is a free and enjoyable way of sharing poetry. Many of the submissions are, as one would expect, me-me-me-I-I-I free verse self pityings, but many others are thoughtful in content and artistic in construction. Given that verse has suffered a century-long decline in quality and appreciation as a part of popular culture, that any poetry is written at all is a marvel.
However, in the months I have participated in Hello Poetry the functionality of the site has been undependable – sometimes it has been down for days, and at other times it blocks submissions. Appeals to the webmaster are never answered.
Yesterday an attempt to post was blocked with a large “FORBIDDEN” and a code. Considering the possibility that my computer was infected or was sending false signals, I examined the system, cleaned the cookies, and backed up to several hours before the metaphorical wall was raised. Submissions were still blocked, and later, notes to other writers. This morning I attempted to submit via another computer in another location, and was again “FORBIDDEN.”
The site is free, and the webmaster may choose to accept or reject submissions as he wished, and I am free not to indulge erratic service and ill manners. My poor efforts will continue to be available on reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com (which is not really reactionary, though it may well be drivel).
Cheers,
Lawrence
mhall46184@aol.com
Hello Poetry, aka HelloPoetry, He Po, and other unfortunate variants, is a free and enjoyable way of sharing poetry. Many of the submissions are, as one would expect, me-me-me-I-I-I free verse self pityings, but many others are thoughtful in content and artistic in construction. Given that verse has suffered a century-long decline in quality and appreciation as a part of popular culture, that any poetry is written at all is a marvel.
However, in the months I have participated in Hello Poetry the functionality of the site has been undependable – sometimes it has been down for days, and at other times it blocks submissions. Appeals to the webmaster are never answered.
Yesterday an attempt to post was blocked with a large “FORBIDDEN” and a code. Considering the possibility that my computer was infected or was sending false signals, I examined the system, cleaned the cookies, and backed up to several hours before the metaphorical wall was raised. Submissions were still blocked, and later, notes to other writers. This morning I attempted to submit via another computer in another location, and was again “FORBIDDEN.”
The site is free, and the webmaster may choose to accept or reject submissions as he wished, and I am free not to indulge erratic service and ill manners. My poor efforts will continue to be available on reactionarydrivel.blogspot.com (which is not really reactionary, though it may well be drivel).
Cheers,
Lawrence
Monday, December 11, 2017
Vouchsafest Thou? - just for fun
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Do you enjoy the word "vouchsafe" as much
As I? It isn't as musical as the phrase
"Thence forward," or “joylich,” “leman,” and such
Or "confusticate" - who says that these days?
“Wherefore,” “abroche,” let us now celebrate
“Antic” English words: “aforetime,” “perforce”
“Slowcoach,” “freshet”, “befall” - at this late date?
And dear “daffadowndilley” (but of course!)
“Declaim,” “forsooth,” “marchwarden,” and “descry,”
And let us not forget the sweet “day’s-eye!”
mhall46184@aol.com
Vouchsafest Thou?
Do you enjoy the word "vouchsafe" as much
As I? It isn't as musical as the phrase
"Thence forward," or “joylich,” “leman,” and such
Or "confusticate" - who says that these days?
“Wherefore,” “abroche,” let us now celebrate
“Antic” English words: “aforetime,” “perforce”
“Slowcoach,” “freshet”, “befall” - at this late date?
And dear “daffadowndilley” (but of course!)
“Declaim,” “forsooth,” “marchwarden,” and “descry,”
And let us not forget the sweet “day’s-eye!”
Sunday, December 10, 2017
Upon Re-Reading Doctor Zhivago - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Love lost along abandoned railway lines,
Grave-cold, grave-still, grave-dark beneath dead snow,
A thousand miles of ashes, corpses, ghosts -
Sacrarium of a martyred civilization.
A silent wolf pads west across the ice,
The rotting remnant of a young man’s arm,
Slung casually between its pale pink jaws -
A cufflink clings to a bit of ragged cloth.
Above the wolf, the ice, the arm, the link
A dead star hangs, dead in a moonless sky,
It gives no light, there is no life; a mist
Arises from the clotted, haunted earth.
For generations the seasons in darkness slept,
Since neither love nor life were free to sing
The eternal hymns of long-forbidden spring -
And yet beneath the lies the old world sighs
The old world sighed in sudden ecstasy
A whispered resurrection of the truth
As tender stems ascended, pushed the stones
Aside, away into irrelevance.
And now golden sunflowers laugh with the sun
Like merry young lads in their happy youth
Coaxing an ox-team into the fields,
Showing off their muscles to merry young girls.
The men of steel are only stains of rust,
Discoloring fragments of broken drains,
As useless as the rotted bits of brass
Turned up sometimes by Uncle Sasha’s plow.
For this is Holy Russia, eternally young;
Over her wide lands high church domes bless the sky,
While Ruslan and Ludmilla bless the earth
With the songs of lovers in God’s eternal now.
(The 1965 movie version is brilliant, and the recent mini-series is good, but these worthy endeavors are but shadows of the novel.)
mhall46184@aol.com
Upon Re-Reading Doctor Zhivago
for two friends
Love lost along abandoned railway lines,
Grave-cold, grave-still, grave-dark beneath dead snow,
A thousand miles of ashes, corpses, ghosts -
Sacrarium of a martyred civilization.
A silent wolf pads west across the ice,
The rotting remnant of a young man’s arm,
Slung casually between its pale pink jaws -
A cufflink clings to a bit of ragged cloth.
Above the wolf, the ice, the arm, the link
A dead star hangs, dead in a moonless sky,
It gives no light, there is no life; a mist
Arises from the clotted, haunted earth.
For generations the seasons in darkness slept,
Since neither love nor life were free to sing
The eternal hymns of long-forbidden spring -
And yet beneath the lies the old world sighs
The old world sighed in sudden ecstasy
A whispered resurrection of the truth
As tender stems ascended, pushed the stones
Aside, away into irrelevance.
And now golden sunflowers laugh with the sun
Like merry young lads in their happy youth
Coaxing an ox-team into the fields,
Showing off their muscles to merry young girls.
The men of steel are only stains of rust,
Discoloring fragments of broken drains,
As useless as the rotted bits of brass
Turned up sometimes by Uncle Sasha’s plow.
For this is Holy Russia, eternally young;
Over her wide lands high church domes bless the sky,
While Ruslan and Ludmilla bless the earth
With the songs of lovers in God’s eternal now.
(The 1965 movie version is brilliant, and the recent mini-series is good, but these worthy endeavors are but shadows of the novel.)
Saturday, December 9, 2017
On the Vigil of the Nativity - poem (still unsure re the title)
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
In a Capuchin friary, on a wall
In faded letters from the long ago
A simple sign asks the casual visitor
“Why Are You Here?”
And that’s a fair question; it always is
If I am in one place, I am not in another;
Unless someone has forced me otherwise
I have made a choice to be where I am
So why do I kneel here (and half asleep)
In a Stable, among cattle and sheep?
mhall46184@aol.com
On the Vigil of the Nativity
In a Capuchin friary, on a wall
In faded letters from the long ago
A simple sign asks the casual visitor
“Why Are You Here?”
And that’s a fair question; it always is
If I am in one place, I am not in another;
Unless someone has forced me otherwise
I have made a choice to be where I am
So why do I kneel here (and half asleep)
In a Stable, among cattle and sheep?
Friday, December 8, 2017
Pilgrimage Along the A1, from Peterborough to Chesterton - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
From Peterborough drops a road
Across the Fens, into the past
(Where wary wraiths still wear the woad);
It comes to Chesterton at last.
And we will walk along that track,
Or hop a bus, perhaps; you know
How hard it is to sling a pack
When one is sixty-old, and slow.
That mapped blue line across our land
Follows along a Roman way
Where Hereward the Wake made stand
In mists where secret islands lay.
In Chesterton a Norman tower
Beside Saint Michael’s guards the fields;
Though clockless, still it counts slow hours
And centuries hidden long, and sealed.
And there before a looted tomb,
Long bare of candles, flowers, and prayers,
We will in our poor Latin resume
Aves for old de Beauville’s cares.
mhall46184@aol.com
Pilgrimage Along the A1
From Peterborough drops a road
Across the Fens, into the past
(Where wary wraiths still wear the woad);
It comes to Chesterton at last.
And we will walk along that track,
Or hop a bus, perhaps; you know
How hard it is to sling a pack
When one is sixty-old, and slow.
That mapped blue line across our land
Follows along a Roman way
Where Hereward the Wake made stand
In mists where secret islands lay.
In Chesterton a Norman tower
Beside Saint Michael’s guards the fields;
Though clockless, still it counts slow hours
And centuries hidden long, and sealed.
And there before a looted tomb,
Long bare of candles, flowers, and prayers,
We will in our poor Latin resume
Aves for old de Beauville’s cares.
Thursday, December 7, 2017
A Bitcoin for Your Thoughts? - column
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Does anyone in our federal government do anything except call each other rude names and investigate each other? If we tell our children and grandchildren about the good old days when there were grownups in the White House and in Congress, the little kids will think we’re palming more Santa Claus yarns off on them.
“Once upon a time there were two fine men, President Reagan and Speaker of the House O’Neill, and although they didn’t agree about everything they respected each other and loved their country very much…”
+ + +
George P. Bush is Texas’ land commissioner and a fine man. His vision for preserving the physical elements of the history of our republic and now our state is brilliant. But he needs to shave. The Don Johnson / Justin Trudeau look is soooooooooooo 1970s.
+ + +
Hey, how about visiting San Francisco this year? If you are murdered in the streets the judge and jury will show their love for the murderer. For you, nothing.
+ + +
“Merry Christmas” has always been acceptable. I have never encountered any situation in which an organization declared “Merry Christmas” inappropriate. I keep reading about that on the GossipNet, and hearing about it from the druggie draft dodger on midday radio, and maybe banning “Merry Christmas” has happened, but I’ve never encountered it. Andy Williams, of happy memory, long ago recorded a song called “Happy Holidays,” and that’s fine too.
+ + +
Jim Nabors has died. Shazam! Citizen’s arrest! Citizen’s arrest! He was a great comic actor and a singer. You can find him, as PFC Gomer Pyle, singing “The Impossible Dream” before the Marine Corps orchestra on YouTube.
+ + +
Bitcoins – just remember the stories about magic beans and golden eggs.
+ + +
Like typewriters, passenger trains, short stories, radios, fountain pens, and telephones, wristwatches had a run of about a century. You seldom see them anymore.
Once upon people wore wristwatches; now they appear to have MePhones surgically attached to their hands.
+ + +
Hey, it’s ‘way past time to throw out the last of that Thanksgiving turkey. There’ll be more for Christmas!
Mhall46184@aol.com
A Bitcoin for Your Thoughts?
Does anyone in our federal government do anything except call each other rude names and investigate each other? If we tell our children and grandchildren about the good old days when there were grownups in the White House and in Congress, the little kids will think we’re palming more Santa Claus yarns off on them.
“Once upon a time there were two fine men, President Reagan and Speaker of the House O’Neill, and although they didn’t agree about everything they respected each other and loved their country very much…”
+ + +
George P. Bush is Texas’ land commissioner and a fine man. His vision for preserving the physical elements of the history of our republic and now our state is brilliant. But he needs to shave. The Don Johnson / Justin Trudeau look is soooooooooooo 1970s.
+ + +
Hey, how about visiting San Francisco this year? If you are murdered in the streets the judge and jury will show their love for the murderer. For you, nothing.
+ + +
“Merry Christmas” has always been acceptable. I have never encountered any situation in which an organization declared “Merry Christmas” inappropriate. I keep reading about that on the GossipNet, and hearing about it from the druggie draft dodger on midday radio, and maybe banning “Merry Christmas” has happened, but I’ve never encountered it. Andy Williams, of happy memory, long ago recorded a song called “Happy Holidays,” and that’s fine too.
+ + +
Jim Nabors has died. Shazam! Citizen’s arrest! Citizen’s arrest! He was a great comic actor and a singer. You can find him, as PFC Gomer Pyle, singing “The Impossible Dream” before the Marine Corps orchestra on YouTube.
+ + +
Bitcoins – just remember the stories about magic beans and golden eggs.
+ + +
Like typewriters, passenger trains, short stories, radios, fountain pens, and telephones, wristwatches had a run of about a century. You seldom see them anymore.
Once upon people wore wristwatches; now they appear to have MePhones surgically attached to their hands.
+ + +
Hey, it’s ‘way past time to throw out the last of that Thanksgiving turkey. There’ll be more for Christmas!
-30-
Happy Merry Hallothanksmas - column
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Halloween, an occasion of insanity for which no honest pagan would ever take credit, is long over, and we are now in a season not quite as bizarre.
Having suffered weeks of debates about who offered the first thanksgiving, and where, our attention is now turned (whether or not we wish it to be turned) to the next debate, The True Meaning of Christmas.
The four weeks prior to Christmas are the Christian season of Advent. Christmas properly begins on midnight on the 24th of December and ends with the Feast of Epiphany on the 6th of January.
But perhaps we should mention Advent, Christmas, and Epiphany only in the past tense.
These Christian seasons, along with All Saints and All Souls, have long been culturally censored by the Macy’s-Amazon Continuum, and organically recycled into one long distraction, Hallothanksmas. Some call it The Christmas Season, but this is the one thing it categorically is not. Hallothanksmas begins around the first of September and concludes with the beginning of Mardi Gras on December 26.
This cobbled-together season is honored in television shows about the Proletariat camping on the concrete outside Mega-Much-Big-Box stores the size of the Colosseum in Rome. At the appointed hour the electric bells ring out and an official opens the Gates of Consumer Heaven so that The People can crash against them and each other in a blood-sacrifice combining elements of the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona and a jolly good riot between the Greens and the Blues in Constantinople.
The modern Proletariat compete not for a crown of laurel or of gold, which moths and rust consumeth, but for the everlasting honor and street cred of purchasing a made-in-China television set (in the vernacular, a “flatscreen”) much like the ones they already have, no matter how many of their fellow worshippers must be wounded and killed for it.
The old Christian seasons were predicated on the salvation story, gratitude, and good, healthy merriment; Hallothanksmas is ornamented with casualty lists.
Although Hallothanksmas is mostly about consumption, theft, and violence, it is also marked with ritual meals for the survivors during which the liturgy of the word is to share gory narratives about past and anticipated surgeries and illnesses. Turkey and dressing are just not complete without a look at everyone’s laparotomy, appendectomy, and open-heart-surgery scars and detailed accounts of the children’s latest bowel movements.
But soon all this must end with the beginning of Mardi Gras and its joyful excesses and proud public exhibitions of projectile emesis.
And let The People say “Woo! Woo!” as they bow their heads reverently before their MePhones.
Mhall46184@aol.com
Happy Merry Hallothanksmas
Halloween, an occasion of insanity for which no honest pagan would ever take credit, is long over, and we are now in a season not quite as bizarre.
Having suffered weeks of debates about who offered the first thanksgiving, and where, our attention is now turned (whether or not we wish it to be turned) to the next debate, The True Meaning of Christmas.
The four weeks prior to Christmas are the Christian season of Advent. Christmas properly begins on midnight on the 24th of December and ends with the Feast of Epiphany on the 6th of January.
But perhaps we should mention Advent, Christmas, and Epiphany only in the past tense.
These Christian seasons, along with All Saints and All Souls, have long been culturally censored by the Macy’s-Amazon Continuum, and organically recycled into one long distraction, Hallothanksmas. Some call it The Christmas Season, but this is the one thing it categorically is not. Hallothanksmas begins around the first of September and concludes with the beginning of Mardi Gras on December 26.
This cobbled-together season is honored in television shows about the Proletariat camping on the concrete outside Mega-Much-Big-Box stores the size of the Colosseum in Rome. At the appointed hour the electric bells ring out and an official opens the Gates of Consumer Heaven so that The People can crash against them and each other in a blood-sacrifice combining elements of the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona and a jolly good riot between the Greens and the Blues in Constantinople.
The modern Proletariat compete not for a crown of laurel or of gold, which moths and rust consumeth, but for the everlasting honor and street cred of purchasing a made-in-China television set (in the vernacular, a “flatscreen”) much like the ones they already have, no matter how many of their fellow worshippers must be wounded and killed for it.
The old Christian seasons were predicated on the salvation story, gratitude, and good, healthy merriment; Hallothanksmas is ornamented with casualty lists.
Although Hallothanksmas is mostly about consumption, theft, and violence, it is also marked with ritual meals for the survivors during which the liturgy of the word is to share gory narratives about past and anticipated surgeries and illnesses. Turkey and dressing are just not complete without a look at everyone’s laparotomy, appendectomy, and open-heart-surgery scars and detailed accounts of the children’s latest bowel movements.
But soon all this must end with the beginning of Mardi Gras and its joyful excesses and proud public exhibitions of projectile emesis.
And let The People say “Woo! Woo!” as they bow their heads reverently before their MePhones.
-30-
The Insolent Gas Pump - column
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
In the first episode of Get Smart (in glorious black-and-white) Agent Maxwell Smart’s shoe begins ringing like a solid old Bell telephone while he is at a concert (as in music, not existential yowling). The shoe-phone gag, complete with a large rotary dial, was sustained over the life of the series, along with many other logical and illogical gadgets.
Gadgets are fun – telephones, typewriters, Italian Army knives, illuminated magnifiers, barometers, cuckoo clocks, can openers, self-changing record players, the sort of technology that knows its place and doesn’t give itself airs.
But civilization comes to a skidding Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote stop with talking gas pumps that show movies.
Once upon a time when you wanted gas for your car you stopped at the filling station and a nice man wearing a Texaco shirt and a bowtie (miss you, George) filled your car’s tank and checked under the hood, whatever checking under the hood meant. In illo tempore a gallon of gas cost about the same as a cup of coffee, and, come to think of it, still does.
But now you have to get out of the car, produce a plastic card, and negotiate with the pump according to questions and instructions legible on the screen only when the sun is at exactly the right angle, usually around dawn on the the summer solstice.
And then the gas pump puts on a moving picture show. First, there’s the weather. Snow? I don’t think so. But the next day there was snow.
The other day there was a trivia quiz, followed some gossip about Miley Kardashian or somebody like that who’s going to marry the king of Crete, I think.
There was no Roadrunner cartoon or a John Wayne, so what’s the point of a talking gas pump with movies?
But here’s where things get awkward – you find yourself talking back to the gas pump.
This is one of those, like, you know, existential moments, and, like, when you pause midway through the journey of life and find yourself in a gloomy forest of gas pumps (it’s in Dante if you want to look it up).
When you find yourself arguing with a gas pump, you’ve reached an existential whatchamacallit.
Look, on my home planet you just don’t converse with gas pumps. Toasters, maybe. Thermostats, rarely, and only on general topics, like the weather.
But never gas pumps.
Gas pumps, because they light up and show you talking pictures, are like the tenant’s wife in Barchester Towers who now has a piano in the parlour and so feels free to address an archdeacon at the squire’s garden party as if they were social equals.
We just can’t have that.
The next time the gas pump talks to me I’m going to keep my responses polite but just this side of curt.
You know Curt; we all went to school together.
Talking gas pumps. Harrumph. What next – will the coffee maker begin exchanging gossip with the microwave?
mhall46184@aol.com
The Insolent Gas Pump
In the first episode of Get Smart (in glorious black-and-white) Agent Maxwell Smart’s shoe begins ringing like a solid old Bell telephone while he is at a concert (as in music, not existential yowling). The shoe-phone gag, complete with a large rotary dial, was sustained over the life of the series, along with many other logical and illogical gadgets.
Gadgets are fun – telephones, typewriters, Italian Army knives, illuminated magnifiers, barometers, cuckoo clocks, can openers, self-changing record players, the sort of technology that knows its place and doesn’t give itself airs.
But civilization comes to a skidding Roadrunner and Wile E. Coyote stop with talking gas pumps that show movies.
Once upon a time when you wanted gas for your car you stopped at the filling station and a nice man wearing a Texaco shirt and a bowtie (miss you, George) filled your car’s tank and checked under the hood, whatever checking under the hood meant. In illo tempore a gallon of gas cost about the same as a cup of coffee, and, come to think of it, still does.
But now you have to get out of the car, produce a plastic card, and negotiate with the pump according to questions and instructions legible on the screen only when the sun is at exactly the right angle, usually around dawn on the the summer solstice.
And then the gas pump puts on a moving picture show. First, there’s the weather. Snow? I don’t think so. But the next day there was snow.
The other day there was a trivia quiz, followed some gossip about Miley Kardashian or somebody like that who’s going to marry the king of Crete, I think.
There was no Roadrunner cartoon or a John Wayne, so what’s the point of a talking gas pump with movies?
But here’s where things get awkward – you find yourself talking back to the gas pump.
This is one of those, like, you know, existential moments, and, like, when you pause midway through the journey of life and find yourself in a gloomy forest of gas pumps (it’s in Dante if you want to look it up).
When you find yourself arguing with a gas pump, you’ve reached an existential whatchamacallit.
Look, on my home planet you just don’t converse with gas pumps. Toasters, maybe. Thermostats, rarely, and only on general topics, like the weather.
But never gas pumps.
Gas pumps, because they light up and show you talking pictures, are like the tenant’s wife in Barchester Towers who now has a piano in the parlour and so feels free to address an archdeacon at the squire’s garden party as if they were social equals.
We just can’t have that.
The next time the gas pump talks to me I’m going to keep my responses polite but just this side of curt.
You know Curt; we all went to school together.
Talking gas pumps. Harrumph. What next – will the coffee maker begin exchanging gossip with the microwave?
-30-
"Found a Dead Body This Mornin' Early" - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Rainy and cold. Breakfast at the café
Early. Warm inside. Windows all steamy
Still dark. That first cup of thank-God coffee
Sausages, eggs, and wheat toast on the way
An old friend walks in. Hangs up his wet coat
“Coffee, please. Pancakes.”
“Are you off to work?
How about that early project?”
“Naw, I’m done
Think I’ll go home and hit the recliner;
Found a dead body this mornin’ early”
mhall46184@aol.com
“Found a Dead Body This Mornin’ Early”
Rainy and cold. Breakfast at the café
Early. Warm inside. Windows all steamy
Still dark. That first cup of thank-God coffee
Sausages, eggs, and wheat toast on the way
An old friend walks in. Hangs up his wet coat
“Coffee, please. Pancakes.”
“Are you off to work?
How about that early project?”
“Naw, I’m done
Think I’ll go home and hit the recliner;
Found a dead body this mornin’ early”
Wednesday, December 6, 2017
The Talking Gas Pump Down at the Conoco - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
The talking gas pump down at the Conoco
“Please enter your zip code and press the pound”
Says the temp will be thirty tomorrow
“Will this purchase be credit or debit?”
And that snow is a possibility
“Please remove nozzle and select product”
And that we must watch the road conditions
“Begin fueling now (beep beep beep beep beep)”
In a whisper:
But that’s the number 6 pump saying so,
And that one acts all weird in Bible class
mhall46184@aol.com
Premium Leaded, Leaded, News, and Weather -
The Talking Gas Pump Down at the Conoco
The Talking Gas Pump Down at the Conoco
The talking gas pump down at the Conoco
“Please enter your zip code and press the pound”
Says the temp will be thirty tomorrow
“Will this purchase be credit or debit?”
And that snow is a possibility
“Please remove nozzle and select product”
And that we must watch the road conditions
“Begin fueling now (beep beep beep beep beep)”
In a whisper:
But that’s the number 6 pump saying so,
And that one acts all weird in Bible class
Tuesday, December 5, 2017
The Plane, the Mist, and the Moon - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
An evening walk: a plane, its vapour trails
All golden in the setting sun, sails west
A rising mist on darkening fields below
Creeps Grendel-ish along the forest line
And framed in branches skeletal, the moon
Observes and rules all in the chilling dusk
Without a wind dry oak leaves stir about
And then are still again, and no one knows
Disparate thoughts on a quiet evening walk
Along with the airplane, the mist, the moon
mhall46184@aol.com
The Plane, The Mist, and the Moon
An evening walk: a plane, its vapour trails
All golden in the setting sun, sails west
A rising mist on darkening fields below
Creeps Grendel-ish along the forest line
And framed in branches skeletal, the moon
Observes and rules all in the chilling dusk
Without a wind dry oak leaves stir about
And then are still again, and no one knows
Disparate thoughts on a quiet evening walk
Along with the airplane, the mist, the moon
Monday, December 4, 2017
On an Inscription from Katya to Gary in a Pushkin Anthology Found in a Used-Book Sale - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Whatever happened to Katya and Gary?
Their names appear in an anthology
Of Pushkin in a nifty Everyman
Astray on a table of orphaned books
One hopes they read those sweet words each to each
Over Blue Mountain in a coffee shop
Forgetting to feed the parking meter
While planning lives of meaning, deep and rich
Or is each but a memory to the other -
Whatever happened to Katya and Gary?
mhall46184@aol.com
On an Inscription from Katya to Gary
in a Pushkin Anthology Found in a Used-Book Sale
Whatever happened to Katya and Gary?
Their names appear in an anthology
Of Pushkin in a nifty Everyman
Astray on a table of orphaned books
One hopes they read those sweet words each to each
Over Blue Mountain in a coffee shop
Forgetting to feed the parking meter
While planning lives of meaning, deep and rich
Or is each but a memory to the other -
Whatever happened to Katya and Gary?
Sunday, December 3, 2017
Advent Remains Unoccupied - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Advent remains at peace, unoccupied
There are no Advent trees to buy or steal
No seasonally-discounted lingerie
No Advent hymns background the lite-beer ads
At Mass: a wreath, a candle every week
And music set to God, not to the sales;
The missal now begins again, page one
And through the liturgy so too do we
Almost no one notices this season, and thus
Advent remains at peace, unoccupied
mhall46184@aol.com
Advent Remains Unoccupied
Advent remains at peace, unoccupied
There are no Advent trees to buy or steal
No seasonally-discounted lingerie
No Advent hymns background the lite-beer ads
At Mass: a wreath, a candle every week
And music set to God, not to the sales;
The missal now begins again, page one
And through the liturgy so too do we
Almost no one notices this season, and thus
Advent remains at peace, unoccupied
Saturday, December 2, 2017
Dreams Ride the Rails like Hoboes from the Past - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
This day will be just like so many others
An empty rusting boxcar creaking and grinding
Along behind other rusting boxcars
And followed by yet more rusting boxcars
Along a railway line from nowhere to nowhere
Across far plains, dry, featureless, and void
Dreams ride the rails like hoboes from the past
But they never seem to arrive anywhere
An empty rusting boxcar creaking and grinding
This night will be just like so many others
mhall46184@aol.com
An Empty, Rusting Boxcar
This day will be just like so many others
An empty rusting boxcar creaking and grinding
Along behind other rusting boxcars
And followed by yet more rusting boxcars
Along a railway line from nowhere to nowhere
Across far plains, dry, featureless, and void
Dreams ride the rails like hoboes from the past
But they never seem to arrive anywhere
An empty rusting boxcar creaking and grinding
This night will be just like so many others
Friday, December 1, 2017
Historic Presidential Tweets
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
The tweeter of the free world tweets:
Speak loudly and carry a big tweet
54-40 or tweet
We have nothing to tweet but tweet itself
The twitteral of democracy
Ask not what your tweetry can do for you
We must dare to be tweet
The future doesn’t belong to the fainthearted; it belongs to the tweet
Government of the tweet, by the tweet, for the tweet
I know in my heart that man is tweet
(In context “tweet” and “twitter” might be copyrighted terms, although just why anyone would copyright baby noises is a concept that eludes the thoughtful.)
mhall46184@aol.com
The President Tweeted his Outrage
The tweeter of the free world tweets:
Speak loudly and carry a big tweet
54-40 or tweet
We have nothing to tweet but tweet itself
The twitteral of democracy
Ask not what your tweetry can do for you
We must dare to be tweet
The future doesn’t belong to the fainthearted; it belongs to the tweet
Government of the tweet, by the tweet, for the tweet
I know in my heart that man is tweet
But now - the tweet stops here
(In context “tweet” and “twitter” might be copyrighted terms, although just why anyone would copyright baby noises is a concept that eludes the thoughtful.)
Thursday, November 30, 2017
A Pilgrim Out of Time - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
A frail old man bent with the weight of his pack -
He seemed to be carrying a long-dead world
From around 1967 or so
Or maybe he was still looking for truth
Slowly, slowly along the diagonal
Beneath the traffic lights where eight lanes cross
But his strange trail led through another world
And of our reverence for him we paused for him
His journey was his own, his own, alone
That frail old man bent with the weight of his past
mhall46184@aol.com
A Pilgrim Out of Time
A frail old man bent with the weight of his pack -
He seemed to be carrying a long-dead world
From around 1967 or so
Or maybe he was still looking for truth
Slowly, slowly along the diagonal
Beneath the traffic lights where eight lanes cross
But his strange trail led through another world
And of our reverence for him we paused for him
His journey was his own, his own, alone
That frail old man bent with the weight of his past
Wednesday, November 29, 2017
Ye Olde All-Natural Organic Cleverly-Named Rustic Soap Purveyors, Ltd. - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Our licensed soap-istas take dried wasp-poop
And whatever stuff the hay-baler missed
And through our hand-made, slow-cold processes
Crank out our pure, adjective-cluttered soaps
Sustainable, certified, organic
we harvest trashy ditch water legally
And extra-virgin jimpson weeds (so extra-
virgin they’ve never been out on a date)
We’re your natural neighbors; your major
credit card welcome
(but, psssst, it’s just soap)
mhall46184@aol.com
Ye Olde All-Natural Organic Cleverly-Named Rustic Soap Purveyors, Ltd.
Our licensed soap-istas take dried wasp-poop
And whatever stuff the hay-baler missed
And through our hand-made, slow-cold processes
Crank out our pure, adjective-cluttered soaps
Sustainable, certified, organic
we harvest trashy ditch water legally
And extra-virgin jimpson weeds (so extra-
virgin they’ve never been out on a date)
We’re your natural neighbors; your major
credit card welcome
(but, psssst, it’s just soap)
Tuesday, November 28, 2017
Suburban Christianity - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
O pray in silence at the foot the Cross
In humility before the Altar of God
The ancient usages honored aright
Befitting the dignity of His Church
And place all hopes and sorrows quietly there
Along with any haloes, skipping the selfies
And the waving moments of look-at-me
He knows, you know, so let the drama go
Suburban Christianity? Well, yes:
Golgotha is a suburb of Heaven
mhall46184@aol.com
Suburban Christianity
“I have no window to look into another man’s soul.”
-attributed to St. Thomas More and others
O pray in silence at the foot the Cross
In humility before the Altar of God
The ancient usages honored aright
Befitting the dignity of His Church
And place all hopes and sorrows quietly there
Along with any haloes, skipping the selfies
And the waving moments of look-at-me
He knows, you know, so let the drama go
Suburban Christianity? Well, yes:
Golgotha is a suburb of Heaven
Monday, November 27, 2017
The Cruise of the Sun - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
To say goodbye to good old Sol as he
Slips west beyond the trees and sails away
Is not an errant childhood sentiment,
For his appointed tasks are dutiful
Pacing the planet like a sailor on watch,
Seeing to the safety of every space.
His battle-lantern can be seen aloft
From California to those lonely isles
Where pirates’ bones lie mouldering on the beach,
And then to far Nippon and old Cathay
To watch obscure philosophers brush verse.
A course steered west above the Hindu Kush
He notes that India is still in place.
The solar voyage continues at best speed
Above the desolate plain where now-ruined Troy
Once stood defiantly against the Greeks
For the allure of glory transient.
A meander above the Meander
Soon leads to noble, marbled Italy
Where art and wine and Latium’s dark-eyed arts
Beguile the world with visions of the eternal.
The Mediterranean beneath his keel,
Sol courses the Pillars of Hercules
And singing, soars above the Atlantic
The cold, austere Atlantic, deep blue tomb
Of shadowy civilizations ancient
Before Atlantis was born, when the Nile
Flowed as a shaded brook ‘neath forests green
The sun soars west, to where he’s happiest,
And that is wherever you happen to be;
And when at dawn he sails back home again,
He brings you a present - light from a star.
mhall46184@aol.com
The Cruise of the Sun
To say goodbye to good old Sol as he
Slips west beyond the trees and sails away
Is not an errant childhood sentiment,
For his appointed tasks are dutiful
Pacing the planet like a sailor on watch,
Seeing to the safety of every space.
His battle-lantern can be seen aloft
From California to those lonely isles
Where pirates’ bones lie mouldering on the beach,
And then to far Nippon and old Cathay
To watch obscure philosophers brush verse.
A course steered west above the Hindu Kush
He notes that India is still in place.
The solar voyage continues at best speed
Above the desolate plain where now-ruined Troy
Once stood defiantly against the Greeks
For the allure of glory transient.
A meander above the Meander
Soon leads to noble, marbled Italy
Where art and wine and Latium’s dark-eyed arts
Beguile the world with visions of the eternal.
The Mediterranean beneath his keel,
Sol courses the Pillars of Hercules
And singing, soars above the Atlantic
The cold, austere Atlantic, deep blue tomb
Of shadowy civilizations ancient
Before Atlantis was born, when the Nile
Flowed as a shaded brook ‘neath forests green
The sun soars west, to where he’s happiest,
And that is wherever you happen to be;
And when at dawn he sails back home again,
He brings you a present - light from a star.
Sunday, November 26, 2017
Heaves of Gas - a lapse into free verse
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
I sing the bodiless electronic
Manly working man blank verse flannel shirt
All gone now
Pajamas and video games
Cupcake competitions instead of schoolyard tug-o’-war
A gap-toothed grilled-cheese sandwich singing under the sea
Bi-polar bears alt.yawn Revolutionary Proletarian Art with Selfie Sticks
Banana Daiquiri Republic
Must be nice to be a thinker all great
Adored by all, and subsidized by the state
Made in Nicaragua by free-range artisans, I think
Re-Presentation
Rhinestone tattoo flipflopped knee-pantsies and a cartoon tee
Die, Webinar, Die
Up the Revolution you can’t make me clean my room
Machine against the rage on the cosmic app
Renewable green sanctions
Double-double boil and bubble a froth’ed mocha decaf with a tinkling of
Cinnamon
We are the drones we have been waiting for
mhall46184@aol.com
Heaves of Gas
I sing the bodiless electronic
Manly working man blank verse flannel shirt
All gone now
Pajamas and video games
Cupcake competitions instead of schoolyard tug-o’-war
A gap-toothed grilled-cheese sandwich singing under the sea
Bi-polar bears alt.yawn Revolutionary Proletarian Art with Selfie Sticks
Banana Daiquiri Republic
Must be nice to be a thinker all great
Adored by all, and subsidized by the state
Made in Nicaragua by free-range artisans, I think
Re-Presentation
Rhinestone tattoo flipflopped knee-pantsies and a cartoon tee
Die, Webinar, Die
Up the Revolution you can’t make me clean my room
Machine against the rage on the cosmic app
Renewable green sanctions
Double-double boil and bubble a froth’ed mocha decaf with a tinkling of
Cinnamon
We are the drones we have been waiting for
Saturday, November 25, 2017
High Noon at the Bird Feeder - a Dachshund and a Squirrel - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
A little dog, a streak of dachshund red,
Across the grass speeds to a squirrel’s doom
She wants its blood, she wants its flesh, she wants it dead;
Ripped, shredded, and torn; it will need no tomb.
The fat old squirrel, a fluff of forest grey,
Is unimpressed by doggie dementia;
To Liesl’s grief he leaps and climbs away -
Never underestimate the Order Rodentia!
Liesl’s squirrel clings to a low-hanging limb
And rattles abuse at the angry pup
Who spins and barks and spins and barks at him
Laughing among the leaves, and climbing higher up.
So Liesl snorts and sneers, and marks the ground;
She accepts not defeat, nor lingers in sorrow;
For Liesl and squirrel it’s their daily round;
They’ll go it again, same time tomorrow.
mhall46184@aol.com
High Noon at the Bird Feeder
A little dog, a streak of dachshund red,
Across the grass speeds to a squirrel’s doom
She wants its blood, she wants its flesh, she wants it dead;
Ripped, shredded, and torn; it will need no tomb.
The fat old squirrel, a fluff of forest grey,
Is unimpressed by doggie dementia;
To Liesl’s grief he leaps and climbs away -
Never underestimate the Order Rodentia!
Liesl’s squirrel clings to a low-hanging limb
And rattles abuse at the angry pup
Who spins and barks and spins and barks at him
Laughing among the leaves, and climbing higher up.
So Liesl snorts and sneers, and marks the ground;
She accepts not defeat, nor lingers in sorrow;
For Liesl and squirrel it’s their daily round;
They’ll go it again, same time tomorrow.
Friday, November 24, 2017
Borodin: On the Steppes of Central Asia - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Borodin: On the Steppes of Central Asia
Lost in a remote province of the mind
A youth attends to the cheap gramophone
Again: On the Steppes of Central Asia,
A recording by a mill town orchestra
Of no repute. But it is magic still:
While washing his face and dressing for work
In a clean, pressed uniform of defeat,
For ten glorious minutes he is not
A function, a shop-soiled proletarian
Of no repute. Beyond the landlord’s window,
Beyond the power lines and the pot-holed street,
He searches dawn’s horizons with wary eyes
For wild and wily Tartars, horsemen out
To blood the caravans for glory and gold.
A youth greets the day as he truly is:
A cavalryman, a soldier of the Czar,
Whose uniform is glorious with victory.
mhall46184@aol.com
Borodin: On the Steppes of Central Asia
Lost in a remote province of the mind
A youth attends to the cheap gramophone
Again: On the Steppes of Central Asia,
A recording by a mill town orchestra
Of no repute. But it is magic still:
While washing his face and dressing for work
In a clean, pressed uniform of defeat,
For ten glorious minutes he is not
A function, a shop-soiled proletarian
Of no repute. Beyond the landlord’s window,
Beyond the power lines and the pot-holed street,
He searches dawn’s horizons with wary eyes
For wild and wily Tartars, horsemen out
To blood the caravans for glory and gold.
A youth greets the day as he truly is:
A cavalryman, a soldier of the Czar,
Whose uniform is glorious with victory.
Thursday, November 23, 2017
Happy Merry Hallothanksmas - column
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Halloween, an occasion of insanity for which no honest pagan would ever take credit, is long over, and we are now in a season not quite as bizarre.
Having suffered weeks of debates about who offered the first thanksgiving, and where, our attention is now turned (whether or not we wish it to be turned) to the next debate, The True Meaning of Christmas.
The four weeks prior to Christmas are the Christian season of Advent. Christmas properly begins on midnight on the 24th of December and ends with the Feast of Epiphany on the 6th of January.
But perhaps we should mention Advent, Christmas, and Epiphany only in the past tense.
These Christian seasons, along with All Saints and All Souls, have long been culturally censored by the Macy’s-Amazon Continuum, and organically recycled into one long distraction, Hallothanksmas. Some call it The Christmas Season, but this is the one thing it categorically is not. Hallothanksmas begins around the first of September and concludes with the beginning of Mardi Gras on December 26.
This cobbled-together season is honored in television shows about the Proletariat camping on the concrete outside Mega-Much-Big-Box stores the size of the Colosseum in Rome. At the appointed hour the electric bells ring out and an official opens the Gates of Consumer Heaven so that The People can crash against them and each other in a blood-sacrifice combining elements of the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona and a jolly good riot between the Greens and the Blues in Constantinople.
The modern Proletariat compete not for a crown of laurel or of gold, which moths and rust consumeth, but for the everlasting honor and street cred of purchasing a made-in-China television set (in the vernacular, a “flatscreen”) much like the ones they already have, no matter how many of their fellow worshippers must be wounded and killed for it.
The old Christian seasons were predicated on the salvation story, gratitude, and good, healthy merriment; Hallothanksmas is ornamented with casualty lists.
Although Hallothanksmas is mostly about consumption, theft, and violence, it is also marked with ritual meals for the survivors during which the liturgy of the word is to share gory narratives about past and anticipated surgeries and illnesses. Turkey and dressing are just not complete without a look at everyone’s laparotomy, appendectomy, and open-heart-surgery scars and detailed accounts of the children’s latest bowel movements.
But soon all this must end with the beginning of Mardi Gras and its joyful excesses and proud public exhibitions of projectile emesis.
And let The People say “Woo! Woo!” as they bow their heads reverently before their MePhones.
mhall46184@aol.com
Happy Merry Hallothanksmas
Halloween, an occasion of insanity for which no honest pagan would ever take credit, is long over, and we are now in a season not quite as bizarre.
Having suffered weeks of debates about who offered the first thanksgiving, and where, our attention is now turned (whether or not we wish it to be turned) to the next debate, The True Meaning of Christmas.
The four weeks prior to Christmas are the Christian season of Advent. Christmas properly begins on midnight on the 24th of December and ends with the Feast of Epiphany on the 6th of January.
But perhaps we should mention Advent, Christmas, and Epiphany only in the past tense.
These Christian seasons, along with All Saints and All Souls, have long been culturally censored by the Macy’s-Amazon Continuum, and organically recycled into one long distraction, Hallothanksmas. Some call it The Christmas Season, but this is the one thing it categorically is not. Hallothanksmas begins around the first of September and concludes with the beginning of Mardi Gras on December 26.
This cobbled-together season is honored in television shows about the Proletariat camping on the concrete outside Mega-Much-Big-Box stores the size of the Colosseum in Rome. At the appointed hour the electric bells ring out and an official opens the Gates of Consumer Heaven so that The People can crash against them and each other in a blood-sacrifice combining elements of the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona and a jolly good riot between the Greens and the Blues in Constantinople.
The modern Proletariat compete not for a crown of laurel or of gold, which moths and rust consumeth, but for the everlasting honor and street cred of purchasing a made-in-China television set (in the vernacular, a “flatscreen”) much like the ones they already have, no matter how many of their fellow worshippers must be wounded and killed for it.
The old Christian seasons were predicated on the salvation story, gratitude, and good, healthy merriment; Hallothanksmas is ornamented with casualty lists.
Although Hallothanksmas is mostly about consumption, theft, and violence, it is also marked with ritual meals for the survivors during which the liturgy of the word is to share gory narratives about past and anticipated surgeries and illnesses. Turkey and dressing are just not complete without a look at everyone’s laparotomy, appendectomy, and open-heart-surgery scars and detailed accounts of the children’s latest bowel movements.
But soon all this must end with the beginning of Mardi Gras and its joyful excesses and proud public exhibitions of projectile emesis.
And let The People say “Woo! Woo!” as they bow their heads reverently before their MePhones.
-30-
Black Friday - Human Lives at Deep Discounts - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
When the last American has exhausted
The last extension on the last credit card
The last order is dropped by the last drone:
The last electronic talking flashlight
The last Your Team’s Name Goes Here baseball cap
With the patented adjust-o-matic
Sizing strap that will be the envy of
All the ‘way cool guys in the neighborhood -
Will then the drones be ordered far away
To search for credit on other planets?
mhall46184@aol.com
Black Friday: Because Humanity was Created
for the Buy-One-Get-Two Sale
When the last American has exhausted
The last extension on the last credit card
The last order is dropped by the last drone:
The last electronic talking flashlight
The last Your Team’s Name Goes Here baseball cap
With the patented adjust-o-matic
Sizing strap that will be the envy of
All the ‘way cool guys in the neighborhood -
Will then the drones be ordered far away
To search for credit on other planets?
Wednesday, November 22, 2017
A Sentimental and Heartfelt Thanksgiving Poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Relatives are why
There are dead-bolts fitted to
All the inside doors
mhall46184@aol.com
Thanksgiving – It’s All About Family
Relatives are why
There are dead-bolts fitted to
All the inside doors
Tuesday, November 21, 2017
Gone to Glory Wearing a Beer Advert - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Found by a walker wandering through the woods:
Fragments of flesh, and bitten bits of bones
An ankle joint still jammed into a shoe
Sporting a checkmark, a fashionable sneak
And his tee-shirt, boasting a famous beer,
Unread in those months among the leaf-mold
As lonely winds and seasons passed over him
And the name brands abandoned to the mists
He’s gone to glory wearing a beer advert
And no one knows what any of that means
mhall46184@aol.com
Gone to Glory Wearing a Beer Advert
Found by a walker wandering through the woods:
Fragments of flesh, and bitten bits of bones
An ankle joint still jammed into a shoe
Sporting a checkmark, a fashionable sneak
And his tee-shirt, boasting a famous beer,
Unread in those months among the leaf-mold
As lonely winds and seasons passed over him
And the name brands abandoned to the mists
He’s gone to glory wearing a beer advert
And no one knows what any of that means
Monday, November 20, 2017
A Processional with MePhones - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
In greeting students on their way to class
One speaks only to the tops of their heads
As they process in ‘tudes of ‘umble prayer
In silence each bowing to her small god
(Or “his” as the gendered pronoun might be)
Speaking to no one, detached from the world
Navigating as does the sightless bat
By strange sensations known only to them
One ‘phone, one soul – that is the ratio
And each dull brain stilled ever in statio
mhall46184@aol.com
A Processional with MePhones
From an idea suggested by Anthony Germain,
The Duke of Suffix after the Order of Scrabble©™
In greeting students on their way to class
One speaks only to the tops of their heads
As they process in ‘tudes of ‘umble prayer
In silence each bowing to her small god
(Or “his” as the gendered pronoun might be)
Speaking to no one, detached from the world
Navigating as does the sightless bat
By strange sensations known only to them
One ‘phone, one soul – that is the ratio
And each dull brain stilled ever in statio
Sunday, November 19, 2017
"We Use Cookies to Track Usage and Preferences" - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
We print free verse about revolution
And deconstructing colonialism
The power and urgency of the story
Post-masculine dystopia redeemed
Visit our online submission system
Against the occupation resistance
As activist performance artisans
Who shape our unconventions for ourselves
Fists of ink against oppressionism
And that is why we track your usage
mhall46184@aol.com
“We Use Cookies to Track Usage and Preferences”
About Clever Us, the Magazine of Poetry and Thinky-ness
We print free verse about revolution
And deconstructing colonialism
The power and urgency of the story
Post-masculine dystopia redeemed
Visit our online submission system
Against the occupation resistance
As activist performance artisans
Who shape our unconventions for ourselves
Fists of ink against oppressionism
And that is why we track your usage
Saturday, November 18, 2017
In a Wheelchair - His Body Mostly Broken
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
In a wheelchair – his body mostly broken:
“I wish I could go fishing. I was a welder.
How long’s that doctor going to be? I’m tired.
I just don’t know how I can pay for this.
“I was doing okay ‘til I fell and broke my back.
Thirty-seven surgeries, would you believe it?
And my arm too. This catheter’s infected.
The last doctor just wouldn’t take it out.
“My Workman’s Comp’s all gone. I just don’t know.”
In a wheelchair – his body mostly broken
Culled from a waiting-room conversation (mostly a monologue)
mhall46184@aol.com
The Finest Health Care System in the World
In a wheelchair – his body mostly broken:
“I wish I could go fishing. I was a welder.
How long’s that doctor going to be? I’m tired.
I just don’t know how I can pay for this.
“I was doing okay ‘til I fell and broke my back.
Thirty-seven surgeries, would you believe it?
And my arm too. This catheter’s infected.
The last doctor just wouldn’t take it out.
“My Workman’s Comp’s all gone. I just don’t know.”
In a wheelchair – his body mostly broken
Culled from a waiting-room conversation (mostly a monologue)
Friday, November 17, 2017
A Ritual is Never Hollow - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
A ritual is never hollow; sweet words,
Happy ancient words from the dawn of time,
Sung through the air, refreshing as a waterfall
Discovered at dusk on a marching day:
A ploughman bidding his beads to Jerusalem
A child who’d rather not sit still during Mass
A holy sister hymning along the Rhine
A wise man seeking still that elusive Star
Heal chaos through their living in the Hours -
Oh, no – a ritual is never hollow
mhall46184@aol.com
A Ritual is Never Hollow
A ritual is never hollow; sweet words,
Happy ancient words from the dawn of time,
Sung through the air, refreshing as a waterfall
Discovered at dusk on a marching day:
A ploughman bidding his beads to Jerusalem
A child who’d rather not sit still during Mass
A holy sister hymning along the Rhine
A wise man seeking still that elusive Star
Heal chaos through their living in the Hours -
Oh, no – a ritual is never hollow
Thursday, November 16, 2017
The Super-Golly-Gee-Whiz Dog Food as Advertised on the Radio - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
The Super-Golly-Gee-Whiz Dog Food as Advertised on the Radio
O Alpha and Omega 3 Fish Oil
Now leach into Pup’s liver with great lust
Bring Old Blue’s lycopene to a steamy boil
Resurrect my beagle, O, yes, you must!
O fatty magnesiumed manganese
Seep into Fluffy’s geriatric joints
Pureed from a genuine Portuguese
(Lusitanian flesh never disappoints)
Heart arrhythmia, rashes, and lumbag-eeh-oh -
Trust your pet’s health to an ad on the radio!
mhall46184@aol.com
The Super-Golly-Gee-Whiz Dog Food as Advertised on the Radio
O Alpha and Omega 3 Fish Oil
Now leach into Pup’s liver with great lust
Bring Old Blue’s lycopene to a steamy boil
Resurrect my beagle, O, yes, you must!
O fatty magnesiumed manganese
Seep into Fluffy’s geriatric joints
Pureed from a genuine Portuguese
(Lusitanian flesh never disappoints)
Heart arrhythmia, rashes, and lumbag-eeh-oh -
Trust your pet’s health to an ad on the radio!
Wednesday, November 15, 2017
A Rosary from Jasna Gora - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
A little string of wooden gift shop beads
Each bead a hymn along the pilgrimage
From Nazareth to Bethlehem to - to us
Praying again the Angel’s greeting-song
A hymn of the universe sung and told,
And written 1 by Saint Luke upon a board
From the Table where all have come to share
Both feast and Feast, until the world shall end
O Lady of the Mountain Bright, please bless
Us through these humble wooden gift shop beads
1 In Orthodoxy an ikon is said to be written
mhall46184@aol.com
A Rosary from Jasna Gora
For, as always, Our Lady of Czestochowa
and for Kirk Briggs
A little string of wooden gift shop beads
Each bead a hymn along the pilgrimage
From Nazareth to Bethlehem to - to us
Praying again the Angel’s greeting-song
A hymn of the universe sung and told,
And written 1 by Saint Luke upon a board
From the Table where all have come to share
Both feast and Feast, until the world shall end
O Lady of the Mountain Bright, please bless
Us through these humble wooden gift shop beads
1 In Orthodoxy an ikon is said to be written
Tuesday, November 14, 2017
Moonlight Saving Time - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Oh, let the moonlight
Fall upon the leaves, and through
The leaves, upon…you
mhall46184@aol.com
Moonlight Saving Time
Oh, let the moonlight
Fall upon the leaves, and through
The leaves, upon…you
Monday, November 13, 2017
After The Soviet Revolution - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
You see them, sometimes, lurking in the shadows
Slipping away furtively, trying not to be seen
They’d rather clutch a volume of Dostoyevsky
Than try to act like good, plain, honest folks
They always thought they were something special
Always thinking about stuff, reading books
Not chanting the day’s slogans when they’re told
Not joining in, still thinking the old thoughts
We don’t need them. Our Leader will provide
You see us, sometimes, dying for ration cards
mhall46184@aol.com
More Former People
You see them, sometimes, lurking in the shadows
Slipping away furtively, trying not to be seen
They’d rather clutch a volume of Dostoyevsky
Than try to act like good, plain, honest folks
They always thought they were something special
Always thinking about stuff, reading books
Not chanting the day’s slogans when they’re told
Not joining in, still thinking the old thoughts
We don’t need them. Our Leader will provide
You see us, sometimes, dying for ration cards
Sunday, November 12, 2017
A Visitor from Canada - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Across the border she discreetly slipped
Not bothering the ICE with paperwork
They’ve got enough to do in their little booths:
“And is this visit for business or for pleasure?”
So here she is, on a bright five-pence piece
All elegant in profile, crowned and just,
Mistaken for a democratic dime
In a handful of republican change
What really is the reason for her visit?
To ‘mind us of our own nobility
mhall46184@aol.com
A Visitor from Canada
Across the border she discreetly slipped
Not bothering the ICE with paperwork
They’ve got enough to do in their little booths:
“And is this visit for business or for pleasure?”
So here she is, on a bright five-pence piece
All elegant in profile, crowned and just,
Mistaken for a democratic dime
In a handful of republican change
What really is the reason for her visit?
To ‘mind us of our own nobility
Saturday, November 11, 2017
Remembrance Day / Veterans' Day, 2017 - The Library of Alexandria in Our Seabags
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
The barracks was our university
So too the march, the camp, the line for chow
McKuen shared our ham and lima beans
John Steinbeck helped with cleaning guns and gear
(You’re not supposed to call your rifle a gun)
The Muses Nine were usually given a miss
But not Max Brand or Herman Wouk
Cowboys and hobbits and hippie poets
And a suspicious Russian or two
Tattered paperbacks jammed into our pockets:
All the world was our university
mhall46184@aol.com
The Library of Alexandria in Our Seabags
…in the army…(e)very few days one seemed to meet a scholar, an original,
a poet, a cheery buffoon, a raconteur, or at the very least a man of good will”
-C. S. Lewis, Surprised by Joy
The barracks was our university
So too the march, the camp, the line for chow
McKuen shared our ham and lima beans
John Steinbeck helped with cleaning guns and gear
(You’re not supposed to call your rifle a gun)
The Muses Nine were usually given a miss
But not Max Brand or Herman Wouk
Cowboys and hobbits and hippie poets
And a suspicious Russian or two
Tattered paperbacks jammed into our pockets:
All the world was our university
Friday, November 10, 2017
Remembrance Day / Veterans' Day - 8, If Wars were Subject to Copyright
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
If wars were subject to a copyright -
Then candidates would have to pay a fee
Each time they appeal to the glorious past
When standing for the election, the proceeds
To fall like bloody manna on the dead
Who can never cash the checks anyway
If wars were subject to a copyright -
Then Hollywood movies should pay their dues
Whenever a bold-scripted commando,
Body-waxed muscles glistening with makeup,
Advances up Hamburger-Helper Hill
With a patriotic song on his lipstick
If wars were subject to a copyright –
The generals’ memoirs, the admirals’, too,
Would pay to lighten the blighted young lives
Of soul-fragmented lads whose pain and blood
Gave the air-conditioned another star
And unctuous applause at the officers’ club
If wars were subject to a copyright -
The President would have to pay his bill
Each time he banged the lectern for a war,
The glorious dux bellorum dux-ing
From the rear, while a squadron of pigs fly
Above, powered by pixie-dust and dreams
mhall46184@aol.com
If Wars were Subject to Copyright
If wars were subject to a copyright -
Then candidates would have to pay a fee
Each time they appeal to the glorious past
When standing for the election, the proceeds
To fall like bloody manna on the dead
Who can never cash the checks anyway
If wars were subject to a copyright -
Then Hollywood movies should pay their dues
Whenever a bold-scripted commando,
Body-waxed muscles glistening with makeup,
Advances up Hamburger-Helper Hill
With a patriotic song on his lipstick
If wars were subject to a copyright –
The generals’ memoirs, the admirals’, too,
Would pay to lighten the blighted young lives
Of soul-fragmented lads whose pain and blood
Gave the air-conditioned another star
And unctuous applause at the officers’ club
If wars were subject to a copyright -
The President would have to pay his bill
Each time he banged the lectern for a war,
The glorious dux bellorum dux-ing
From the rear, while a squadron of pigs fly
Above, powered by pixie-dust and dreams
Thursday, November 9, 2017
Remembrance Day / Veterans' Day - 7, Something About Life
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
The plane lifted, and the cheering was wild
And at that happy moment the pilot said
“We are now clear of Vietnamese
Territorial waters.” There was joy,
Even wilder cheering for most, and quiet
Joy for a few. For one, Karamazov
To hand, peace, and infinite gratitude.
“I’m alive,” he said to himself and to God,
“Alive. I will live, after all.” To read, to write,
Simply to live. Not for revolution,
Whose smoke poisons the air, not for the war,
Not to withdraw into that crippling self-pity
Which is the most evil lotus of all,
But to live. To read, to write.
But death comes,
Then up the Vam Co Tay, or now in bed,
Or bleeding in a frozen February ditch;
Death comes, scorning our frail, feeble, failing flesh,
But silent then at the edge of the grave,
For all graves will be empty, not in the end,
But in the very beginning of all.
mhall46184@aol.com
Remembrance Day / Veterans' Day - 7
Something About Life
Strelnikov: “What will you do in Varykino?”
Yuri: “Live. Just live.”
-Doctor Zhivago
The plane lifted, and the cheering was wild
And at that happy moment the pilot said
“We are now clear of Vietnamese
Territorial waters.” There was joy,
Even wilder cheering for most, and quiet
Joy for a few. For one, Karamazov
To hand, peace, and infinite gratitude.
“I’m alive,” he said to himself and to God,
“Alive. I will live, after all.” To read, to write,
Simply to live. Not for revolution,
Whose smoke poisons the air, not for the war,
Not to withdraw into that crippling self-pity
Which is the most evil lotus of all,
But to live. To read, to write.
But death comes,
Then up the Vam Co Tay, or now in bed,
Or bleeding in a frozen February ditch;
Death comes, scorning our frail, feeble, failing flesh,
But silent then at the edge of the grave,
For all graves will be empty, not in the end,
But in the very beginning of all.
Wednesday, November 8, 2017
Remembrance Day / Veterans' Day - 6, Ever England
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
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
mhall46184@aol.com
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
Tuesday, November 7, 2017
Remembrance Day / Veteran's Day - 5, For the War Correspondents Who Get it Right
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
The wisdom of the desert is dispersed
Among the industrial monuments
To mechanized murder, wireless chaos,
And war-porn for touch-screen degenerates
On this Ash Wednesday night while smoky flares
Obscure, with false, flickering fumes, the stars
God sent to dance above those ancient lands,
You choke and weep among the ashes of
More victims of pale Herod’s shopping trips.
So of your kindness grant that we, your friends,
May wear your ashes for you on this night,
For you, a truth-teller among the liars,
And for the weary innocents who flee
The ashes of their burnt and blasted world
mhall46184@aol.com
Ash Wednesday in Libya
For Anthony Germain of the CBC
The wisdom of the desert is dispersed
Among the industrial monuments
To mechanized murder, wireless chaos,
And war-porn for touch-screen degenerates
On this Ash Wednesday night while smoky flares
Obscure, with false, flickering fumes, the stars
God sent to dance above those ancient lands,
You choke and weep among the ashes of
More victims of pale Herod’s shopping trips.
So of your kindness grant that we, your friends,
May wear your ashes for you on this night,
For you, a truth-teller among the liars,
And for the weary innocents who flee
The ashes of their burnt and blasted world
Monday, November 6, 2017
Remembrance Day / Veterans' Day - 4, Beaumont-Hamel, 1916
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
And, O! Wasn’t he just the Jack the Lad,
A’swellin’ down the Water Street as if –
As if he owned the very paving stones!
He was my beautiful boy, and, sure,
The girls they thought so too: his eyes, his walk;
A man of Newfoundland, my small big man,
Just seventeen, but strong and bold and sure.
Where is he now? Can you tell me? Can you?
Don’t tell me he was England’s finest, no –
He was my finest, him and his Da,
His Da, who breathed in sorrow, and was lost,
They say, lost in the fog, among the ice.
But no, he too was killed on the first of July
Only it took him months to cast away,
And drift away, far away, in the mist.
Where is he now? Can you tell me? Can you?
I need no kings nor no Kaisers, no,
Nor no statues with fine words writ on’em,
Nor no flags nor no Last Post today:
I only want to see my men come home,
Come laughing home at twilight, boots all mucky,
An’ me fussin’ at ‘em for being’ late,
Come laughing home at twilight...
mhall46184@aol.com
Come Laughing Home at Twilight
Beaumont-Hamel, 1916
And, O! Wasn’t he just the Jack the Lad,
A’swellin’ down the Water Street as if –
As if he owned the very paving stones!
He was my beautiful boy, and, sure,
The girls they thought so too: his eyes, his walk;
A man of Newfoundland, my small big man,
Just seventeen, but strong and bold and sure.
Where is he now? Can you tell me? Can you?
Don’t tell me he was England’s finest, no –
He was my finest, him and his Da,
His Da, who breathed in sorrow, and was lost,
They say, lost in the fog, among the ice.
But no, he too was killed on the first of July
Only it took him months to cast away,
And drift away, far away, in the mist.
Where is he now? Can you tell me? Can you?
I need no kings nor no Kaisers, no,
Nor no statues with fine words writ on’em,
Nor no flags nor no Last Post today:
I only want to see my men come home,
Come laughing home at twilight, boots all mucky,
An’ me fussin’ at ‘em for being’ late,
Come laughing home at twilight...
Sunday, November 5, 2017
Remembrance Day / Veterans' Day - 3, Bad Morning,Viet-Nam - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
No music calls a teenager to war;
There is no American Bandstand of death,
No bugles sound a glorious John Wayne charge
For corpses floating down the Vam Co Tay
No rockin’ sounds for all the bodies bagged
No “Gerry Owen” to accompany
Obscene screams in the hot, rain-rotting night.
Bullets do not whiz. Mortars do not crump.
There is no rattle of musketry.
The racket and the horror are concussive.
Men – boys, really – do not choose to die,
“Willingly sacrifice their lives,” that lie;
They just writhe in blood, on a gunboat deck
Painted to Navy specifications.
(Note re news from Texas and California: How bitterly ironic that attending religious services in the USA is now as dangerous as combat.)
mhall46184@aol.com
Remembrance Day / Veterans' Day 3
Bad Morning, Viet-Nam
No music calls a teenager to war;
There is no American Bandstand of death,
No bugles sound a glorious John Wayne charge
For corpses floating down the Vam Co Tay
No rockin’ sounds for all the bodies bagged
No “Gerry Owen” to accompany
Obscene screams in the hot, rain-rotting night.
Bullets do not whiz. Mortars do not crump.
There is no rattle of musketry.
The racket and the horror are concussive.
Men – boys, really – do not choose to die,
“Willingly sacrifice their lives,” that lie;
They just writhe in blood, on a gunboat deck
Painted to Navy specifications.
(Note re news from Texas and California: How bitterly ironic that attending religious services in the USA is now as dangerous as combat.)
Saturday, November 4, 2017
Remembrance Day / Veterans' Day 2 - Would You Like a Downgrade? - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
I.
“Everything I own I’m carrying on my back,”
A shipmate said wonderingly that last day
In the recruit barracks. And it was so:
Two sets of dungarees, one pair of shoes,
Two sets of Undress Blue and then one set
Of Dress Blue B, one pair of sneaks, one pair
Of this, more sets of that, a ditty bag
Of Personal Hygiene Articles,
Officially and carefully approved,
All in a new seabag.
It was enough.
How much does a man need in order to die?
II.
And now we carry mortgages, jobs, books,
Televisions, cars, hunting rifles, clocks,
Lawnmowers, bills, Sunday suits,
Monday shoes,
Plastic boxes that light up and make noise,
Fences that need repair, cats to the vet,
Air conditioners, chainsaws, queen-sized beds,
Closets that need sorting out, chests of drawers
Of things we never needed anyway,
Cameras, clawhammers, pens, reading lamps,
Scissors, and writing paper.
It is too much.
How much does a man need in order to live?
mhall46184@aol.com
Remembrance Day / Veterans' Day 2
Would You Like a Downgrade?
Would You Like a Downgrade?
I.
“Everything I own I’m carrying on my back,”
A shipmate said wonderingly that last day
In the recruit barracks. And it was so:
Two sets of dungarees, one pair of shoes,
Two sets of Undress Blue and then one set
Of Dress Blue B, one pair of sneaks, one pair
Of this, more sets of that, a ditty bag
Of Personal Hygiene Articles,
Officially and carefully approved,
All in a new seabag.
It was enough.
How much does a man need in order to die?
II.
And now we carry mortgages, jobs, books,
Televisions, cars, hunting rifles, clocks,
Lawnmowers, bills, Sunday suits,
Monday shoes,
Plastic boxes that light up and make noise,
Fences that need repair, cats to the vet,
Air conditioners, chainsaws, queen-sized beds,
Closets that need sorting out, chests of drawers
Of things we never needed anyway,
Cameras, clawhammers, pens, reading lamps,
Scissors, and writing paper.
It is too much.
How much does a man need in order to live?
Friday, November 3, 2017
Remembrance Day / Veterans' Day - 1
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
In youth
Awakened by another sailor, one stands
A sleepy watch, leggings and dungarees,
A Springfield rifle at right-shoulder arms,
A-yawn, awash in midnight fog to guard
A clothesline of national importance
In age
Brought now to sudden weary wakefulness
By those eternal mysteries we muse,
Bereft by noisy day’s false comforts, we
Begin the nocturnal lessons of truth
Because some nights we must stand watch again.
mhall46184@aol.com
Remembrance Day / Veterans' Day - 1
Midwatch and Matins - Recruit Training, San Diego
In youth
Awakened by another sailor, one stands
A sleepy watch, leggings and dungarees,
A Springfield rifle at right-shoulder arms,
A-yawn, awash in midnight fog to guard
A clothesline of national importance
In age
Brought now to sudden weary wakefulness
By those eternal mysteries we muse,
Bereft by noisy day’s false comforts, we
Begin the nocturnal lessons of truth
Because some nights we must stand watch again.
Thursday, November 2, 2017
The Russians are Burying Secret Spy Underwear all over America - column (a weak one, I'm afraid)
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
England’s Telegraph (http://www.telegraph.co.uk/science/2017/11/02/farmers-urged-bury-underpants-improve-quality-beef/) advises us that if you want to know how good your soil is for farming and ranching, bury your undies.
Presumably the farmer owns a spare pair.
Okay, this all sounds wholly Texas A & M-ish, but in England and Scotland farmers bury their cotton unmentionables about the place and then dig them up two months later. If the garment is bio-degraded then the soil is full of bacteria and worms and bugs and sophomores, and so healthy for crops.
If the short-shorts are intact, that bit of land is not the best place for disposing of the body.
The object for soil-testing must be cotton, and none of yer laboratory Frankenstein materials.
This agricultural news comes to you from England, Scotland, and California. The California variant is that they bury a World Series pennant and dig it up after a year.
+ + +
Canada has a new Governor General, and when you observe her mannerisms and hear her speech (http://www.macleans.ca/opinion/julie-payette-takes-on-junk-science-and-tests-the-limits-of-her-job-title/?utm_source=nl&utm_medium=em&utm_campaign=mme_daily), you will be grateful that governors general no longer enjoy any real power.
The new Governor General and our President will probably be twooter Space Invaders combatants pretty soon: “Stand by photon torpedoes, Mr. Scott!”
By the way, the new GG is an astronaut. For real. She has some super accomplishments on her resume’, but this loopy, chiding, Ms. Grundy-ish first speech is awkward.
+ + +
This week I have concluded that “fake news” means any information that makes me unhappy, “Fascist” is anyone who disagrees with me, “Communist” is anyone who disagrees with me more, anything that is wrong in this nation is the fault of the Russians and / or the Ukrainians, and that for our executive and legislative branches of government name-calling and twooting abuse at each other on the InterGossip like 12-year-olds is what passes for civic discourse.
Given this crisis of confidence in the Republic, I, like any good American, have this 501C question to ask of the world: where do I sign up to be bribed by the Russians and / or Ukrainians?
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Russians are Burying Secret Spy Underwear all over America
England’s Telegraph (http://www.telegraph.co.uk/science/2017/11/02/farmers-urged-bury-underpants-improve-quality-beef/) advises us that if you want to know how good your soil is for farming and ranching, bury your undies.
Presumably the farmer owns a spare pair.
Okay, this all sounds wholly Texas A & M-ish, but in England and Scotland farmers bury their cotton unmentionables about the place and then dig them up two months later. If the garment is bio-degraded then the soil is full of bacteria and worms and bugs and sophomores, and so healthy for crops.
If the short-shorts are intact, that bit of land is not the best place for disposing of the body.
The object for soil-testing must be cotton, and none of yer laboratory Frankenstein materials.
This agricultural news comes to you from England, Scotland, and California. The California variant is that they bury a World Series pennant and dig it up after a year.
+ + +
Canada has a new Governor General, and when you observe her mannerisms and hear her speech (http://www.macleans.ca/opinion/julie-payette-takes-on-junk-science-and-tests-the-limits-of-her-job-title/?utm_source=nl&utm_medium=em&utm_campaign=mme_daily), you will be grateful that governors general no longer enjoy any real power.
The new Governor General and our President will probably be twooter Space Invaders combatants pretty soon: “Stand by photon torpedoes, Mr. Scott!”
By the way, the new GG is an astronaut. For real. She has some super accomplishments on her resume’, but this loopy, chiding, Ms. Grundy-ish first speech is awkward.
+ + +
This week I have concluded that “fake news” means any information that makes me unhappy, “Fascist” is anyone who disagrees with me, “Communist” is anyone who disagrees with me more, anything that is wrong in this nation is the fault of the Russians and / or the Ukrainians, and that for our executive and legislative branches of government name-calling and twooting abuse at each other on the InterGossip like 12-year-olds is what passes for civic discourse.
Given this crisis of confidence in the Republic, I, like any good American, have this 501C question to ask of the world: where do I sign up to be bribed by the Russians and / or Ukrainians?
-30-
A Bourgeois Committee Admiring Itself - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
The way of republics is to fall apart
Because without history, Altar, and Throne
A government is but a little boy’s blocks
Kicked over and aside upon a mood
A culture is poetry, and melodies that live
And flow with the waters, stories of kings,
Farmers and workers proud upon the land
Their heads bowed nobly when the Angelus rings
These truths make a people royal, not subject to
A bourgeois committee admiring itself
mhall46184@aol.com
A Bourgeois Committee Admiring Itself
A Cautionary Tale for Secessionists
The way of republics is to fall apart
Because without history, Altar, and Throne
A government is but a little boy’s blocks
Kicked over and aside upon a mood
A culture is poetry, and melodies that live
And flow with the waters, stories of kings,
Farmers and workers proud upon the land
Their heads bowed nobly when the Angelus rings
These truths make a people royal, not subject to
A bourgeois committee admiring itself
Wednesday, November 1, 2017
"It Could Have Been Worse" / New York City, 31 October 2017 - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Our thoughts and prayers are with the families
copycat we are Something Strong we are
not afraid plow into mowed down it could
have been worse the new normal lone wolf we
will not change the way we live our thoughts
and prayers are with the families copycat
we are Something Strong we are not afraid
plow into mowed down: “it could have been worse…”
Oh, newsman, how could it could have been worse
For the eight innocents murdered in the street?
mhall46184@aol.com
“It Could Have Been Worse”
New York City, 31 October 2017
Our thoughts and prayers are with the families
copycat we are Something Strong we are
not afraid plow into mowed down it could
have been worse the new normal lone wolf we
will not change the way we live our thoughts
and prayers are with the families copycat
we are Something Strong we are not afraid
plow into mowed down: “it could have been worse…”
Oh, newsman, how could it could have been worse
For the eight innocents murdered in the street?
Tuesday, October 31, 2017
Last Sunday after Pentecost - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
A calling-crow-cold sky ceilings the world,
Lowering the horizon to itself
All silvery and grey upon the fields
Of pale, exhausted, dry-corn-stalk summer
The earth is tired, the air is cold, the dawn
False-promises nothing but an early dusk
As calling-cold-crows crowd the world with noise,
Loud-gossiping from tree to ground to sky
Soon falling frosts and fields of ice will fold
Even those fell, foolish fowls into the depths
Of dark creek bottoms where dim ancient oaks
Hide darkling birds from wild blue northern winds
Crows squawk of Advent disapprovingly,
For Advent-autumn drifts to Christmastide
When all the good of the seasonal year
Then warms and charms the house, the hearth, the heart.
mhall46184@aol.com
Last Sunday after Pentecost
A calling-crow-cold sky ceilings the world,
Lowering the horizon to itself
All silvery and grey upon the fields
Of pale, exhausted, dry-corn-stalk summer
The earth is tired, the air is cold, the dawn
False-promises nothing but an early dusk
As calling-cold-crows crowd the world with noise,
Loud-gossiping from tree to ground to sky
Soon falling frosts and fields of ice will fold
Even those fell, foolish fowls into the depths
Of dark creek bottoms where dim ancient oaks
Hide darkling birds from wild blue northern winds
Crows squawk of Advent disapprovingly,
For Advent-autumn drifts to Christmastide
When all the good of the seasonal year
Then warms and charms the house, the hearth, the heart.
Monday, October 30, 2017
Poetry of the Occupation - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Political poetry occupies the streets
Brakes squealing to a stop before an idyll
Squads of inclusive wordtroopers disembark
Into our souls to force submission and love
Armed with warrants and inquisitions
The bills of indictment already drawn
Needing only a tap upon a screen
To serve in the office of a signature
And sensitive to death the personal life -
Political poetry occupies the streets
mhall46184@aol.com
Poetry of the Occupation
“…trained in the politics of the day, believing the great new system
invented by a genius so great that they never bothered to verify its results.”
-John Steinbeck, The Moon is Down
Political poetry occupies the streets
Brakes squealing to a stop before an idyll
Squads of inclusive wordtroopers disembark
Into our souls to force submission and love
Armed with warrants and inquisitions
The bills of indictment already drawn
Needing only a tap upon a screen
To serve in the office of a signature
And sensitive to death the personal life -
Political poetry occupies the streets
Sunday, October 29, 2017
Vaches Sans Frontieres - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
An American
Cow goes “Moo.” A Canadian
Cow goes “Eh.” Merci.
mhall46184@aol.com
Vaches Sans Frontières
An American
Cow goes “Moo.” A Canadian
Cow goes “Eh.” Merci.
Saturday, October 28, 2017
That Happy Little Dachshund Dance - poem
Lawrence Hall
mall46184@aol.com
All dachshunds dance their days in happiness
And shake their bodies, tails, and ears about
And thank their humans every doggie day
With puppy kisses and yappings of joy:
For cats to chase, for beds to muss
For grassy lawns on which to play
Hoovers to bark – oh, what a fuss!
And your pillow at the end of day
For dogs still live in Eden, and that is why
All dachshunds dance their days in happiness
mall46184@aol.com
That Happy Little Dachshund Dance
All dachshunds dance their days in happiness
And shake their bodies, tails, and ears about
And thank their humans every doggie day
With puppy kisses and yappings of joy:
For cats to chase, for beds to muss
For grassy lawns on which to play
Hoovers to bark – oh, what a fuss!
And your pillow at the end of day
For dogs still live in Eden, and that is why
All dachshunds dance their days in happiness
Friday, October 27, 2017
Dry Well - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
As woodland creatures shy until the dark
Drift as a silent blessing through the trees
At dusk some sad folk gather ‘round the wounds
Gored geometrically into the ground
A palisade of wood and water and earth
Now guarding nothing but pale desolation:
A pond of death whose hydrocarbon sheen
In corpselike stillness entertains no life
A sewerage ditch bedecked with human turds
A dumpster skip piled high with promises
Piles of unidentified white powder
An unattended garbage fire, a shirt
Some bolts, planks, screws, sandwich wraps, cigarette butts
A cargo cult of curiosities
Liturgically in statio around The Hole
That venerable new hole, that hole of hope
That fabled argosy laden with dreams
That fell into the depths, and never returned
At dawn a tower stood, adorned with lights
By dusk it was folded, and stolen away
Like the long-storied tents of Araby
Or a Roman camp in the Teutoburg
Abandoned among the darkening woods
For the curious primitives to poke
And prod about, chattering in their tongue
About the marvels of a superior race
Who make no environmental impact.
mhall46184@aol.com
Dry Well
A Gift from Fort Apache Energy, Inc.
“We will be drilling with a fresh water mud system
which has no environmental impact.”
- Allan P. Bloxsom III, President
As woodland creatures shy until the dark
Drift as a silent blessing through the trees
At dusk some sad folk gather ‘round the wounds
Gored geometrically into the ground
A palisade of wood and water and earth
Now guarding nothing but pale desolation:
A pond of death whose hydrocarbon sheen
In corpselike stillness entertains no life
A sewerage ditch bedecked with human turds
A dumpster skip piled high with promises
Piles of unidentified white powder
An unattended garbage fire, a shirt
Some bolts, planks, screws, sandwich wraps, cigarette butts
A cargo cult of curiosities
Liturgically in statio around The Hole
That venerable new hole, that hole of hope
That fabled argosy laden with dreams
That fell into the depths, and never returned
At dawn a tower stood, adorned with lights
By dusk it was folded, and stolen away
Like the long-storied tents of Araby
Or a Roman camp in the Teutoburg
Abandoned among the darkening woods
For the curious primitives to poke
And prod about, chattering in their tongue
About the marvels of a superior race
Who make no environmental impact.
Thursday, October 26, 2017
Have You Seen my Browning? - column
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Field Marshal Viscount Wavell G.C.B., G.C.S.I., G.C.I.E, C.M.G, M.C. was a remarkable man. He lost an eye in the First World War…let us amend that: young Major Wavell did not carelessly misplace his eye; it was blown away by German mischief in the 2nd Battle of Ypres in 1915.
Wavell remained in the army and served as a liaison officer in Russia (he was fluent in Russian as well as Urdu, Pashtun, and Persian), and then in combat against the Turks in Palestine. During the Second World War, with inadequate forces and supplies, he led brilliant campaigns against the Italians in East Africa and against the Italians and Germans in North Africa. Posted to lead the Allied defense against the triumphant Japanese in the Far East, he was given the blame for an impossible situation, and sent to India as Governor-General.
In India, toward the end of his life, Wavell was persuaded by friends to collect and edit his favorite poems into a book.
Wavell loved poetry and could recite hundreds of poems from memory like many people raised without the curse of glowing screens (your scrivener heard Robert T. Holmes of Kirbyville, Texas, a farmer and a practical man, well into his seventies, recite John Milton’s “When I Consider How my Life is Spent” over coffee one morning).
As Wavell quotes from an obscure play, The Story of Hassan of Bagdan, and How He Came to Make the Journey to Samarkand:
Caliph: Ah, if there shall ever arise a nation whose people have forgotten poetry or whose poets
have forgotten the people, though they send their ships around Taprobane and their armies across
the hills of Hindustan, though their city be greater than Babylon of old, though they mine a league
into earth or mount to the stars on wings–what of them?
Hassan: They will be a dark patch upon the world.
Wavell’s anthology, with the unfortunate title Other Men’s Flowers, was published in 1944, and continues to be available. A better title might be Manly Poetry for Manly Men, for that is mostly what it is. Modern critics savage Other Men’s Flowers, which in itself is a good reason for reading it, for here one will not find the pallid, self-pitying, free verse, me-me-me, I, I, I wallowings that (for now) have supplanted poetry.
Other Men’s Flowers is divided into nine sections containing hundreds of poems, mostly English, Irish, Scots, Canadian, and Empire, with a few token Americans and a very few women, so we can’t have that, eh. But then Wavell was putting together what was important to himself and to brave men he knew, not for the ovine credential harvesters of seventy years later. Wavell gives us Belloc, Kipling, Shakespeare, Wilde, Browning, Chesterton, Masefield, Kipling, McCrae, Buchan, Emerson, Fitzgerald, Burns, Macauley, Sassoon, Byron, Shelley, Keats, Housman, Stevenson, Scott, Yeats, Milton, and dozens of others whose work proudly occupied bookshelves and kitchen tables and backpacks before the sorrows of 1968 vetoed civilization.
And about Browning. The phrase “When someone speaks to me of culture, I want to de-cock my Browning” appears in a German play of the early 1930s, but is often credited to Hermann Goering or some other Nazi oaf. In 1942, when the Japanese were expected to invade India from Burma at any moment, Wavell is said to have asked someone to help him find his Browning. The aide looked everywhere for the field marshal’s pistol, and couldn’t find it. But the field Marshal was wearing his pistol; what he wanted was his copy of the poems of Robert Browning.
Now there was a soldier. Does one consider that any member of the current British or U.S. governments would understand any of that?
Not that every man appreciates poetry. Wavell says of his boyhood:
Horatius…was the earliest poem I got by heart. Admiring aunts used to give me threepence for
reciting it from beginning to end; a wiser uncle gave me sixpence for a promise to do nothing of
the kind.
Mhall46184@aol.com
Have You Seen my Browning?
…in the army…(e)very few days one seemed to meet a scholar, an original,
a poet, a cheery buffoon, a raconteur, or at the very least a man of good will”
-C. S. Lewis, Surprised by Joy
Field Marshal Viscount Wavell G.C.B., G.C.S.I., G.C.I.E, C.M.G, M.C. was a remarkable man. He lost an eye in the First World War…let us amend that: young Major Wavell did not carelessly misplace his eye; it was blown away by German mischief in the 2nd Battle of Ypres in 1915.
Wavell remained in the army and served as a liaison officer in Russia (he was fluent in Russian as well as Urdu, Pashtun, and Persian), and then in combat against the Turks in Palestine. During the Second World War, with inadequate forces and supplies, he led brilliant campaigns against the Italians in East Africa and against the Italians and Germans in North Africa. Posted to lead the Allied defense against the triumphant Japanese in the Far East, he was given the blame for an impossible situation, and sent to India as Governor-General.
In India, toward the end of his life, Wavell was persuaded by friends to collect and edit his favorite poems into a book.
Wavell loved poetry and could recite hundreds of poems from memory like many people raised without the curse of glowing screens (your scrivener heard Robert T. Holmes of Kirbyville, Texas, a farmer and a practical man, well into his seventies, recite John Milton’s “When I Consider How my Life is Spent” over coffee one morning).
As Wavell quotes from an obscure play, The Story of Hassan of Bagdan, and How He Came to Make the Journey to Samarkand:
Caliph: Ah, if there shall ever arise a nation whose people have forgotten poetry or whose poets
have forgotten the people, though they send their ships around Taprobane and their armies across
the hills of Hindustan, though their city be greater than Babylon of old, though they mine a league
into earth or mount to the stars on wings–what of them?
Hassan: They will be a dark patch upon the world.
Wavell’s anthology, with the unfortunate title Other Men’s Flowers, was published in 1944, and continues to be available. A better title might be Manly Poetry for Manly Men, for that is mostly what it is. Modern critics savage Other Men’s Flowers, which in itself is a good reason for reading it, for here one will not find the pallid, self-pitying, free verse, me-me-me, I, I, I wallowings that (for now) have supplanted poetry.
Other Men’s Flowers is divided into nine sections containing hundreds of poems, mostly English, Irish, Scots, Canadian, and Empire, with a few token Americans and a very few women, so we can’t have that, eh. But then Wavell was putting together what was important to himself and to brave men he knew, not for the ovine credential harvesters of seventy years later. Wavell gives us Belloc, Kipling, Shakespeare, Wilde, Browning, Chesterton, Masefield, Kipling, McCrae, Buchan, Emerson, Fitzgerald, Burns, Macauley, Sassoon, Byron, Shelley, Keats, Housman, Stevenson, Scott, Yeats, Milton, and dozens of others whose work proudly occupied bookshelves and kitchen tables and backpacks before the sorrows of 1968 vetoed civilization.
And about Browning. The phrase “When someone speaks to me of culture, I want to de-cock my Browning” appears in a German play of the early 1930s, but is often credited to Hermann Goering or some other Nazi oaf. In 1942, when the Japanese were expected to invade India from Burma at any moment, Wavell is said to have asked someone to help him find his Browning. The aide looked everywhere for the field marshal’s pistol, and couldn’t find it. But the field Marshal was wearing his pistol; what he wanted was his copy of the poems of Robert Browning.
Now there was a soldier. Does one consider that any member of the current British or U.S. governments would understand any of that?
Not that every man appreciates poetry. Wavell says of his boyhood:
Horatius…was the earliest poem I got by heart. Admiring aunts used to give me threepence for
reciting it from beginning to end; a wiser uncle gave me sixpence for a promise to do nothing of
the kind.
-30-
The First Blast of a Metaphorical Trumpet Against the Monstrous Regiment of the Culture of IPhonery - sort of a poem not really maybe kinda
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Solo: Before we end for today – do begin thinking about a topic for your research paper due in December.
Chorus: I don’t understand…but you said...are you talking about the persuasive essay…what does “expository” mean…oh, this is not expository…but we’ve never written a persuasive paper…is this the persuasive research paper you’re talking about…what is the difference between “expository” and “persuasive”…but what are we going to write about…I mean like why don’t you give us a topic…I don’t understand…when is this due…but that’s the pro and con, right…it’s not…but you said…what does “bibliography” mean…so when is this due…but how many pages…so you just want the bibliography and the first page…I don’t know what you mean by a thesis that can be argued either way…I don’t understand why you don’t give us a topic…I’m confused…what do you want us to write about…but when is this due… I don’t understand…but you said...are you talking about the persuasive essay…what does “expository” mean…but we’ve never written a persuasive paper…is this the persuasive research paper you’re talking about…but what are we going to write about…I mean like why don’t you give us a topic…I don’t understand when is this due…but that’s the pro and con, right…it’s not…but you said…we’ve never written a research paper before…what does “bibliography” mean…so when is this due…but how many pages…so you just want the bibliography and the first page…I don’t know what you mean by a thesis that can be argued either way…I don’t understand why you don’t give us a topic…I’m confused…what do you want us to write about…but when is this due… I don’t understand…we’ve never written papers like this before…but you said...are you talking about the persuasive essay…what does “expository” mean…but we’ve never written a persuasive paper…is this the persuasive research paper you’re talking about…but what are we going to write about…I mean like why don’t you give us a topic…I don’t understand when is this due…but that’s the pro and con, right…it’s not…but you said…what does “bibliography” mean…so when is this due…but how many pages…so you just want the bibliography and the first page…I don’t know what you mean by a thesis that can be supported with authoritative sources and logic…I don’t understand why you don’t give us a topic…I’m confused…what do you want us to write about…but when is this due…!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!????????????
mhall46184@aol.com
The First Blast of a Metaphorical Trumpet Against
the Monstrous Regiment of the Culture of IPhonery
A Statement Solo and a Response Choral in Existential Whine Mode
Solo: Before we end for today – do begin thinking about a topic for your research paper due in December.
Chorus: I don’t understand…but you said...are you talking about the persuasive essay…what does “expository” mean…oh, this is not expository…but we’ve never written a persuasive paper…is this the persuasive research paper you’re talking about…what is the difference between “expository” and “persuasive”…but what are we going to write about…I mean like why don’t you give us a topic…I don’t understand…when is this due…but that’s the pro and con, right…it’s not…but you said…what does “bibliography” mean…so when is this due…but how many pages…so you just want the bibliography and the first page…I don’t know what you mean by a thesis that can be argued either way…I don’t understand why you don’t give us a topic…I’m confused…what do you want us to write about…but when is this due… I don’t understand…but you said...are you talking about the persuasive essay…what does “expository” mean…but we’ve never written a persuasive paper…is this the persuasive research paper you’re talking about…but what are we going to write about…I mean like why don’t you give us a topic…I don’t understand when is this due…but that’s the pro and con, right…it’s not…but you said…we’ve never written a research paper before…what does “bibliography” mean…so when is this due…but how many pages…so you just want the bibliography and the first page…I don’t know what you mean by a thesis that can be argued either way…I don’t understand why you don’t give us a topic…I’m confused…what do you want us to write about…but when is this due… I don’t understand…we’ve never written papers like this before…but you said...are you talking about the persuasive essay…what does “expository” mean…but we’ve never written a persuasive paper…is this the persuasive research paper you’re talking about…but what are we going to write about…I mean like why don’t you give us a topic…I don’t understand when is this due…but that’s the pro and con, right…it’s not…but you said…what does “bibliography” mean…so when is this due…but how many pages…so you just want the bibliography and the first page…I don’t know what you mean by a thesis that can be supported with authoritative sources and logic…I don’t understand why you don’t give us a topic…I’m confused…what do you want us to write about…but when is this due…!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!????????????
Wednesday, October 25, 2017
The Dreariness of Dusk - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Anticipated no victories today
Expected no letters to be answered
Or packages of life to be delivered
Not given even the hope of a hope
But…
But, no, the weary hours were unrelieved
The weary, dreary hours of near-despair
Plodding like a mule harnessed to the past
And given only the ghost of a ghost
As was expected, the teapot was warm -
“Yes, but there ain’t going to be no tea” 1
1 Katherine Mansfield
mhall46184@aol.com
(This poem may be considered as a dyptich / diptych / dipstick with "The Dreariness of Dawn")
The Dreariness of Dusk
Anticipated no victories today
Expected no letters to be answered
Or packages of life to be delivered
Not given even the hope of a hope
But…
But, no, the weary hours were unrelieved
The weary, dreary hours of near-despair
Plodding like a mule harnessed to the past
And given only the ghost of a ghost
As was expected, the teapot was warm -
“Yes, but there ain’t going to be no tea” 1
1 Katherine Mansfield
Tuesday, October 24, 2017
The Dreariness of Dawn - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
“Carpe Diem.” Dawn, and all its cliches’
But what would one now seize? Unrequited dreams
That slouch in the corner filing their fingernails?
A cup of coffee at the kitchen door?
Dawn is the illusion that this day might
Be different from those that came before
Like advertisements promising happiness
And delivering failures postage-due
Well, you might as well get up, and get dressed
Dawn. Because, maybe, this time, just maybe…
mhall46184@aol.com
The Dreariness of Dawn
“Carpe Diem.” Dawn, and all its cliches’
But what would one now seize? Unrequited dreams
That slouch in the corner filing their fingernails?
A cup of coffee at the kitchen door?
Dawn is the illusion that this day might
Be different from those that came before
Like advertisements promising happiness
And delivering failures postage-due
Well, you might as well get up, and get dressed
Dawn. Because, maybe, this time, just maybe…
Monday, October 23, 2017
"Render unto Caesar..." - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Let us render unto the Caesars
Our sons and daughters for undeclared wars
Each death excused with a telephone call
Each death another medal for a general
Let us render unto the Caesars
Our children for the pleasures of the rich
Each death and shattered heart excused as art
Each death a tribute to some rich man’s lust
Each leader, each Somebody, takes and takes –
They then dismiss their victims as snowflakes
mhall46184@aol.com
“Render unto Caesar…”
29th Sunday in Ordinary Time
Let us render unto the Caesars
Our sons and daughters for undeclared wars
Each death excused with a telephone call
Each death another medal for a general
Let us render unto the Caesars
Our children for the pleasures of the rich
Each death and shattered heart excused as art
Each death a tribute to some rich man’s lust
Each leader, each Somebody, takes and takes –
They then dismiss their victims as snowflakes
Sunday, October 22, 2017
Porching on a Saturday in October - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
But where are the little children? Well, here,
But they are tall, lanky teenagers now
With car keys and cutoffs and muscle shirts
Whispering, giggling, heavy-lifting
(Stop tormenting your sister!)
Dad wants the outdoor grill moved? Sure – watch this!
Pans and food from the kitchen to the grill
And back again? We’re well on top of it
Something from town? We’re on our way right now
(Stop hitting your brother!)
Children, like spring, must grow into summer
And their springs and summers are forever our joys
(And never stop loving each other.)
mhall46184@aol.com
Porching on a Saturday in October
But where are the little children? Well, here,
But they are tall, lanky teenagers now
With car keys and cutoffs and muscle shirts
Whispering, giggling, heavy-lifting
(Stop tormenting your sister!)
Dad wants the outdoor grill moved? Sure – watch this!
Pans and food from the kitchen to the grill
And back again? We’re well on top of it
Something from town? We’re on our way right now
(Stop hitting your brother!)
Children, like spring, must grow into summer
And their springs and summers are forever our joys
(And never stop loving each other.)
Saturday, October 21, 2017
The Death Penalty and a New Computer Printer - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
If we consider our culture to be
An ongoing affirmation of life
Consistently in favor of redemption
We cannot then presume to kill a man
A death penalty for any one of us
Is a death penalty for all of us
A submission to the darkness of evil
A yielding again to original sin
From execution, then, may God preserve us –
(Except for
That 1-800 wretch in customer service)
mhall46184@aol.com
The Death Penalty and a New Computer Printer
If we consider our culture to be
An ongoing affirmation of life
Consistently in favor of redemption
We cannot then presume to kill a man
A death penalty for any one of us
Is a death penalty for all of us
A submission to the darkness of evil
A yielding again to original sin
From execution, then, may God preserve us –
(Except for
That 1-800 wretch in customer service)
Friday, October 20, 2017
Autism - A Boy and His Dinosaur -poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
In another world, a silent world within,
The dominant species are dinosaurs.
Never having fallen, no evil obtains,
And beneficent reptiles live there as -
As innocently as butterflies.
In his quiet world of gentle reptilians
A little boy is never without a friend,
A Saurian with an unpronounceable name,
To share a cave, a thought, a book, a toy,
And so that world with a best-friend dinosaur
Is the child’s real world, the only one
Where he knows love.
mhall46184@aol.com
A Boy and His Dinosaur
In another world, a silent world within,
The dominant species are dinosaurs.
Never having fallen, no evil obtains,
And beneficent reptiles live there as -
As innocently as butterflies.
In his quiet world of gentle reptilians
A little boy is never without a friend,
A Saurian with an unpronounceable name,
To share a cave, a thought, a book, a toy,
And so that world with a best-friend dinosaur
Is the child’s real world, the only one
Where he knows love.
Thursday, October 19, 2017
Pedal-Pushers of the Undead - column
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Pedal-Pushers of the Undead
These crisp autumn days mean that soon college administrators will be telling students what they must not wear for Halloween lest they hurt the feelings of other young grownups.
No one ever asks why college students are thinking about Halloween, that non-holiday, at all. They’re beyond trick-or-treating, don’cha think? College students should be doing college-student-thinky-things, like solving for x or writing about the influence of Fannie Brawne on John Keats’ existential vision of something-or-other.
And, besides, if folks on college campuses (or is that campi?) were to wear costumes, how would anyone know? To visit a college campus now is to wonder why so many people dress as if they looted their garments from hurricane debris – tee-shirts with pictures of that bearded mass murderer, knee-pants (yes, those 1950s pedal-pushers have risen from the sartorial dead), clown shoes, and desperately goofy hats.
That’s the faculty, of course; students usually manage to dress more appropriately.
As for the hurt feelings, well, I know of at least one college that last year greeted its incoming students with coloring-book sessions. If anyone suffers the Aunt Pittypat vapours from seeing someone costumed as capitalist oppressor Thurston Howell III the faculty can hand him a coloring book and a box of crayons in approved colors: “Look, honeykins. Here’s Mickey Mouse. See? Let’s color his house environmentalist green, okay? Then you’ll feel allllllllllll better.”
Oh, yeah, coloring books for college students will advance the arts and sciences of this great nation.
In Texas, college students who meet the legal requirements are permitted to carry firearms on campus, but are forbidden to dress up as Christopher Columbus, Pocahontas, or Zorro. A distressed 21-year-old princeling whose emotions have been triggered – yes - by being asked to, oh, read a book or solve some engineering problems may lawfully carry a pistol while on his way to his coloring-book sensitivity therapy to express his existential outrage.
And citizens are arguing about Halloween.
-30-
The University Drama Club Presents... poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Dramatis Personae:
Rainblossom – an existential performance artist
Skydream – a self-authenticating air-vegan
The stage is set as the world of our dreams, peopled with only the good who dream dreams and vision visions and, like, you know, and don’t eat our forest friends, and stuff. The actors are dressed in hand-dyed Colombian ruanas to represent The True.
Rainblossom –
I demand that you validate our soul!
Skydream –
As a cosmic sunbeam of otherness
I must not.
Rainblossom –
O where are my comic books?
Skydream –
They have been cleansed, just as my soul has sung
Unto the Cosmic Dissonance of love
Rainblossom –
Oh, Oh, Oh
Skydream –
Look, Look, Look
In unison –
A vision of…Truth
Rainblossom –
But our truth, not some other bogus truth
Skydream –
Woke, Woke
The writers, cast, and crew of The Green Street Meadows Collective of Artists and Workers with Fists and Dreams and Words United Against the Occupation (Your Major Credit Card Welcome) neither need nor desire your cheap, shallow, bourgeois, sexist, racist applause to validate our existential worth. Be in awe, and then slink away in your individualist privileged guilt.
mhall46184@aol.com
Look Back in Petulance
A Kitchen Microwave Drama
Featuring Angry Young Persons
Dramatis Personae:
Rainblossom – an existential performance artist
Skydream – a self-authenticating air-vegan
The stage is set as the world of our dreams, peopled with only the good who dream dreams and vision visions and, like, you know, and don’t eat our forest friends, and stuff. The actors are dressed in hand-dyed Colombian ruanas to represent The True.
Rainblossom –
I demand that you validate our soul!
Skydream –
As a cosmic sunbeam of otherness
I must not.
Rainblossom –
O where are my comic books?
Skydream –
They have been cleansed, just as my soul has sung
Unto the Cosmic Dissonance of love
Rainblossom –
Oh, Oh, Oh
Skydream –
Look, Look, Look
In unison –
A vision of…Truth
Rainblossom –
But our truth, not some other bogus truth
Skydream –
Woke, Woke
fin
The writers, cast, and crew of The Green Street Meadows Collective of Artists and Workers with Fists and Dreams and Words United Against the Occupation (Your Major Credit Card Welcome) neither need nor desire your cheap, shallow, bourgeois, sexist, racist applause to validate our existential worth. Be in awe, and then slink away in your individualist privileged guilt.
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