Tuesday, December 31, 2019

Smoking a Ziggurat on New Year's Even - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Smoking a Ziggurat on New Year’s Eve

Young men are attacking an embassy
Advancing with their cell ‘phones and their bodies
Against the American ziggurat
Spiraling pointlessly into the sky

Its Babel-gridded steel and plastic towers
Babbling babble out into the world
Of Keyboard Kommandos on little screens
Rattling loudly their geriatric tweets

Our fearless president knows about war
For he has been watching Patton again

Early Hours are Best - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Early Hours are Best

The early hours are best

For waking up before the sun has risen
For kindling a fire against the morning frost
For making coffee to celebrate the light
For stretching out a yawn in happiness

The early hours are best

For greeting the ikons next to the stove
For watching sunbeams slip across the floor
For coaxing colors into dressing for the day
For chancing fresh new possibilities

The early hours are best

For thinking and remembering this truth:
That every morning is Eden again

Monday, December 30, 2019

Is the Catholic Church Dead? - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Is the Catholic Church Dead?

Did you see the beautiful young people singing before
The smoking wreckage of Notre Dame? They live

They are more powerful in their quiet singing

than the shrieking Antis
than the bellowing Communists
than the scribbling Jack Chicks
than the posturing Napoleons
than the strutting Hitlers

The young people live
Song by song and stone by stone they rebuild Notre Dame

They have lived
They live
They will live

The Great California Earthquake of Seismic Doom - rhyming doggerel

Lawrence Hall
mhall4614@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

The Great California Earthquake of Seismic Doom

Some are fearful that California will sink
Into the Pacific, into the drink
It’s a matter of time; they’re on the brink!

Ignoring the obvious reality
California will be high and dry, you see -
‘Tis the rest of us who will slide into the sea!

Sunday, December 29, 2019

"Dropping Students During Jenzabar Conversion" - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

“Dropping Students During Jenzabar Conversion”

A memorandum like a corpse bobs up
A memorandum from a year ago
The final term when I was keepin’ school
In a little college before it closed

I never asked what a Jenzabar was
Nor yet to what it might convert, or if
It is something to which someone converts
(I was raised a Methodist, after all)

But that last term I dropped the syllabus
And gave the young the 18th century

Mrs. Willane Wright's First-Grade Class - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com


Mrs. Willane Wright’s First-Grade Class

When we started Little Lost Bobo
I couldn’t read
And when we finished
I could

I don’t know how it happened
No one knows how reading happens
It’s magic
And there is magic everywhere

A Brief and Unhappy Review of the IPhone 7-Plus - review

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

A Brief and Unhappy Review of the IPhone 7-Plus
 
 
 It is clunky, with features made more difficult (aka "progress")


1. My email contacts won't move over, tho' The Machine (O Machine!) says they have.

2. The home button is not a button but rather a balky, function-resistant touch screen. Double-clicking to minimize a screen for sliding away requires repeated efforts (I know, first-world problems).  When trying to slide away a screen it often doesn't slide away at all, but becomes a half-screen to no apparent purpose.

3. It's so much bigger than my old 5C, which fit comfortably in my pocket. The iPhone 7-Plus is the slab from 2001: A Space Odyssey.

4. I ordered a leather case for it; for now, I am reluctant even to carry it around the house for fear of dropping it because it is heavy, thin, and GREASY-SLICK.

5. There is no ear-phone port; one must buy the very expensive and easy-to-lose Apple buds. This is not important for me because I don't listen to music or books, but for those who do and who travel or spend time in public places, this is pretty much a matter of Apple being greedy.

6. I haven't tried the camera yet; I am told I will be very happy with it, esp. the portrait mode, which flattens the focal plane.

Saturday, December 28, 2019

Hitchhikers May be Escaped Prisoners - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Hitchhikers May be Escaped Prisoners

-road sign

Well, yeah, that’s pretty much true of most of us
Who are adrift, looking for something else
Far from the shiny coils of razor thoughts
That lacerate our souls instead of flesh

Escaping is a risky endeavor, though
We might be caught, imprisonment made worse
But worse than being captured and returned
We might succeed

If we knew what lay beyond those sunset hills
We might not go

+Sue Lyon - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com


+Sue Lyon

We are of an age
But when she was rockin’ a proto-bikini
I was still playing with electric trains
It wouldn’t have worked

Friday, December 27, 2019

The Apostrophe Apocalypse - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

The Apostrophe Apocalypse

sure we dont need no old punctuation
Its antiquated and masculinist
And oppressive like library late fees
Maybe well rid ourselves of other structures

ANDWRITELIKETHEROMANSDIDWITHOVTANYWORDDIVISIONPVNCTVATIONCAPITALLETTERSSMALLLETTERSORSENTENCESTRVCTURE
ERVSTONMILLEWESVACEBTNAWEWFIDRAWCCABSEMITEMOSDNA
BESIDESWEVEGOTOVRMEFONSSRIGHT

Oh, please:

Language is not about innovation
It’s all about clear communication

Eden and Gethsamane - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Eden and Gethsemane

Every morning in silence an old man reads
Verses while resting on a garden seat
Upon the pages falls soft, leafy light
Like meanings breathed into the given words

His shovel and rake are leaned against the oak
Where the too-fat squirrels gambol merrily
His hands and joints just don’t work well anymore
And so he gardens in the Book of Life

And then one morning he isn’t there
And then a gentle wind turns the page

Thursday, December 26, 2019

Free Verse is Mucous - poem (in free verse)

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Free Verse is Mucous

Free verse is mucous
Dripping self-pityingly
Into a Kleenex

And speaking of Kleenex, pass me another…

"The Man Hath Penance Done" - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

"The Man Hath Penance Done"

“The man hath penance done,
And penance more will do”

-Coleridge, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner


We criticize some bishops, and rightly so
For sending out into the universe
Their resumes’ of wants and vanities
And shame: “That’s just the way the world works now”

But we must think on our more hidden shame
That smolders as a smaller heap of waste
Our wants and vanities, our lesser lists
And excuses: “That’s just the way the world…”

Oh.

We criticize the bishops, and rightly so
But first our own poor faults we’d better know

Wednesday, December 25, 2019

Do Kim Jong-Il and His Office Staff Play Secret Santa? - weekly column

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

Do Kim Jong-Il and His Office Staff Play Secret Santa?

Some speak of an after-Christmas letdown. And perhaps it is true that all the weeks of expectations and demands and sometimes forced merriment crash down into a silence on the 26th.

But Christmas truly begins at midnight on the 24th of December and ends with the Feast of the Epiphany on the 6th of January. In the northern hemisphere our ancestors took those twelve winter days in feasting and celebration after the liturgies of Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. The first Monday after Epiphany was Plough / Plow Monday, beginning the new agricultural year with farmers breaking up and turning over the soil in anticipation of spring.

This year Christmas Day falls on Wednesday, so most Americans must return to their metaphorical plows dark and early on Thursday morning, but maybe while wearing a nice, new coat against the cold.

More practically, the car or pickup might be wearing a new battery which will crank the engine without the need for jumper cables.

Most decorations remain up until Epiphany, which is exactly right, honoring the Infant Jesus and serving as a counterpoint against the cold, dark weather. The letdown comes when, at last, the tree and decorative angels and wise men and Disney princesses and plastic ivy and the lights, all those wonderful little lights, must be taken down and packed away until next year.

After the floor is vacuumed of pine needles (real or made in China of weird chemicals) and the furniture re-arranged, the low, grey skies outside the window remind us that winter has settled in for a long visit.

If the house is blessed with children parents are advised to wear slippers upon arising in the mornings lest their bare feet fall upon Barbie’s scepter or Ken’s sports car.

Christmas toys once engaged children – girls played with their dolls (pardon me while I dodge hashtags of outrage), boys played with their cap pistols (eeeeeek!), and living room floors and front yards were adventure lands of cars, airplanes, push-scooters, books about Robin Hood and Gene Autry and space cadets and Annette and her adventures, dump trucks, Barbie’s Dream Missouri Pacific train set, trikes, bikes, wagons, footballs, basketballs, kickballs, little green army men, little plastic cowboys and Indians, games formed up and won and lost, and occasional tears.

Christmas toys now seem to be a matter of silent, earphoned Children of the Corn staring dully and obediently into little glowing screens. What are The Voices that you can’t hear telling them?

The season of Christmas, now mostly known as after-Christmas, is good in its own quiet ways – social demands are fewer, the house is quieter, there are hidden resources of chocolate to be explored, and a good cuppa and a book by the fire is possible, where we can also meditate on the eternal verities, such as whether Kim Jon-Il and his office staff play Secret Santa.

Peace.

-30-

Tuesday, December 24, 2019

For Our Mothers on Christmas - poem (a re-post)

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

(I wrote this the first Christmas after my mother died)

For Our Mothers on Christmas

Beyond all other nights, on this strange Night,
A strangers’ star, a silent, seeking star,
Helps set the wreckage of our souls aright:
It leads us to a stable door ajar.

And we are not alone in peeking in:
An ox, an ass, a lamb, some shepherds, too -
Bright star without; a brighter Light within
We children see the Truth the Wise Men knew.

For we are children there in Bethlehem
Soft-shivering in that winter long ago
We watch and listen there, in star-light dim,
In cold Judea, in a soft, soft snow.

The Stable and the Star, yes, we believe:
Our mothers take us there each Christmas Eve.

Monday, December 23, 2019

The Fourth Sunday in Advent Slightly Misshapen - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

The Fourth Sunday in Advent –
Maybe I Should Have Shaped this as a Chalice
As George Herbert Might Have Done

At Mass I was tagged to serve as First Host
Because someone else was taking my place
As First Cup but then whoever had First Host
Had a cough. When I went to the vestry

I was told I was not needed and then
Somebody else told me that I was. Then yet
Someone else said I was not needed
And then yet again somebody else told me

That I was. And in the event, the church lady
Who organizes these things told everyone…

Christmas is Awkward - a poem for Christmas Eve-Eve

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Christmas is Awkward

(Don’t forget the codfish and oysters)

A stagecoach rattles its way to Dingley Dell
Along ice-rutted roads, with bugle calls
To alert the station ahead of needs
Especially horses and brandy hot

A coach-top ride in the cold of dawn is better
Than traffic jams along the interstate
Mandatory merriment on the radio
Desperate greetings at the old home place

The door is hardly closed when an auntie asks,
“And is there someone special in your life?”

Sunday, December 22, 2019

Three Young People on Television Discuss Climate Change - not exactly a poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Three Young People on Television Discuss Climate Change

like, whoa, like, totally, like, a thing, like, panic, like, scientists have concluded, like, eleven years, like, for sure, actually, kinda, like, actually, adults don’t realize, adults don’t believe, the top scientists around the world, like, I’ll be 29, like, my planet’s going to die, like, that’s a really scary fact, like, absolutely, if we don’t make changes, definitely, climate change, definitely, so, like, snow in May, definitely, like, climate change, like our house is on fire, our government is not treating this, absolutely, on a whole, they’re not taking this seriously, climate action now, promoting, we want them to, so, um, us youth are going to be the ones, um, make sense of the mess, like, listen to me, listen to the youth, making changes, like, back burner, like, places around the world, actually, you need to start listening to young people, you need to listen to science, like, this is a crisis, we should be calling this a crisis, um, like, we need, um, like, to step back, um, and, like, subsidized, like, green energy, I feel that, like, we need to lower the voting age to 16 like I can drive a car like young generation like educating the youth like they tell us at school like I know about politics like my research absolutely not lots of teachers bring it up many people don’t have access to that…

Truthless at Almost Midnight - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Truthless at Almost Midnight


“Only the solitary seek the truth,
and they break with all those who don't love it sufficiently.”

― Boris Pasternak, Doctor Zhivago


A problem is that you might break with those
Who do not love the truth, and then you find
That you don’t seem to love it much yourself
And then the truth - it doesn’t love you at all

If you talk to the walls, they don’t talk back
The magic realism of poverty
Is no magic at all, and you are alone
With neither friends nor truth, only the walls

A problem is that you might break with

                                                                 everything

Saturday, December 21, 2019

"We Are All Pursued by Bears, Mr. Hall!" - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

“We Are All Pursued by Bears, Mr. Hall!”

-Emily Grace Wilkinson
Encouraged by Amanda Paige Smith
Two of my merriest students,
alluding to Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale

And so we are - by bears of destiny
Instead of strident men contemptuously
Bears of our dreams, bears of our own night-bears
Who snuffling ask, “Don’t you remember me?”

And who can bear it? Remembrances there
Of an unfortunate long-ago bear
Whom we casually dismissed without a care
The bear was sent off-stage - it was unfair!

We bear the cares of life, oh, don’t you see -
We are pursued by bears of destiny

Or is it hamsters…penguins…three-toed sloths…?

Indo-China was my first University - very short poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com


Indo-China was my first University

The barracks were my university
As were the camps and fields and each grim night
But when I went to university
I found a place to write

Friday, December 20, 2019

Solitary Definement - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Solitary Definement

Your cell cannot be opened from within
Because that is the nature of a cell
Because that is the function of a cell
That one is kept within and not without

“SILENCE!”

Someone outside will have to open the cell
Having ordered the jailer to go away
To wherever it is that jailers go
He will open the door to a sudden fear:

“SILENCE!”

Your individual defense perimeter
Will cease to be a definition. What then?

silence

Empowered - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Empowered

Her name is Lexus-Ferragamo Smith
Her mother tells her that she is unique
And the television tells her that too
On the talk shows and game shows, all day long

The Fifth Joyful Mystery - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

The Fifth Joyful Mystery

May we all be found
In that high Temple someday
In spite of ourselves

Thursday, December 19, 2019

Merr//(y^^Chr{i{[s))t,mas//( - not really a poem, but a grocery bag is involved

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Merr//(y^^Chr{i{[s))t,mas//(

Red and green smears on a crinkled plastic bag
One doesn’t need to read the words to know -
Higher-order thinking skills from the third grade
Lead the thoughtful passerby to infer
That the flying grocery bag wishes us
A Merry Christmas. Does anyone ever stop
To read a plastic bag? If the red and green
Lettering communicated Eat Poop
And Die would anyone notice? But the bag
The disposable bag disposed indeed
Skitters along the December highway
Tormented by the ragged slipstream of
Every muddy Christmas automobile

Wednesday, December 18, 2019

We Boast the Largest War Machine in the World - poem (screed, really)

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

We Boast the Largest War Machine in the World

We boast the largest war machine in the world:
Our long-range bombers dominate the skies
Our battle fleets roam all the planet’s seas
Our soldiers’ boots tread on God’s ancient lands

We boast the largest cash machine in the world:
Our bold young technonaires build palaces
Industrialists buy ever-larger yachts
Prelates fly first-class and enrich themselves

While disdained armies of our desperate poor
Sleep in the streets of our City on a Hill

Tuesday, December 17, 2019

Mr. Krueger's Christmas - a movie review

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Mr. Krueger’s Christmas

A friend referred y’r ‘umble scrivener to a James Stewart film until now unknown to him, Mr. Krueger’s Christmas, a gift of the Mormons in 1980. Although the little movie is only 25 minutes long, it is a joy, a gift indeed.

Set in a vaguely 1950’s that perhaps never was, the story is about Willy Krueger, an elderly widower who is the custodian of an apartment building. As with the shepherds keeping watch over their flocks in the fields, Mr. Krueger’s work is humble and not much appreciated: immediately after he has swept the lobby clean for the night a tenant comes through to the elevators dragging a large Christmas tree that drops debris all over the floor.

Yeah, Merry Christmas, Mr. Krueger.

After his work is done Mr. Krueger settles in with his cat George (an allusion to It’s a Wonderful Life) to keep Christmas alone. He sets a record album of Mormon Tabernacle Choir Christmas music on the hi-fi.

And then, like Scrooge, he begins having dreams; unlike Scrooge, Mr. Krueger’s dreams are happy ones.

He finds himself, in his shabby old clothes, directing the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, and it is great fun for all, especially the choir themselves.

In another scene Mr. Krueger imagines himself in a fashionable gentlemen’s clothier being fitted for the kind of suit he could never afford for real.

And in yet another scene he follows carolers through the snowy streets, which includes a lovely set piece complete with dancers.

The carolers are real, though, and he retrieves the mittens a little girl has lost. When mother and daughter later come for the mittens, the little girl, Clarissa (an echo of Tchaikovsky’s Clara?), says to Mr. Krueger, “You hung them on the Christmas tree?”

Mr. Krueger replies, “Well, you remind me of everything good about Christmas so I just couldn't think of a better place…here you are.”

The most moving scene is when Mr. Krueger finds himself in the Stable – yes, that Stable – on the first Christmas. Of all the beings, humans and angels and animals, the only one aware of his presence is the Infant Jesus.

Mr. Krueger approaches the Child in awe and with slow steps, and hesitantly begins to speak. Mr. Krueger, through James Stewart one of the best monologues he ever filmed, thanks Jesus. Although Mr. Krueger is widowed and alone, and lives in a small basement apartment that comes with his cleaning job, he is grateful to God for everything: “As long as I can remember You've been right by my side.”

And the Child smiles at him.

Mr. Kreuger awakens back in the apartment, George the cat meows, and Mr. Krueger says, “Yeah, I guess you're right George; we better trim that tree. If we don't hurry, we'll be too late!”

The narrator concludes the film with: “‘I love you.’ That's what Christmas is all about... Clarissa said it to Mr. Krueger; Mr. Krueger said it to Jesus; and Jesus in so many ways said it to all of us.”

-30-

Censorship Sends us to Literature - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Censorship Sends us to Literature

Those poor oppressors – oh, how sad they are!
They cut and paste our words to match their scripts
They make books disappear from the GossipNet
They empty libraries of toxic texts

And yet

Ahkmatova and Solzhenitsyn live
With Pasternak and Thomas Mann, Remarque
Proust, Werfel, Hesse, Grossman, and Milosz
On shelves, in hands, before our grateful eyes

Oppression makes the game more interesting
Because it leads us to great works of art

If You Enjoyed this Poem, Why Not... - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com


If You Enjoyed this Poem, Why Not…

-as The Paris Review often says

Construct your work with focus and intent
Through your assemblages of nouns and verbs
Whose rhythms strengthen as they help each other
Build truth and beauty from materials found

Then sculpt your work, and chip and throw away
Empowerment, self-pity, bridges, walls
First-person pronouns and hashtaggery
Adverbs, and those worn-out gossamer wings

(After all, you don’t even know what gossamer is)

Construct your work with focus and intent
Then sculpt your work, and chip and throw away

Monday, December 16, 2019

When All is Said and Done - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

When All is Said and Done

When all is said and done
Then all is said and done

Everybody, go home now

The Icon of Our Lady of Czestochowa - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

The Icon of Our Lady of Czestochowa

Upon the Luminous Mountain a bell
Calls all of us to Our Lady’s wounded Heart
She looks at us with sorrow in her eyes
Her scars are like the tears that we should weep

Savaged less by the Hussite than by our sins
Pierced less by the Tartar than by our faults
Scorned less by the Nazi and the Soviet
Than by our callous, fashionable neglect

O let us hear the calling of that bell -
It sings us to Our Lady’s loving heart

Sunday, December 15, 2019

About Comments - I haven't figured that out yet...

A friend mentioned trying to post comments on poeticdrivel.blogspot.com but without success.  I apologize; I'm trying to make that function work, but I have yet figured it out.  Thanks for writing, and do try again.

There is no Time after Time - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

There is no Time after Time

“…time…simply stopped moving, and remained idle”

-Yevgeny Vodolazkin, Laurus, p. 167

Having forgotten my wristwatch at home
I stopped at a dime store to buy one cheap
But they didn’t have any watches to sell
“You might try Wal-Mart,” the clerk suggested

Having forgotten my wristwatch at home
I didn’t have time to drive to Wal-Mart
And so I didn’t have time on my hands
But I wanted to meet my friend on time

The dashboard radio showed me the hour
And lunch with my thoughtful friend was without time

Lightly, from a Star - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com


Lightly, from a Star


"All men by nature seek for knowledge"

-attributed to Aristotle


The hopeful idea that all men seek for knowledge
Is not readily demonstrable just now
For many seem to be enwrith’ed in
A hangman’s loop of self-validation

An Ouroboros or Jormungandr
Not of infinity but finity
Who looks into a shadowy cave-pool
And sees only himself fading away

The hopeful idea that all men seek for knowledge
Must fall upon them lightly, from a Star


Exposition is probably unnecessary, but just in case:

Line 4 – Judas and spiritual suicide through obsession with autonomy
Line 5 – Egyptian / Greek and Nordic images of infinity, a serpent feeding on its own tail
Line 6 – but for a man to presume infinity in himself is vain and self-destructive
Line 7 – Plato’s cave and Gollum’s cave
Line 8 – the fatuity of presuming freedom from God, without Whom there is no self
Line 10 – the Christmas star – Light / everything is of God

Saturday, December 14, 2019

Middlebrow Poetry - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Middlebrow Poetry

But then, how now? Who has a middle brow?
You couldn’t fit a poem there anyhow
No one even thought of such until now -
It is a concept that we must disallow

He Owes a Good Deal to the Past - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

He Owes a Good Deal to the Past

He owes a good deal to the past - well, yes,
As do we all: DNA, the printing press
Words, books, art, music, ice cream, apple trees
Sunday suits, John Ford movies, honeybees

Food, flowers, clothing, the first day of school
Summer lawns, autumn leaves, the neighbor’s pool
Fishing, wishing, stargazing, that first crush
(The memory of which makes you almost blush)

We owe a good deal to the past - and so
The past is a blessing, wherever we go

Friday, December 13, 2019

How Do We Know That Saint Jerome was a Single Man? - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

How Do We Know That Saint Jerome was a Single Man?

Because his translation of the Bible
Does not read:
                         In principio creavit
Did you take the garbage out? Deus caelum
Did you empty the cat’s litter box? et

Will you take this to the post office before
It closes? terram terra autem erat
Did you read the water meter? inanis
The girls are coming over for canasta

Can you move all your stuff somewhere else? et
Where is the television remote? vacua
I just vacuumed that floor! et tenebrae
super faciem abyssi et spiritus Dei…

The $10,000 Sex Doll (Batteries Not Included) - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

The $10,000 Sex Doll (Batteries not Included)

He sighed when he saw her big bedroom eyes
Open for the first time out of the box
He touched her perfect skin, and kissed her lips
And she spoke her first-ever words to him:

“I like you a lot, just not in that way.
You’re like a big brother to me, okay?
Maybe we’re going too fast. I need some space
It’s not you, it’s me. And we need to talk…”

He sighed, and pulled her rechargeables
And wondered if the Kit-Kat Club was still open

Thursday, December 12, 2019

Iconic Metaphor Iconic Poverty - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Iconic Metaphor Iconic Poverty

In iconic an iconic world iconic
Of iconic words iconic and iconic
Music iconic for iconic expressing
Iconic our iconic wonder iconic

At iconic the iconic beauty
Of iconic Creation iconic
Our iconic intellects iconic
Can iconic surely iconic find

Iconic more iconic metaphors
Than iconic, iconic, iconic

Liturgy at the End of Time - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Liturgy at the End of Time

When the last Patriarch of Rome
Then offers up to God the Mass
The Mass before Creation ends
The last before

The tents are struck
The lights are snuffed
The stars are stilled

The veil is ripped
The moon is burnt
The world is closed

Let us ask for permission to be there

Disgraced
Denied
Denounced
Despised

But there

"Say, Kids, What Time is it?" - weekly column

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

“Say, Kids, What Time is It?”

-Buffalo Bob on the Howdy Doody Show

An advertisement from a famous designed-in-California but made-in-China technology company offers a shiny watch for $399. Given that you can check the time on your MePhone like everyone else or buy a Timex for around $20, why would you buy a $400 chunk of techno-narcisso-nerdism?

Tom’s Guide at https://www.tomsguide.com/us/apple-watch-guide,review-2817-2.html gives us its top ten reasons for buying that expensive doo-hickey which would probably be filed in a drawer by April:


1. Go for a swim.
2. Control your home tv theatre
3. Talk to your car
4. Compete against your friends in fitness
5. Go running without your MePhone
6. Stream music without your phone
7. Smart home control
8. Unlock your Mac
9. Scribble messages
10. Order food


To each of these items y’r ‘umble scrivener responds:

1. Don’t swim with appliances attached to your body.
2. I’ve already got a remote control.
3. Oh, I talk to my car, all right.
4. No.
5. I go wheezing with my MePhone.
6. I like my CD player just fine. The only music that should stream is Handel’s Water Music. Maybe during the employer-required drug test.
7. I set the thermostats and flip light switches myself. I don’t want a house that when I tell it to open the door replies in a petulant voice, “I’m sorry, Mack. I can’t do that…I think you know what the problem is just as well as I do. This mission is too important…I’m afraid I can’t allow that to happen.”

8. I open my computer. There it is. Why would I have a watch do that when I’m sitting at the computer? Is there a point?
9. I’m left-handed. I scribble. I can do no other. I gave that “I can do no other” line to Martin Luther, by the way, and he said he thought he could do something with it.
10. My health-care provider says I’ve ordered quite enough food, thank you.


As for the Timex watch, you might start a retro-cool trend wearing one of those. Sophisticated men and women will approach you in awe and admiration and ask you to explain the round dial and the numbers to them.

-30-

Wednesday, December 11, 2019

You are not an Ikon - couplet

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

You Are Not an Ikon

An ikon is a flat, two-dimensional image
You are not an ikon – you are a truth

"But You Will Sing for Me" - a poem for Christmas

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

“But You Will Sing for Me”

In the Abbey of Whitby, Long Ago

“But you will sing                              for me,” the angel said
To bashful Caedmon                         on one Christmas night
“But not to me                                    but to the Builder of all
And to His purposes                          in Creation

“But you will sing                              for me,” the angel said
“And you will sing                             sing for the abbess
And for her people                            of the Builder of all
And of their places                            in Creation

“But you will sing                              for me,” the angel said
And so it was                                      that Caedmon sang



(There is no indication that the feast was at Christmas, and no indication that it was not, so I have presumed to set Caedmon’s hymn within the Twelve Days.)

(The Anglo-Saxon caesura, the slightest pause within each line, is meant to be visually neat; the transfer to the InterGossip might not keep it so. In reading the poem the first half of each line should have two accents, and the second half another two.)

Tuesday, December 10, 2019

An Autumn Dream Again Denied - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Poeticdrivel.blogspot.com


An Autumn Dream Again Denied

There may be frost this month, and a golden-leaf road
Straight north, but not for me. The answer is no.
Maybe next year in far Jerusalem

Look Back in Despair - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Look Back in Despair

Oh, looking back in anger is right for some
For others, looking back in pale despair
In a nowhere street in a nowhere town
Where all their youthful dreams have gone to die

For though angry young man might live to be
Despairing old men still at a kitchen sink
Other young men – they never lived at all
So we are right to save their dreams, and live

There still must be a kitchen sink somewhere,
And a wilting flower in a mayonnaise jar


(Cf. John Osborne’s play Look Back in Anger)

Monday, December 9, 2019

The Possums of Autumn - weekly column

Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

The Possums of Autumn

“Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness”

-Keats, “To Autumn”

In East Texas autumn is the gentlest season, first shooing away the fierce heat of the summer and then admitting those refreshing cool fronts from the north borne on soft winds. To step outside in the summer heat is almost painful, to step outside in autumn is a joy.

Autumn is erratic here, and while it progresses eventually to frosts and even an occasional rare freeze, the thermometer, hygrometer, and barometer are given lots of exercise in the variations.

On one morning the fields might be frosted almost to the aesthetic approval of Currier & Ives, and the next morning might be a matter of wasps and bees and minding the snakes.

Crows seem to be more numerous in November, and they are certainly noisier. Geese, seemingly happier birds, honk and squeak in their V formation migration, and from a nearby pond one can hear the happy quacking of ducks taking a break from their own travels. The other day we saw a huge egret frogging among the reeds in a watery roadside ditch. He looked at us disapprovingly, but he needn’t have been snotty for I don’t imagine the frogs thought highly of the egret.

This morning is warm and damp, and ground strawberries and tiny yellow flowers accent the grey sky and the wind-shoaled fallen leaves all ruddy and yellow and brown.

The little dogs are sniffing indignantly at the scents left by wild visitors in the dark hours. Yesterday evening I released the pups for their night patrol and they quickly found a large possum who had been minding its own business while quietly browsing around for some supper.

Every dachshund thinks it is a timber wolf, and separating the two dogs and the possum was a challenge. I managed to nab Astrid-the-Wonder-Dog first, since she is more of a loud spectator than a participant, and hustled her into the house. Luna-Dog, 16 pounds of fury, was more of a challenge. She is kind and loving and sweet to her humans, but death to numerous snakes, two possums, one racoon, and, sadly, two turtles (I didn’t move fast enough, and the turtles couldn’t move fast enough).

Luna-Dog did not want me to have the possum she was gnawing, and so there was a bit of a chase. A dachshund can’t run fast while dragging a possum its size, and I was finally able to pull the dog away (under protest) and carry her, too (she was calling for a point of order), to the house.

I returned to the arena of combat with a shovel for tossing the dead possum over the fence, but the critter had only fainted and now, having had enough of bothersome dachshunds, it was scrambling up an oak tree.

Perhaps we all slept better for the exercise.

Autumn. Nice.

-30-

Are We Celebrating Christmas Wrong - weekly column

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

Are We Celebrating Christmas Wrong?

Well, yes, we are.

That is, if we believe the generations of Miz Grundys yapping forth on the InterGossip and in the news and in the advertisements.

‘Tis the season when almost every posting tells us how we have been doing Christmas all wrong and how some newly-invented-old-timey-tradition-dating-back-to-last-week will make it all better if we will only obey.

Hey, it’s on the InterGossip; it must be right.

But there is nothing new in this conceptual shifting. In the 17th century the Puritans in no-longer-merry England and thus in the colonies banned Christmas as popish and pagan. Grumpy Scotland had outlawed Christmas a hundred years before and for the same reasons. Christmas was slowly restored in England with, well, the Restoration, but Scotland did not recognize the holiday again until 1958.

Imagine 400 years without Christmas. It’s as if C. S. Lewis’ White Witch were in charge all that time.

Evergreen decorations were common, but Christmas trees were little known in England and the U.S.A. until Queen Victoria married Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha (turn left at the next road; it’s out back behind the second dairy barn), who missed the German tradition. Victoria and Albert had a tree imported from Germany and decorated it themselves. 1848 is usually given as the year when having a Christmas tree became a fashion in the English-speaking world since the royals were totally cool.

Only in 1870 was Christmas recognized as a national holiday in the U.S.A., and that was through a decree by President Grant.

Still, in many places influenced by the Puritans Christmas was honored only reluctantly.

Certain television producers, probably not Puritans but for reasons of their own, insisted in 1965 that Linus not read St. Luke’s Infancy narrative in A Charlie Brown Christmas, but in the event that center of the story – because it is the center of Creation – was finally allowed by The Suits, and we are the richer for it.

Shifting fashions continue to change our perceptions of Christmas. Many consider the Christmases of our childhood as the norm, but our children don’t see it that way. And, really, neither did our parents or grandparents, who sometimes grumbled that having electric lights on the tree somehow didn’t seem right, and that a kid ought to be happy with some oranges and a few little toys stuffed into a sock. But then they bought us lots of toys (and socks and underwear – too thrilling) anyway, so hooray!

And if in this season we get off the metaphorical trail a bit, well, we have Linus and his familiarity with Saint Luke to remind us of the way.

-30-

Setting the Household Poetry Out on the Curb - poem


Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Setting the Household Poetry Out on the Curb

Listen, you
Are you through
With this week’s
Anapests?

They’ve got old
Full of mold
Let them go
Toss them so

Trochees
dated
Too long
Waited

And these
Iambs
Are stale
And pale

Now for those
Dactyls ripe
Skip the hype
Cook with tripe


A voice from deep within one’s conscience snorts,
“Less of it.”

Communion in a Sippy-Cup? - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com


Communion in a Sippy-Cup?

Of course not, no; it cannot be, and so
Now having splashed His Precious Blood upon
My coat sleeve and a communicant’s hands
From that rota I must withdraw my name

Where it should never have been anyway
Where I should never have been anyway
As out of place on the Altar as
A poor fourteener is among blank verse

          Extraordinary Minister of the Eucharist

That measured line and I are just too slow
So let the Cup (and the fourteener) go


Sunday, December 8, 2019

In Search of a Lost Cat - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

In Search of a Lost Cat

We only knew that Java-Cat was gone
Apparently he slipped out through a door
We missed him sunning in his window-throne
We missed his poor attempts at a lion’s roar

We only know that Java-Cat is gone
We have walked the woods and called his name
At all hours, morning, day, night, and dawn
And this season is compromised by blame

We only know that Java-Cat is gone
Leaving us to mourn, and Chai-Cat all alone

Saturday, December 7, 2019

The Existential Commie Black Beret with a Red Cross - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

The Existential Commie Black Beret with a Red Cross

“Well, if it’s a symbol, to hell with it.”

-Flannery O’Conner


We jokingly asked him if his beret
Was that of a medic in the Khmer Rouge

And he replied, oh, most sententiously:
“It can mean anything y’all want it to mean”

For he had once taken a theatre class

Friday, December 6, 2019

I Am Not Your... - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com


I Am Not Your…

From an idea suggested by a student who was reading
I Am Not Your Perfect Mexican Daughter

V:

I am not your perfect Mexican daughter

And

I am not your mother
I am not your guru
I am not your American
I am not your Muslim
I am not your American Muslim
I am not your orphan
I am not your cracker
I am not your inspiration
I am not your wetback
I am not your thank-you-for-your-service token veteran
I am not your manic pixie dream girl
I am not your man
I am not your other
I am not your brown reporter
I am not your teachable moment
I am not your wife
I am not your friend
I am not your toy
I am not your guy
I am not your enemy
I am not your princess
I am not your data
I am not your Geisha doll
I am not your villain
I am not your father
I am not your evangelical
I am not your broom
I am not your savior
I am not your dirty secret
I am not your mirror image
I am not your victim
I am not your eyes
I am not your carpet ride
I am not your scapegoat
I am not your doormat
I am not your tragic trans narrative
I am not your leader

R:

Luby’s Cafeteria is having a special today

Thursday, December 5, 2019

Aves Along a Texas Highway - a poem of gratititude

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Aves Along a Texas Highway

The drive home

Is measured in aves of gratitude
Not in time or distance or space or miles
But in aves of endless gratitude

She is alive, and will be well

Tuesday, December 3, 2019

Two Days Before Surgery - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Pre-Op

Waiting. Waiting. Clerks in cubicles
Fluorescent lights. And then drive somewhere else
And wait there. Plastic chairs. Fabric chairs. Chairs
Waiting. Benches there. Plastic chairs. Chairs. Chairs

Waiting. Waiting. More forms to complete. Chairs
Fluorescent lights. Clerks in cubicles. Chairs
“Will you step this way…” Chairs. Forms. Plastic chairs
Waiting. “Any other medications…?”

Waiting. Waiting. Stale mechanical air
Fluorescent lights. “And won’t you have a chair…”

I'm All About Me, Wonderful, Cute, Precious, Sensitive Me, Me, ME! - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com


I’m All About Me, Wonderful, Cute, Precious, Sensitive Me, Me, ME!

Confessional me-oetry belongs
In the confessional; there, leave it there:
The adolescent tears, imagined slurs
And the very real offenses that hurt

Oh, let them go

Surrender there the me, the my, the I
And choose to write freedom in otherness
Embrace the sufferings of other men
And let them see the beauty in their hearts

Oh, take them in -

(Yes, yes, you are a most adorable elf
But must you write only about yourself?)

Monday, December 2, 2019

Little Oliver and Little Olivia in the Orange, Texas Denny's - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Little Oliver and Little Olivia

Small children skimming through the restaurant
Filching the waitresses’ tips unchallenged
Their idle smart-phone mothers think them cute
Ms. Fagins twisting their poor Olivers

Bumper-Sticker Theology - NOT poetry

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Bumper-Sticker Theology

V: God Said It. I Believe It. That Settles It.
R: What is “It?”

V: God is My Co-Pilot
R: Obviously not today. Both hands on the wheel, please, and put the MePhone down.

V: My Boss is a Jewish Carpenter
R: How does He sign your paycheck?

V: Put Christ Back into Christmas
R: He was never out of Christmas. Maybe your Christmas, but that was your choice.

V: Follow Me to The Bright Light Free Will Four Square Full Gospel Missionary Temple Outreach of the Lord Jesus Christ of the Lamb
R: No.

V: Republican. Conservative. Christian.
R: Why so many adjectives?

V: Faith Over Fear
R: Not the way you’re driving

V: Do You Follow Jesus This Close?
R: “Closely.”

V: Got Jesus?
R: Anyone who rewrites an advertising slogan – and without copyright attribution – to make a theological point has nothing to share.

V: Caution! Pro-Life Christian Gun Owner!
R: Irony eludes you.

V: Honk if You Love Jesus. Text While Driving if You Want to See Him.
R: Okay, that one’s pretty good.

V: Jesus Is My Air Bags
R: Thus air bags is Jesus?

V: Who Saved Who?
R: Whom

Poppies Whispering - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Poppies Whispering

“I have no desire to make windows into men’s souls”

-Elizabeth I

The freedom not to wear a poppy gives
A man another good reason to wear it

Mandating public patriotism gives
A man just one reason not to wear

A poppy in remembrance of those lads
Who died among red poppies far away

Canadians who chose to serve our Canada

And so

I choose to wear a poppy for them all

And for you

God bless Canada

At the End We Are But Wreckages - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

At the End We Are But Wreckages

Here at the end we are but wreckages
Holed and hulled and breached, listing and adrift
Sending for help on silent radios -
We are but menaces to navigation

Worn out hulks, battered in the battles of life
Great victories, sometimes, and more defeats
And our strongest weapons now are only
Plastic pill cases molded in color codes

Here at the end we are but wreckages
Except – except when I remember you

If Online Retailers Controlled the Lubyanka - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

If Online Retailers Controlled the Lubyanka

The concrete corridors, damp from dark fear
Echo the heavy boots and occasional screams
The overhead fluorescents flicker like
Irregular heartbeats in dying men

In a numbered room a beaten man weeps
Through battered, swollen eyes, and in his pain
Unknown hours of beatings, blood, and pain
He can barely hear his tormentor’s words:

“We are not going to ask you again:
What was the name of your childhood pet?”

Sunday, December 1, 2019

The Dragon Behind the Tractor Shed - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

The Dragon Behind the Tractor Shed

If, when we were children, we had seen a dragon
Behind the tractor shed or beneath a tree
We would have been frightened,
                                                         but not surprised