Thursday, May 31, 2018

Existential Ants - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Someone mentioned existential angst the other day. At first I misread “existential angst” as “existential ants,” and so I dedicate this doggerel (why is there never catteral?) to all of you who suffer existential angst or existential ants:

Existential Ants

All creepy ants are existential ants
If ants across your old blue jeans advance
And bite into your tender skin by chance
You leap into an existential dance

And swear profane, wild, existential chants
Your good companions look at you askance
Each with a wondering existential glance
They seem to be in an existential trance

As you flail among the flowering plants
Because of those wicked existential ants!

Attack of the Robot Disposable Plastic Cups - column

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

Attack of the Robot Disposable Plastic Cups

A fast-food joint in California features a robot burger-flipper-robot-thingie (“Mustard, Will Robinson!”) that grills 300 hamburgers a day. A human short-order cook must marvel at the concept of only 300.

The restaurant says that no humans are losing jobs because of automation, and given the robot’s leisurely pace that’s probably true.

Any true burger-meister will want only a human cook, Clyde or Maria or Junior or Jorge or Bobbie-Ann, laughing and joking, building a burger with one hand while making coffee with the other, and at the apex of culinary creation calling out your number with a voice reminiscent of one of Bertie Wooster’s brassy aunts, loud enough to call the cattle home across the Sands of Dee.

The robot is not going to approach your table with a coffee refill, pop chewing gum, tell a joke, or ask you how your day is because it’s not programmed to move from its assigned spot on the floor and in any event is broken down again.

No robots, thank you, either in the fast-foodery or in the big-box store; there are no ethics or economy in firing a loyal, long-time local worker in order to lose money on an expensive gadget that never functions as it should and which requires constant maintenance and adjustment while the customers, tired of waiting, drift away to stores staffed by humans.

On the other hand, or grasping robotic arm, the manager of a taco stop in Chicago stabbed one of his employees in an argument over a woman. Possibly a robot worker would not flirt the boss’s girlfriend: “Hey, good-looking, do you ever go out with Chinese robots who dig Microsoft and The Big Bang Theory?”

The Scottish parliament has banned single-use coffee cups, a menace to the environmental purity of the highlands often related in iambic tetrameter in Sir Walter Scott’s yarns. In The Lady of the Lake the real crime of Roderick Dhu is not that he murdered a fellow knight in a sghian dubh-free zone and betrayed his king but because he drank his morning dram of whisky (with a frothy layer of latte and lightly dusted with cinnamon) from a plastic cup.

And then threw it away. Gasp!

This ban on nefarious plastic and paper cups applies only to parliament buildings for the present, saving the heather from the depredations of 450,000 cups a year. Given that Scottish parliamentarians drink 450,000 cups of coffee and tea each year, hardworking Angus in Dundee must wonder what his elected representatives do except sit around and quiver from atrial fibrillation.

The Scottish parliament has also appointed a high-level commission to study (translation: vacations under the guise of fact-finding missions) the elimination of the scourge of other fast-food disposables from Scottish society.

All good Scots still mourn the loss of Stirling Castle in 1304 to an attacking English force better armed with semi-automatic paper cups, wall-breaking plastic clamshells, and unregistered drinking straws.

From California to Scotland the theme seems to be the betterment of the world through the eradication of human workers and plastic cups. This continues the theme that since gasoline comes from a pump (now with a little television screen), electricity from a socket in the wall, and milk from the market, we don’t need those nasty, polluting oil wells, generating stations, and farms.

Once the purge is accomplished, no one will ever again be in want, and whales (vegetarian whales, of course) will frolic in the Sacramento River and in the Solway Firth.

-30-

Wednesday, May 30, 2018

School Websites - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

School Websites

A solution driven technology
Committee…paying it forward…globally
Competitive…peace poster…this flu season
We have had extra reminders in place

To wash hands and be contentious1 of spreading
Germs…child-centered learning…preparing your child
For the twenty-first century…a vibrant
And diverse living-learning environment

A cross-section of the district’s stakeholders

And, as ever,

Home of the Fighting Something-or-Others


1"Contentious of spreading germs" is the wording on the site during 'flu season.

Tuesday, May 29, 2018

A Modest Celebration of the Dipthong - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com


A Modest Celebration of the Dipthong

A dipthong - this is not a foolish man
Inappropriately dressed for sea or sand
Nor yet a verbal dipping, nor a thong
Nor yet a tropic river that flows along

A dipthong is two vowels in harmony
One with another dancing gracefully
Without a consonant to interrupt
Through a harsh, hinging sound that’s too abrupt

The poorly called but sweetly sounded dipthong
Is just another name for a little song

Monday, May 28, 2018

The Rodent vs. the Reptile - column

Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

The Rodent vs. the Reptile

No, no, I’m not talking about the latest squabble at an office meeting.

Recently a couple of those roadside chain giganto gas ‘n’ gulp ‘n’ gorge places got into a legal tiff about one’s reptile logo looking too much like the other’s rodent logo.

Since neither establishment serves rodents or reptiles as takeout, what’s the point?

As Al said on the radio, if a driver can’t tell the difference between a giant rodent and a giant reptile, maybe he shouldn’t be driving at all.

Indeed, if the health department were to find rodents or reptiles in the food service spaces, a Godzilla of citations would be released into the wilds of the sandwich kiosks.

Another point of contention is that the rodent people accused the reptile people of copying the rodent people by bragging about their clean restrooms. That makes no sense. One can’t imagine any establishment advertising with, “Come on in; our restrooms are vile and disgusting!”

Of course no one’s restrooms would be vile and disgusting if The People, bless them, didn’t trash them constantly with populist incontinence.

The rodent people and the reptile people – those sound like new categories for a reality show. The competitions could be parking-lot drag races, the highest-decibel screaming children, and map-and-compass navigation of the souvenir area. The losing team would be voted to spend a night, without either weapons or anti-witch powder, in the truck stop restroom across the street, the one with the cologne dispenser because there’s nothing that says lot lizard magnet like cologne from a truck stop restroom.

According to Wookiepedia (or something like that), one of the rodent locations features “120 fueling positions, 83 toilets, 31 cash registers, 4 Icee machines, and 80 fountain dispensers.” All that is mildly interesting, but a cafeteria offering of 83 toilets hardly makes the place a vacation destination.

Texas has put a lot of miles (or maybe those godless Napoleonic kilometres) on the tires from the Ye Olden Days gas station along the two-lane, with a couple of pumps, a screen door, fizzy drinks in a tank of ice water, ceiling fans stirring the flypaper strips in the desert heat, and a couple of old geezers sitting on a wooden bench out front, whittling and watching the decades pass. Now we have sanitized giant rodent and giant reptile gargantua plazas with air-conditioning and 80 toilets and lawsuits.

Progress, I guess.

-30-

"We Will Remember Them" - Column, Memorial Day, 2018

Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

"We Will Remember Them"

Memorial Day is said to have begun during the Civil War as Decoration Day, when the fresh graves of the war dead were decorated with flowers in their memory. Numerous towns, north and south, claim to have begun the tradition of decorating the graves of all soldiers of both sides. Wherever this noble custom began, honoring those who served is what civilized nations do.

On Memorial Day we still honor the loyal departed, those who died in war and those who passed on in peace.

Last month, a C130 of the Puerto Rico Air National Guard went down with the loss of all its crew.

These fine young men and their aircraft recently served our nation throughout the Caribbean in evacuation and supply duties for months after Hurricane Maria.

As we now know, this aging C130 was being flown to Tucson to be scrapped. Some sources say the plane was 40 years old; some say 50 and some say 60. In any event, the plane was older than any of its crew.

Maybe it’s always been true that this nation sends its finest young men and women to fight contemporary wars with the leftovers from past wars.

Those young men are:

Major José Rosado, pilot

Major Carlos Serra, navigator

1st Lieutenant David Albandoz, co-pilot

Senior Master Sgt. Jan Paravisini, mechanic

Master Sgt. Jean Audriffred

Master Sgt. Mario Braña, flight engineer

Master Sgt. Víctor Colón

Master Sgt. Eric Circuns, loadmaster

Senior Airman Roberto Espada

We did not know these young men who died for us, but let us praise them now, and honor them, and let us remember these three things about them:

1. All of these young men served in the Air National Guard – you know, that safe duty. For decades some who never made the first day of recruit training have claimed that the Reserves and the National Guard are easy billets, a nice soft way of avoiding hazardous duty.

Rupert Brooke wrote in 1914 “If I should die, think only this of me / There is some corner of a foreign field that is forever England.”

Well, we can write that there are lots of corners of lots of foreign fields that are forever American Reserves and National Guard.

2. All of these young men were millennials – you know, that generation of delicate snowflakes who just lay around the house playing video games and who won’t demonstrate initiative. The reality is that our military, our emergency and police services, our workforce – they’re millennials, the generation that came of age at the turn of the century and who now are entering early middle age.

3. The nine who died were not eligible to vote in federal elections. Residents of Puerto Rico have been, since 1917, citizens of the United States, and yet they may not vote in federal elections. These nine young men, as part of their oath of enlistment, pledged personal loyalty to their president, and they could not, by law, vote for their president. They were not permitted to vote for the government of the nation for which they died in active military service.

We should do something about that.

I return to Senior Airman Roberto Espada – how old was he? 21? 22? – who is survived only by his grandmother, his meemaw. We can infer that his meemaw raised him. And she raised a good young man. And he won’t be going home to her. And yet some are pleased to dismiss Roberto as a millennial, a snowflake. His meemaw knows better, and all true Americans know better too.

Shakespeare, 400 years ago, wrote about young Roberto. In Act V of Macbeth:, a warrior who has fought against the tyrant Macbeth is told that his young son – let us call him Roberto – was killed in the battle. Macduff says to the grieving father:

“Your son, my lord, has paid a soldier’s debt:
He only lived but till he was a man”

Senior Airman Roberto Espada only lived until he was a man.

On Memorial Day let us remember him, his crewmates, and all the loyal departed with Lawrence Binyon’s fine words:


They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn
At the going down of the sun, and in the morning
We will remember them.

-30-

When We Were Sailors - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

When We Were Sailors

To the tune of Detroit Diesels

When we were sailors we seldom thought about
Being sailors. We thought about, well, girls
And happenin’ tunes from AFVN
‘Way down the river in happenin’ Saigon

We thought about cars and beaches and girls
And would a swing ship bring any mail today
In big red nylon sacks of envelopes
Love postmarked in a fantasy, The World

We thought about autumn and home and girls
While sandbag stacking and C-Rat snacking
We thought about being clean and dry again
While pooping and snooping in Cambodia

When we were sailors we thought about our pals
And what they were, and who
                                                   before the dust-offs flew

Sunday, May 27, 2018

Right Wings and Left Wings - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Right Wings and Left Wings

Well, yes, there are wings, right wings and left wings -
If a bird is missing a wing, right or left
It cannot fly, it cannot lift away
From the cat-haunted lawn, and so is eaten

There are water-wings, and buffalo wings
(Although buffalo don’t really have wings)
And in the cafeteria chicken-ring-things
And other metaphors that just won’t fly

But you and I, we both belong to God
And not to a wing (that would be quite odd)

Saturday, May 26, 2018

Thirteen Reasons Why Not - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Thirteen Reasons Why Not

We are not permitted to choose the frame of our destiny.
But what we put into it is ours.
 
-Dag Hammarskjold

1. God made you; you can never be replaced
2. God made you for some purpose – live to find it
3. Someone is blessed each day in knowing you
4. You must live so that others may live
5. Someone desperately needs your kindness right now
6. You haven’t yet written your book, your story, your song
7. When you offer up your suffering, you help others
8. Children running barefoot through the flowers of spring
9. Children running barefoot through the leaves of autumn
10. Dachshund puppies. And leaves. And flowers. And children
11. Coffee and a talk with a good friend
12. Breakfast and the Sunday morning funnies
13. That empty pew God has saved just for you



from Coffee and a Dead Alligator to Go, 2017

Friday, May 25, 2018

Special and Awesome Spring Concert in the Parish Hall - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Special and Awesome Spring Concert in the Parish Hall

Well, gosh, thank you for being here today
I am honored to be the conductor
Of this very special and awesome group
So let me introduce them one by one
To this special and awesome audience
It’s been an awesome season, and we’re glad
You could share this moment with us today
We’d like to give a special shout-out to
(Name and name) for making this wonderful space
Available to all of us today
As you know this is the last performance
Of the season, and the last here for (name)
Who is being transferred to Albuquerque
And we want to wish her well; she has been
A cornerstone-rock-heart of our little group
And also for (name) who is retiring
After thirty years with (name-name, inc)
And is looking forward to spending time
With his family and traveling about
With his awesome and patient wife (name-name)
And also with his awesome and patient dogs
Although of course he would never say that they
Are more awesome than his sweet wife ha-ha
You will notice that our program today
Features a diversity of pieces to appeal
To all sorts of tastes because the pieces
We have selected in their diversity
Are meant to appeal to all sorts of tastes
Oh, wait, did I say that already ha-ha
Because we all believe that music speaks
To the hearts of all in their special ways
Because music is the language of all
From Tchaikovsky and Wagner to Elvis
From the stuffiness of grand old Vienna
To ‘way-cool happenin’ New Orleans
Or as they like to say down there Naw-lins
Ha-ha music is the language of all
Because it is inclusive and diverse
And speaks to all our hearts with love
And, like, you know, stuff, so now we begin
With some traditional classic pieces
And then some popular tunes you can tap
Your toes along to, and then at the end
We will enjoy a good ol’ sing-along
And maybe some audience participation
Ha-ha but we’ll let that be a surprise
Our first piece now is by Paganini
Who was neither a pagan nor a ninny
Ha-ha so let me give you’re a little background
On this piece…

Thursday, May 24, 2018

A Brief Discourse on the Subject of Standing or Not Standing for the National Anthem at Sporting Events That You and I Can't Afford to Attend Anyway

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

A Brief Discourse on the Subject of Standing or Not Standing for the National Anthem
at Sporting Events That You and I Can’t Afford to Attend Anyway

You don’t have to stand up, but I wish you would -
Standing up for the flag is standing up
For each other, me for you, you for me
But if you don’t, forgive me anyway

You don’t have to stand up, but I wish you would -
Because some fifty years ago That Man’s
Heel spurs kept him from crawling through the mud
With us; he’s not much of a stand-up guy

You don’t have to stand up, but if you do –
I would be humbly honored to stand with you

Wednesday, May 23, 2018

Gap Year for the Children of the Poor - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Gap Year for the Children of the Poor

Just cruising through the endless sunny days
Along a rainforest river lingering
Hatless, shirtless, catching some serious rays
Listening to the national radio

A practical internship in cultural studies
Interacting with the authentic locals
And sampling their authentic cuisines
And learning so much from authentic them

The authentic locals had much to teach us,
And they did - during our gap year in Viet-Nam

Tuesday, May 22, 2018

We Do Not Burn Books in America - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

We Do Not Burn Books in America

We do not burn books in America
We just ignore them, for we light our nights
And burn away our individual souls
Upon an altar green, clean plastic grass

Come together as one unto the lights
The concept of the tablets now writ large
An electronic scoreboard – and if we’re good
We’ll see our snaggly grins all ten feet tall

Eighty-thousand dollars of education
Beaming civilization six nights each year

Monday, May 21, 2018

Snake Interruptedruptedruptedrupted - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Snake  Interruptedruptedruptedrupted - A Song of Spring

Our merry springtime is a glorious feast
Of joyful sights and scents and happy sounds,
Of breezes turning warmly from the east
Of bustling bees winging their flowery rounds

Above, around, and through a world of green
In dreams of life that move the seasons along
Where each day’s sunrise halos a Creation scene
And every blossom is its own soft song

But the sweetest sound echoing through the glades
Is a snake being shredded by the lawnmower’s blades

Sunday, May 20, 2018

A Pastoral Scene (without firearms) - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

A Pastoral Scene (without firearms)

A fine wine’s not for us; we want cheap red
In paper cups beneath the apple trees
with cheese and bread upon the grasses spread
And you singing along each merry breeze

This fine day’s made for us; we want to kiss
Creation as we kiss each other’s lips
In celebration of sweet summer bliss
While soft away the dreamy twilight slips

Our fine moon’s rising, silvering the air -
She tells us we have kisses yet to share

Saturday, May 19, 2018

Ceremonies of Innocence - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Ceremonies of Innocence

“The ceremony of innocence is drowned”

-W. B. Yeats, “The Second Coming”

The ceremonies of innocence live,
All of them: youthful lovers holding hands
Bees watering beneath a dripping tap
Good farmers tending summer’s ripening fields

Things fall apart, but gather we the bits
And carefully love them together again
With cups of coffee, lines of verse, kind words
And all the liturgies of worship and hope

The ceremonies of innocence live:
They mend the time through the blessings we give

Friday, May 18, 2018

A Makeshift Shrine - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

A Makeshift Shrine
 
for those who mourn...

Teddy bears ribboned to a chain-link fence,
Plastic-wrapped flowers stacked like compost,
Dime-store candles flickering in the exhaust
Of passing mini-vans. The inanity
Of filler-language falls, descends upon
The shattered souls of the barely alive,
The dead cliches’ of well-planned camera-grief:
“Our hearts and thoughts go out to you.”
What does that mean? Nothing but conventional noise
For generations of lovers and mourners
Long-ago looted of reality,
Programmed with state-sanctioned hyperbole,
And mourners now are left with nothing but
An existential howl against the light,
Sodium-vapor upon broken glass,
While strident Men of Destiny
There rake for votes among the ashes of death.


from The Road to Magdalena, 2012

Thursday, May 17, 2018

Negotiating with Honeybees - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Negotiating with Honeybees

The squirrel makes a fuss - he must discuss
Drink-sharing with the thirsty honeybees
Who hover greedily above the bowl
And claim all water rights for bees alone

The squirrel pleas with “Please!” to all the bees;
In conclave met they buzz, and grant the fuzz-
Y neighbor limited let to get wet
If when drinking his fill he holds real still

And the bees’ pet human has come and gone –
He leaves them water, then leaves them alone

Wednesday, May 16, 2018

An Open Poem to His Royal Highness Prince Henry of Wales, Knight Commander of the Royal Victorian Order

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

An Open Poem to
His Royal Highness Prince Henry of Wales,
Knight Commander of the Royal Victorian Order





Shave

Tuesday, May 15, 2018

Matthias - a Substitute Teacher - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Matthias – a Substitute Teacher

Perhaps Matthias is the patron saint
Of substitute teachers – called in rather late
And sent where he had never been before
Unsure of what might be expected of him

Without even a book of lesson plans
But ever willing to give it a go
To face a crowd incurious, hostile
Demanding of him: “What are you doing here?

Mostly ignored, his sign-in sheet misplaced
Late-called, but still, as he was called
                                                                he went

Monday, May 14, 2018

Bush-Hogging - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

(Mostly a remembrance of my father; I am very happy that bush-hogging [and milking cows, and plowing, and planting, and…] is not a part of my adult life.)

Bush-Hogging

Light fog, dense air - how should one think of them
The sun – he seems to be holding his breath
Until, oh, nine or so, when he exhales
Soul-sucking heat upon the steaming earth

The Massey-Ferguson sits patiently
Through all its dawn-lit diagnostic chores:
Check the oil, check the gas, and lube the points
Safety checks all ‘round before the mowing begins

Old hat, old gloves, old boots, a fresh cigar
And old eyes focused on a field afar



(Bush-Hog is a brand of farm-tractor-mounted rotary mowing machines and other types of farm equipment. Bush-Hog enjoys an excellent reputation, and so to mow fields and pastures, even with another brand, is referred to as bush-hogging)

Sunday, May 13, 2018

The Bird Mark 7 Respirator - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Okay, a poem about a machine is suspiciously redolent of Socialist Realism, but I’m not ready to write an ode to a tractor factory.

The Bird Mark 7 Respirator

In memory of Forrest Bird, who saved the lives of millions

A little Bird, singing all through the night
A plastic box of green mechanicals
Its soft, subtle hiss-click there breathing life
Into and through the wreckages of boys

Americans, mostly, Vietnamese
Koreans, Cambodians, Lao, Hmong
And one who might have been a Russian (shhhhh….) -
The pretty Bird sang in their languages

And when they woke, the soft song that they heard
Was whispered to them by a little green Bird

Saturday, May 12, 2018

Thoughts on a Picture of Two Men in Dinner Jackets - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Thoughts on a Picture of Two Men in Dinner Jackets

If they were Of The People they’d tog in tees
The uniform of the Proletariat
To demonstrate their unique specialness
And admire each other’s piercings and tats

Sitting at a bar in dinner jackets
Without any irony, just two men
And talking with each other, not to ‘phones
Quiet voices – so totally not cool

Having a few after a semi-do
They’ve been noticed1 - not Good Comrades, these two


1“Your attitude’s been noticed.” – Commissar to Yuri in Doctor Zhivago

Friday, May 11, 2018

A Study of Situational Poverty in the Rural South - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

A Study of Situational Poverty in the Rural South

Raggedy barefoot children in the five and dime
With a Saturday morning quarter each
Plastic toy soldiers, Nazis and Yanks
Or a wind-up car – but that’s a dollar

Whitman adventure books for fifty cents
If nothing this week, then maybe the next
The Call of the Wild, with noble dog Buck
But what about marbles in a little net bag?

Tables of treasures at the variety store
Aladdin’s Cave (with a swept wooden floor)

The All-Seeing I - column. This one's pretty good

Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

The All-Seeing I

When, Gentle Reader, you open a newspaper or a conversational site on the InterGossip and note that a column, article, poem, or letter-to-the editor begins with that first-person “I,” skipping that item and going on to something else is almost always a good call.

When a written piece of work includes the phrase “When I was in graduate school…” skipping that is always the right thing to do. That one has been in a classroom is irrelevant; we have all sat in classrooms, usually looking at the clock and in silent prayer pleading with the Divinity, “How long, O Lord, how long?!”

Recently your ‘umble scrivener noted on a news site from far away a report about a young man who had spent some time in prison but had now redeemed himself with the gift of music. While he was in prison he rented a guitar for a nominal sum and taught himself to play it.

The redeemed was pleased to talk about himself, his tattoo celebrating his release from prison, his progress in making himself a better person now, his feelings, his soul, and his music.

And then the viewer was treated to him singing one of his original compositions celebrating himself.

Once upon a time your ‘umble scrivener watched in fascinated horror as a king snake fought and then devoured a rattlesnake while the rattlesnake was still alive.

The purported musician’s performance was rather like that, so whiney-nasal in the vocalization, so self-obsessed in the lyrics, and so brutal in the abuse of the chords and the poor guitar that the interest was in how awful (not awesome) an exhibition of narcissism could be.

But, hey, there were thousands of InterGossip hits (sic), so the music was aesthetically pleasing to some.

When the unhappy noises were ended and the segment was closed with the usually filler-language praising this, oh, experience, the thoughtful observer could only note that the redeemed never expressed any concern about those whom he had hurt.

There was a too-common catalogue of crimes in this young person’s life, according to the interviewer, one of which including breaking into an elderly woman’s house and robbing her.

The inspirational singer-songwriter never mentioned her or any of his victims. He made no apologies, he never expressed any regret, he never suggested in any way that he had broken the norms of civilized behavior. He never mentioned having a job

All he discussed was his therapy, his redemption, his music, his vision, his feelings in the incessant I, I, I, me, me, me that so often constitutes public discourse.

Common generational snobbery would dismiss this self-obsessed young person as a millennial, ignoring the salient fact that the good a man does, or the evil that a person does, is not connected with the date of birth. The reality is that most folks born between 1983 and 2001 – the much maligned millennials – now form the core of this nation’s military, police and fire services, medical professionals, and work force. Passing on clichés about millennials is a disservice to our concepts of honor and honesty – after all, almost all our fine young men and women fighting in the deserts are (gasp) millennials.

And, after all, self-obsession is not defined by date of birth; a individual chooses to grow up and kinda / sorta try to act like a man, or he can just sit around and feel sorry for himself.

The first-person voice is sometimes necessary for advancing a narrative, but it is a risky thing to do.

Even so, one would like to hear more first-person voices from those who have done hard time in Afghanistan or with the police or fire services, and not from those who have enjoyed the leisure to learn the guitar on the taxes and labor of those in Afghanistan (did you know that a soldier’s combat pay is taxed?), the fire and police services, and in the sweat of honest work.

-30-

Thursday, May 10, 2018

The In-Laws of Other In-Laws Who Happened to be in the Neighborhood and Decided to Stop by for Just a Minute - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The In-Laws of Other In-Laws Who Happened to be in the Neighborhood
and Decided to Stop by for Just a Minute

Oh yeah that’s right we met at now where was it
Uncle Skinny’s funeral now I think that
was now when was that dear? Oh, it
was at Cousin Verlis’ wedding okay
I’m sure stove up from my last surgery
yeah, me an’ Bubba worked the tugboats for years
Then he fired me we lived there for years
but sold the place and we’re still living there
now it was all flooded up there to where
the Baptist Church was so we couldn’t go
they say Interstate Ten’s a mess this summer
we need to go I got to take my pills
that’s why rice farmers just leave their combines
in the field to rust ‘cause the government’s
all mixed up in it I guess there ain’t many
of us left we all grew up together
I got me this new gun now where’s my ‘phone
Oh it’s in the truck I’ll get it
                                                  now here
I can’t make this thing work I know it’s in
my pictures oh there it is wait it’s gone
we need to go I’ve got to take my pills
now was Cousin Skeeter buried with his parents
no wait that was his son joined the Marines
but they kicked him out ‘cause he was no good
we need to go I’ve got to take my pills
now they was both buried in California
I guess I seen ‘em in 1968 last
These chairs is too low I’m all stove up
I don’t know why the government ain’t prepared
For hurricanes they dug this big drainage ditch
But what if the water backs up along it
Then what am I going to do
We need to go I’ve got to take my pills
I ain’t never met a stranger, no, sir
That’s what they always said about me
Now when I was in school if I had said
“computer” they’d-a sure-’nough kicked me out
We didn’t need all that stuff we learnt just fine
We need to go I’ve got to take my pills
(a ten-minute monologue about a couch
goes here) so I ended up buying a new couch
my first job was with Caterpillar but
after ten years he left and went to work
down’t Port Arthur now if you’re ever
down our way be sure to stop by
we’d sure be glad to have you come on by
We need to go I’ve got to take my pills


[The morning’s interrupted projects and chores
Are resumed, but somehow in a milieu
Of existential despair.]

Wednesday, May 9, 2018

Some Observations on the Habits of the American Cardinal - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Some Observations on the Habits of the American Cardinal

The Cardinal knows that he is a pretty bird
Splendidly attired in feathers bright and gay
He publishes loudly; he will be heard
Among the squawks of mockingbird and jay

He gobbles and scatters husks, rusks, and seeds
In self-indulgent abandonment
He ignores all others in his wants and needs
They’re secular birds; they can take a hint

The Cardinal certainly loves to be seen
At the public feeder in all his pride
Attentive to fashions, and always keen
For the Best Birds to be posed at his side

But then one day

A few remnant feathers, a ripped cardinal’s hat -
He seems to have forgotten the watchful cat


From Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play, 2014, available from amazon

Tuesday, May 8, 2018

"Why Aren't You in Class? Who's Your Teacher?" - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

“Why Aren’t You in Class? Who’s Your Teacher?”

No one seems to care; no one really listens
If you don’t play football, baseball, or basketball
Nobody cares. Most teachers don’t know me
And I don’t know them. We need orange jumpsuits

You can’t ever talk to the principal;
He’s too busy, and if you do, he finds
Something wrong with you, and gives you a sermon
Maybe his Jesus loves me, but he sure doesn’t

The assistant principal doesn’t know us
Or care about us; she just screams at us
Unless you’re an athlete. She likes athletes
Everybody just seems so uncomfortable

Or like they don’t want to be here…

“WHY AREN’T YOU IN CLASS?! WHO’S YOUR TEACHER?!”

Monday, May 7, 2018

Contra William Carlos Williams - a rather boring poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Contra William Carlos Williams

The only realism in art is of the imagination. It is only thus that the work
escapes plagiarism after nature and becomes a creation.

-Spring and All, p. 35

A leaf sometimes might seem to be a bee
Afloat upon the humming summer air
The tiny tree-ness of some greater Tree
Or brolly of a fairy-lady fair

A leaf may be presented as a shield
In chlorophyllic marching order trimmed
Its veins as dents received upon the field
The eye of each woody cell dying and dimmed

But even so

In this, inter-warriors, come not to grief
For in the end, a leaf is still a leaf

Sunday, May 6, 2018

Dreamcatchers Along a Navajo Road - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Dreamcatchers Along a Navajo Road

“…the war…often seems to have happened to someone else.”

-C. S. Lewis, Surprised by Joy

A pickup truck beside a Navajo road
Tables of souvenirs, a Thermos of coffee
Clotheslines of dreamcatchers catching the sun
For now; the dreams must wait for sleepless hours

“You were in Viet-Nam,” the old man said
To another old man. No mystery;
He simply took a chance to make a sale
And did, for both had known the Vam Co Tay

Old men along the road, catchers of dreams
Who burned their chances in the long ago

Saturday, May 5, 2018

Thoughts of a Man Deferentially Silent During a Conversation Between his Daughter and his Wife - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Thoughts of a Man Deferentially Silent
During a Conversation Between his Daughter and his Wife

How is it that a man can live a long
And happy life in the service of God
And humanity without ever having made
A deep study of the cultivation
Of eyelashes?

Friday, May 4, 2018

0300, and all is not well - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

0300, and all is not well

“…or if we must be wakeful, cheerful…”
-from St. Thomas More’s evening prayer in A Man for all Seasons

Soft, healing sleep now rolls away, away
One’s senses flicker unreliably
The electronic weather panel glows
The CPAP whispers a leaking-air hissssssss

Awake. And why? The day was cruel enough
And now the night reproaches with things done
And things not done, all mixed in raw reproach
Life-choices laughing, mocking, taunting

Perhaps sleepless Macbeth can tell us why
With mirth displaced, all through these haunted hours

Thursday, May 3, 2018

When a Plan That Wasn't Made Doesn't Come Together - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

When a Plan That Wasn’t Made Doesn’t Come Together

One loves it when a plan that wasn’t made
Doesn’t come together in a hall that wasn’t hired
By a man who was never told to hire
The hall by a committee that never met

And thus the event which was never held
Was not postponed by the man never told
To postpone the event that was never planned
By a committee that never met anywhere

One loves it when a plan that wasn’t made
Leaves one at peace with book and pipe and Scotch

Wednesday, May 2, 2018

The Tragic Death of a New World Vulture - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The Tragic Death of a New World Vulture

Cruisin’ best speed, foot lightly on the gas
But suddenly, alarm, alack, alas!
Around a curve, vultures lunching en masse
(On ‘possum de jour, a rotting, sodden mass)
One panicked bird leaped up to fly and pass
But wobble-crashed into the windshield glass
He bumped, he bounced, he bonked upon his (brass)
His life flailed out among the roadside grass

Tuesday, May 1, 2018

Off the Beaten Cliche' - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Off the Beaten Cliché

Upon Reading Literary Reviews

Off the beaten path – is that part of the trail
That was blazed after the door to the future
Was unlocked with the key of somethingness
As an imaginative entrée, hmmmmmmm?

How dangerous it now must be to walk
Beneath that stress-fractured ceiling of glass
Paving the way that was blazed and unlocked
With the key to the future where dreams live

The oppressed voiceless up in champagne class
In resistance to the something-archy

And let The People yawn “iconic”