Tuesday, November 30, 2021

Las Vegas, Geographically Speaking - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Las Vegas, Geographically Speaking

 

Upon watching the 1960 Ocean’s Eleven

 

That oasis of Cool no longer exists

Except as road markers and artifacts

All else is gone: cigarette girls, ashtrays

Rotary telephones, Ford Galaxies

 

The glamour of cocktail dresses and tailored suits

Xanadu with electric lights and Scotch

Heliopolis with showgirls and cards

So Cool that no one ever called it Cool

 

And like those fragments of Ozymandias

All of that Cool is lost among the sands

Monday, November 29, 2021

A Man and His Dog at Sunday Mass - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

A Man and His Dog at Sunday Mass

 

And in what landscape of disaster
Has your unhappy spirit lost its road?

 

-Thomas Merton, “For my Brother - Missing in Action 1943”

 

His pilgrimage on earth is in his van

His clapped-out van, his one-man caravan

With an air-conditioner duct-taped in back

And his old dog next to him in the seat

 

At Mass he sits in back with his good old dog

His clothes are warm, he gets enough to eat

And, sure, a man and dog who approach their God

Together are good and faithful servants indeed

 

His pilgrimage on earth is in his van

His clapped-out van, his one-man caravan

 

And there is a dog

Sunday, November 28, 2021

We'll Trade You One Stealth Fighter for a Billion Vaccine Jabs - weekly column, 11,28.2021

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

We’ll Trade You One Stealth Fighter for a Billion Vaccine Jabs

 

A number of sources, including the Guardian (A new Covid variant is no surprise when rich countries are hoarding vaccines | Gordon Brown | The Guardian) are blaming the new Covid variants on “rich countries” (that invariably means you and me) for hoarding vaccines.

 

Poor countries, you see, can’t get any vaccines because Canada, the U.S., the U.K., and France are keeping them all, rather like Gollum clutching that ring while chanting, “My precious! My precious!”

 

I suppose I’d better dig up those sealed barrels of vaccines I buried in my back yard and turn them over to Medicins sans Frontieres (who also blame us) with an abject apology.

 

And you, good friends, need to check your closets and cupboards for all those bottles of vaccines you’ve stockpiled next to pallets of toilet paper, bottled water, and the complete collection of Wheel of Fortune: The Lost Episodes. Gather all those vaccines and turn them over to the INTERPOL officers who will land at the nearest intersection in unmarked UN helicopters.

 

You can tell they’re UN helicopters because they’re unmarked.

 

In truth, I aver that I might be the only man in America who admits he doesn’t know doodlysquat about the coronavirus.  I know only this: I have occasion to sit in the same room with nurse practitioners, nurses, physicians, and physicians’ assistants, all of whom attended real medical schools, not The University of Google, not The University of Gossip, and not The University of Some Loudmouth on Television. I listen to what the nurse practitioners, nurses, physicians, and physicians’ assistants who are in the room with me tell me about all sorts of medical topics affecting my brief life on this earth, and I do what they recommend. They know medicine. I know them. I trust them. As Martin Luther (otherwise not one of my favorite people) said, “Here I stand; I can do no other.”

 

The only other medical thing I know is that the full-body scanner that beamed across me last summer in a room that looked like the bridge of the starship Enterprise had all sorts of pretty little lights on it and made soft, susurrant, soporific sounds that almost put me to sleep.

 

Oh, and I can operate a Band-Aid.

 

But that’s it.

 

Given my trust in professionals with whom I can speak face-to-face rather than screen-to-screen, I tend not to believe the metaphorical medical mudslides on the InterGossip. The idea that a gang of Snidely Whiplashes in Washington, Ottawa, London, and Paris are withholding vaccines from poor nations who don’t seem to be so poor that they can’t afford the latest weaponry appears to be just another variant on blaming others for one’s own failings.

 

Pharmaceuticals are developed and manufactured by companies interested in their profits. They want to sell drugs, not lock them away in a variant (so to speak) of Uncle Scrooge’s money vault. The leaders of companies and countries are not always the most ethical, but it is not in their interests, whether in profits or philanthropy, to withhold vaccines from other nations.

 

Beyond that, those nations who focus on accumulating weapons and Swiss bank accounts could probably vaccinate all their peoples against all sorts of diseases by foregoing a single new jet fighter.

 

But then, prudent budgeting should obtain here too: how many luxury aircraft and armored limousines does ONE president need?

 

-30-

 

The Taste of Covid - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

The Taste of Covid

 

“Never give in…”

 

-Mr. Churchill, 29 October 1941

 

Coffee is metallic, as is my morning toast

Most everything else is vague, fuzzy, and flat

As if the world needed a pinch of salt

And that’s okay; it’s good to be alive

 

They say that there’s another variant or wave

Named Mu or Omicron or maybe Bob

Slithering ashore through Grendelian mists

We take our jabs in defiance because

 

We all have casualty lists of friends we miss

That’s not okay, and so we will never give in

 

(Still, I don’t know why the coffee should be metallic)

Saturday, November 27, 2021

Advent - a Gift of Becoming - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com


Advent – a Gift of Becoming

“The old order changeth, yielding place to new”

-“The Coming of Arthur” and “The Passing of Arthur” in Idylls of the King

 

There is much to be said for Ordinary Time

Its very ordinariness is kind to us

The daily hours that end with the Vespers chime

Free of formation and pageantry

 

But Advent comes as part of the dance

Of seasons wheeling through the universe

And we must shift our thoughts back into time

In anticipation of the Nativity

 

In solitary splendor a wonderful Star

Gives us light for our pilgrimage renewed

Friday, November 26, 2021

Trytophan Dreams after Thanksgiving Dinner - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Tryptophan Dreams after Thanksgiving Dinner

 

(channeling our inner Dorothy Parker)

 

Sleepy now, from excess of meat and cup

But unlike the poor turkey, we will wake up!

Thursday, November 25, 2021

Autumn is Life Writing its Autobiography - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Autumn is Life Writing its Autobiography

 

Autumn is not the end of summer, nor yet

Is autumn the beginning of winter; it is

Itself. Autumn is not between anything

Autumn is the culmination of seasons

 

The seed that slept beneath winter’s cold death

Arose in spring, a resurrection of itself

And grew its summer strength through work and sweat

And in September finished, and mopped its brow

 

Surveying all its cosmography

Autumn is life writing its biography

Wednesday, November 24, 2021

Face Masks and Hippie Hymns - poem

Lawrence Hall

mhall46184@aol.com


Face Masks and Hippie Hymns

 

At Mass I breathe behind and through a mask

My custom still, one of the paper-faced few

Although one might with some good reason ask

If it serves much purpose in a crowded pew

 

Each humid exhalation clouds the lens

Of my eyeglasses so I can’t even read

But I’m sure I know how each lesson ends

Needless to say I’ve memorized the Creed

 

And to mask those sandwich hymns:

 

I make hidden faces when the soloist croons

Another of those awful hippie tunes

 

(Has anyone told the music director that the 1960’s are over?)

Tuesday, November 23, 2021

Book Reviewers Promote Freedom by Giving Orders - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Book Reviewers Promote Freedom by Giving Orders

 

“Obey me and be free!”

 

-Number Six in the Free for All episode of The Prisoner

 

The irony of the imperative in most reviews

Is to make a command that the reader must heed

Keeping in chains the literary muse:

You must read this must-read which you need to read

 

(now back to weaving tapestries of this and that)

Monday, November 22, 2021

The Number of the Beast is .556 - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

The Number of the Beast is .556

 

“This is my rifle. There are many like it”

Because they fall off assembly lines everywhere

Probably even in the Khyber Pass

And frankly, son, you don’t need the damned thing

 

A rifle is not your friend; it is a mechanical thing

A rifle is an engine of destruction

It is made for killing your fellow humans

The last one alive wins madness and guilt

 

You never made the first day of boot camp

          (neither did John Wayne)

You need to know what John Wayne never knew:

A .556 disintegrates a child

A .556 vaporizes your soul




A variant:


The Number of the Beast is .556

 

“This is my rifle. There are many like it”

Because they fall off assembly lines everywhere

Probably even in the Khyber Pass

And frankly, son, you don’t need the damned thing

 

A rifle is not your friend; it is a mechanical thing

A rifle is an engine of destruction

It is made for killing your fellow humans

The last one alive wins madness and guilt

 

You never made the first day of boot camp

          (neither did John Wayne)

You need to know what John Wayne never knew:

A .556 disintegrates a child

A .556 vaporizes your soul

 

If you finish recruit training and A.I.T.

And have your orders in hand

                                                then I’ll listen

 

But if you come back

                                                you’ll not want to talk

 


Sunday, November 21, 2021

Giving Thanks for all Our Thanksgiving - weekly column, 21 November 2021

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Giving Thanks for all Our Thanksgivings

 

For a child Thanksgiving is sort of like Christmas only without any toys. It’s interesting enough: lots of relatives come to dinner, and there’s turkey and “the good china,” but without Santa Claus and toys it’s not that big a thing.

 

Thanksgiving is also probably not a big thing among the First Nations.

 

The absence of toys and their distraction makes Thanksgiving a time when a child can more easily focus on the behavior of the adults in his (the pronoun is gender-neutral) life.

 

For one, there is always an uncle, sometimes a grandfather, who is convinced that everyone at the table is eager to hear about his latest symptoms and diagnoses.

 

Another helping of irritable bowel syndrome, anyone?

 

And there comes a Thanksgiving when the child realizes with a shock that some of the adults he has loved all his life don’t really like each other, or that an aunt or uncle who was here last year is “visiting friends” this year, and that topic is not mentioned further.

 

A painful moment is the remembrance of a beloved MeeMaw or PawPaw who was laughing and joking around the table last year and is now in Heaven with Jesus. And, yes, we spare a moment for happy memories and an awareness of the transitoriness of life.

 

The matter of the children’s table is awkward. A little kid loves it – it’s a rare occasion when the children sit together as a peer group with somewhat less adult supervision than usual. An occasional crepe-y arm hands across more turkey or rolls, and that’s close enough.

 

At the age of twelve or so a kid perceives that the children’s table now reflects a lower social status. A girl cousin of the same age gets to sit at the adult table and the boy is stuck with the rug-rats and an admonition to “watch” them.

 

Humiliation.

 

After the dessert, when the adults are enjoying their coffee and the heart-valve replacement stories arc through the air in one direction while the hip-transplant narratives are flying the other way, the young ‘uns can escape outside (“Don’t forget your coats!”). The little ones fling leaves and little plastic balls around, and the older ones share school stories and, perhaps, confess an attraction to a cute girl or guy in the sophomore class.

 

Once upon a time a child would never have left the table without asking the appropriate parent or grandparent for permission to do so. The last time this occurred was in Gatineau, Canada in 2005. The occasion was read into Hansard at the next Parliament.

 

And again, once upon a time a child would never have rejected the turkey, ham, several kinds of dressing, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, new potatoes, rolls, biscuits, pecan pie, apple pie, and other wonderful gifts of food prepared by loving hands with a plaintive cry of, “Can we go to town for pizza?”

 

Nor would an adult have asked about vegan options.

 

Such would have been dismissed as ungrateful by those who grew up hungry during the Depression and the Second World War.

 

But that generation is mostly gone now, and with them the core of that post-war world of industry, optimism, thrift, progress, a new openness among peoples, and wonderful hopes for the future.  

 

For them, simply to have survived and now at last to have work and enough food to eat would have been among their many reasons for giving thanks.

 

We do well to remember that, and to give thanks for them.

 

May your Thanksgiving be a happy one!

 

-30-

 

 

An Empty Cross - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

An Empty Cross

 

An empty cross?

                          There is no empty cross

Fragments of bone and flesh forever stain

The spikes, the wood, the cross, the bloody cross

Is not a cute designer collectable

 

An empty cross?

                          There is no empty cross

His crucifixion takes away our sins

But the bloodstains remind us

It was our sins that drove the spikes into Him

 

An empty cross?

                          There is no empty cross

There won’t be, not until the last day of all

Saturday, November 20, 2021

Renegades - poem

 

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Renegades

 

They sell themselves as precious Renegades

Two ossified establishment millionaires

As desperately cool as Nehru jackets

But don’t you fail to mind their copyrights

 

Renegades

 

Trademarks, podcasts, deluxe signed editions

They’re, like, authentic ‘n’ stuff, for a price

In carefully edited openness

They feel your pain and your credit card

 

Renegades

 

They wear suit coats with their collars open

How awesomely workin’ class hip is that!

 

Renegades

Friday, November 19, 2021

Thanksgiving Dinner at the Children's Table - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Thanksgiving Dinner at the Children’s Table

 

Thanksgiving is Christmas without any toys

And you get stuck at the children’s table

For more years than is strictly necessary

Because some extra old people show up

 

The uncle who has a diagnosis story

For every course, including the pies and cakes

Another helping of irritable bowel syndrome?

And the auntie who tries to hush him up

 

The cute second cousin you never met before

She’s your age but gets to sit at the Big Table

 

(And after her first glance she never looks

                   at you again)

Thursday, November 18, 2021

Thanksgiving Essentials are out of Stock - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Thanksgiving Essentials are out of Stock

 

-Thus saith the news

 

A house, a book, a dog, a good warm coat

A job, a ride, a friend, someone to love

A dream, a hope, a plan, coffee with you

A family around the table, something to eat

 

And gratitude - all the essentials are in stock

Wednesday, November 17, 2021

Upon Reading Bulgakov's THE MASTER AND MARGARITA - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Upon Reading Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita

 

Margarita flying naked over Moscow

She might have caught a cold doing that, you know

 

A big ol’ cat shooting a Browning Hi-Power

He was certainly amusing for an hour

 

The Secret Police were like the Keystone Kops

Not to be trusted even with traffic stops

 

And Pontius Pilate ordering a death

Almost with every other tortured breath

 

There were two burnings of the Master’s book

But yet at the end someone gave it look

 

The Master’s book…hmmmm…

 

I have finished this book; I thoughtfully read it

And I must confess that I just don’t get it

Tuesday, November 16, 2021

Ten Knots along a Cord - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Ten Knots along a Cord

 

A trewe swinkere and a good was he,

            Lyvynge in pees and parfit charitee

 

-Chaucer’s Prologue

 

See the plowman walking home from the fields

He plods along with the pace of centuries

There is no haste, for time hardly exists

Only the seasons, rolling like cosmic tides

 

And in his hand, ten knots along a cord

To count each Ave as it passes his lips

And through his heart and hopes and gratitude

His soul secure along the links of being

 

See the plowman dreaming home from the fields

His feet upon the earth, his head among the stars

Monday, November 15, 2021

It's Not Really an Assault Rifle 'Cause It's only Semi-Automatic - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

It’s Not Really an Assault Rifle ‘Cause It’s only Semi-Automatic

 

Once upon a time there was a stupid boy

He was seventeen. Someone gave him a gun

His mumsy drove him to another state

So he could hunt other people with his gun

 

See the boy hunt. Hunt, hunt, hunt

 

And he did. Be very quiet. He’s hunting Commies

But bullies wanted to take away his gun

And the boy was sad. So he shot the meanies

Bang, bang, bang. Take that, you rascally Liberals

 

Empowered, empowered, empowered

 

He had to go to court. He began to cry

Because they took away his big bang-bang

 

And his mumsy cried.

                                       But the dead can’t cry





Smith & Wesson™ – Empowering Americans since 1852©

Sunday, November 14, 2021

Wood Stoves and Thinking About Stuff - weekly column, 14 November 2021

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Wood Stoves and Thinking About Stuff

 

Every winter our old cast-iron wood heater was useful both as a source of heat and of conversation. During the long freeze of last winter, after we missed our flight to Cancun, the wood-burner was a necessity. After the worst of the cold passed the good old Birmingham heater, after some sixty years of service to several families, failed. A leg (the stove’s leg, not mine) crumbled, which led to a cascade effect, more pieces of iron falling to the brick base.

 

I bought a new stove, a small one I could afford, and friends Gary and Mickey worked a few hours heaving the old one out and the new one in. The most interesting part was fitting the stove pipe. Anyone who works with sheet metal and can keep his language clean is a champion.

 

The guys dollied the old heater to a concrete slab out back to replace the cheap chimenea that lasted something less than sixty years. 

 

Later I installed a remaining stove pipe segment to the Birmingham to help the draft and to keep more of the smoke up and away while sitting outside. Joining this one section to the heater required precision adjustments and careful fitting, which I skillfully and methodically accomplished by beating the (snot) out of it with a fence post. 

 

There was no one around to hear me speak…plainly…to it.

 

Friend Jake at American Firewood advised me where I could find a small grate, and on a cold evening I lit the new stove’s first fire in accordance with the instruction. The coating needs three different burnings for bonding with the iron, and I’m following that carefully. I also checked the fittings for smoke-leaks, and all is well. The new heater features a tight glass door and a clever new way of fluing the air, which results in a very efficient small fire that lasts for hours and whose heat lasts even longer. Nice.

 

Birmingham Stove and Range Company was in business from 1902 until 1903, and made lots of different cook stoves, wood heaters, and cast-iron cookware. One source (Birmingham Stove Company - Easy Access To Information Company (ninan.org)) says they invented the corn-shaped cornbread skillet. Birmingham Stove and Range did not have the cachet of, say, Vermont Castings™, but their products were less expensive and so more common in homes and railway stations and businesses all over America.

 

A properly installed wood heater is a good thing. It provides auxiliary heat and, in case of a power failure, it would make your house safely warm. You really do need to know something about the different kinds of wood and how they are dried and stored, and basic physics for lighting a fire safely. Beyond that, a wood heater does not require programming, cannot be hacked, and does not send you annoying messages about new software.

 

A wood heater smells of wood, one nature’s many types of incense, and the flames give you a center for thinking about stuff while sitting before it with a cup of coffee as the early winter night falls.

 

-30-

Okay, So It's the End of the World - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Okay, So It’s the End of the World

 

“What do ties matter, Jeeves, at a time like this?”

“There is no time, sir, at which ties do not matter.”

 

-P. G. Wodehouse

 

Okay, so what if this is the end of our world

Windblown sands where Ozymandias once ruled

Or dying like Charn in The Magician’s Nephew

Pale and sere under a fading red sun

 

Let us not meet it pajama’d on a couch

Videogaming upon a telescreen

And suddenly marveling that the power has failed

As a moving hand writes across the skies

 

If the world is going to end today

Let us dress properly for the occasion

Saturday, November 13, 2021

DeafCon 1 - nonsense

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

DeafCon 1

 

She said existential

I thought she said transcendental

She said she didn’t like her dentist anyway

Friday, November 12, 2021

An Executioner Feels Bad - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

An Executioner Feels Bad

 

One of the state’s executioners

Is feeling bad about what he does

He’s speaking out about PTSD

Sleeplessness and thoughts of suicide

 

Speaking out

 

Lethal drugs, poison gas, maybe firing squads

Hands as skillful as those of an abortionist

“None of us wanted to do it,” he says

But he does it. A ticket to promotion

 

Don’t do drugs, kids

 

The chief executioner gets to be a Commander

He doesn’t tell his children about his work

 

It’s for the children

Wednesday, November 10, 2021

Afghanistan, Graveyard of 19-year-olds - poem for Remembrance Day / Veterans' Day, first published in 2012 in THE ROAD TO MAGDALENA

Lawrence Hall

mhall46184@aol.com


Afghanistan,

Graveyard of 19-Year-Olds

 

Ghosts shriek in the wind from the Hindu Kush

Falling upon the lowlands in despair

Of any reality beyond death

In the blood-sodden sands where sinks all good

 

Walls, monuments, souls, hopes – all blow away

In the wreckage of long-fallen empires

Their detritus trod upon by tired men

Whose graves will be the howling dust of time

 

And yet the empire masters will return

And leave fresh offerings, remnants of the young:

A British Enfield, a Moghul’s lost shoe,

A cell phone silent beside the Great Khan’s skull

 

2012, The Road to Magdalena

Maslow's Hierarchy of Nerds - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Maslow’s Hierarchy of Nerds

 

Okay, I’m the nerd, not part of the hierarchy

But you are core of my hierarchy of needs

Where do I place you on the pyramid?

But I don’t place you at all – you are

 

You are a hierarchy of, well, you:

‘Way up around self-actualization

And definitely among belonging and love

And the base, and the peak, and the center -

 

You are my hierarchy of truth

You are my pyramid of love

Tuesday, November 9, 2021

I Dry My Armpits for No Man - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

I Dry My Armpits for No Man

 

They gather in their thousands, the obedient, the passive

To stand submissively before their master

And wave their arms in orgasmic submission

To leather and braids and electronic erections

 

They gather in their thousands, the obedient, the passive

Marked with the Sign of the Capitalist Credit Card

Eager to buy their overlord’s livery

To yield themselves to his contempt for them

 

They gather in their thousands, the obedient, the passive -

And cease to be

Monday, November 8, 2021

Boat! - rhyming couplet

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Boat!

 

“The fares are fixed, sir.”

 

-Boatman to St. Thomas More in A Man for All Seasons

 

If I don’t give the Boatman Charon a tip

Do I get out of going on that final trip?

Oh, Yeah, Kids These Days - weekly column 11.7.2021

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Oh, Yeah, Kids These Days

 

We can be reasonably sure that in 1939 parents in Canada and England and the rest of the Empire and the Dominions dismissed their teenaged children as lazy good-for-nothings without values or ambition. Kids these days, eh?

 

Similarly, we can be reasonably sure that in 1941 American parents wrote off their young’uns with much the same words. Kids these days, eh?

 

And that’s okay; those who survived the war dismissed their own children as idlers and slackers (which in my case was accurate). Kids these days, eh?

 

Last week a couple of sixteen-year-olds in Iowa were arrested for murdering a middle-aged woman, and the reactions on the InterGossip were both immediate and predictable, variations on the old “kids these days, eh?”

 

First of all, the thoughtful citizen will bear in mind the wisdom and logic in the Constitution – the two boys have been arrested, but an arrest is only a formal accusation, not a conviction. By the Grace of God, the InterGossip is not God, nor is it a court; it is mostly a bunch of grouchy old people yammering.

 

And second, even if these two boys committed the murder, they define nothing but their own errant behavior. They definitely do not define a generation because, Tom Brokaw notwithstanding, a generation cannot be defined. It can be stereotyped, but not defined.  As Margaret More asks in A Man for All Seasons, “What’s the man?” And we can add, “What’s the woman?”

 

Let us consider thirteen young Americans who are far more representative of the rising generation, thirteen young Americans who were killed last summer while serving humanity in helping refugees escape from Taliban-controlled Afghanistan.

 

We have all seen the photograph of Marine Corps Sergeant Nicole Gee cradling an infant amid the chaos at the airport in Kabul when everything fell apart.  The picture is not a government propaganda photograph; if it were it would be of better quality. This is just a snapshot one of her fellow Marines forwarded to her.  She sent it by email to her parents with the words, “I love my job!”

 

“I love my job.”

 

Those may have been the last words this United States Marine - with her hair tied back in a ponytail - said to her mom and dad.

 

She was only 23. Some of her fellow Marines were only 20. Kids these days, eh?

 

They might have been on the same bus route with our kids.

 

On the 26th of August Sergeant Gee and the others who were killed with her almost surely did not think of themselves as great Americans; they were too busy BEING great Americans. They would have thought of themselves as only doing their jobs in the heat and dust and violence of Afghanistan, helping civilians escape being murdered by the Taliban.

 

That’s what almost all young people would do. No one should dismiss any generation with cheap and shabby stereotypes. Your teenager and the goofy kid next door and the pimply oaf who can’t get your hamburger order right would risk their lives – and someday may well have to do so - to carry a baby amid the screams and terror and dust and heat to safety and then return to the perimeter for another child or young mother or old man or anyone who needed their help.

 

That’s what these thirteen young people did.

 

The oldest by far was Marine Corps Staff Sgt. Darin T. Hoover, 31, of Salt Lake City, Utah.  31 might seem old, but, yeah, he was young.

 

Marine Corps Sgt. Johanny Rosariopichardo, another woman Marine, 25, of Lawrence, Massachusetts

 

Marine Corps Sgt. Nicole L. Gee, 23, of Sacramento, California

 

Marine Corps Cpl. Hunter Lopez, 22, of Indio, California

 

Marine Corps Cpl. Daegan W. Page, 23, of Omaha, Nebraska

 

Marine Corps Cpl. Humberto A. Sanchez, 22, of Logansport, Indiana

 

Marine Corps Lance Cpl. David L. Espinoza, 20, of Rio Bravo, Texas

 

Marine Corps Lance Cpl. Jared M. Schmitz, 20, of St. Charles, Missouri

 

Marine Corps Lance Cpl. Rylee J. McCollum, 20, of Jackson, Wyoming

 

Marine Corps Lance Cpl. Dylan R. Merola, 20, of Rancho Cucamonga, California

 

Marine Corps Lance Cpl. Kareem M. Nikoui, 20, of Norco, California

 

Navy Hospitalman Maxton W. Soviak, 22, of Berlin Heights, Ohio

 

Army Staff Sgt. Ryan C. Knauss, 23, of Corryton, Tennessee.

 

Now there is a generation. They were killed in a scene of horror by a mad bomber who chose hate instead of love. His hate killed those 13 young Americans and wounded some 30 others who were saving lives, and killed and wounded possibly 200 or more Afghans.

 

One unhappy young man chose hate.  That poor (wretch) doesn’t define (poop).

 

But our young people chose love, the love Jesus spoke of when he said, “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”

 

And these young Americans gave up their lives for people they didn’t even know.

 

No greater love indeed.

 

We have spoken of these 13, but let us remember this: every young American in Kabul that day was saving lives – they were helping terrified people get to the airplanes, helping them to safety.

 

That is also the story of just about every American soldier, sailor, airman, Marine, or Coast Guard who ever served.

 

We absurd old people were once young – maybe when dinosaurs roamed the earth – and we know that every veteran and almost every American at some time has given up some of his own poor rations to help feed children, given up some of his time and sleep and effort in helping those who are hungry or displaced.

 

But that’s every generation’s story, to serve humanity. The exceptions are irrelevant. Dang it, we’re good, and we don’t allow idiots to define us.

 

In some way, in some place, in some time – as a soldier, a police officer, a volunteer firefighter, a paramedic, or as a good American civilian who stands tall when needed and helps the community in some way, all of us serve humanity. We may not be called to carry a child to safety from Kabul Airport or from a wrecked car or from a burning building, but we will surely be called to help feed children or teach children in Sunday School or kick in a little something for the Kirbyville Christian Outreach food pantry or help out with the elementary school’s reading program.

 

There’s an old Army National Guard recruiting slogan that says:

 

It wasn’t always easy

It wasn’t always fair

But when freedom called we answered

We were there

 

That’s who you are, and that’s who the kids are. Don’t dismiss them. Don't stereotype them. Don't underestimate them.

 

-30-

 

Sunday, November 7, 2021

Pontius Pilate and His Dog - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Pontius Pilate and His Dog

 

When a man’s worked all day in signing off

On having any number of his fellow men

Imprisoned, flogged, branded, imprisoned, or chained

He’s happy to come home to his good ol’ dog

 

The master whistles, his happy dog barks

Man and beast in happy concord meet

Playfully tussling in their mutual love

While the servants cringe and cower in fear

 

What difference if a man executes his brother

As long as he and his dog have each other?

 


The curious idea of Pontius Pilate having a dog to love is in Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita, p. 311 in the Penguin edition. The paragraph is almost as touching as Senator Vest’s courtroom speech, “Tribute to the Dog.”

Saturday, November 6, 2021

WHITE BREAD! I NEED SOME WHITE BREAD OVER HERE! - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

WHITE BREAD! I NEED SOME WHITE BREAD OVER HERE!

 

Pancake House on Crack Street II

With a Chorus of One Cook in Need of Some White Bread

 

A cold and dreary morning along Easy Street

The comforts of coffee and cholesterol

The senior special two fresh eggs your way

Farm fresh bacon or sausages your way

 

I NEED SOME WHITE BREAD OVER HERE! WHITE BREAD!

 

Down-home hash brown potatoes your way

Whole wheat toast with farm fresh butter your way

Fresh brewed Colombian coffee your way

“I’ll be with you in a minute, honey, okay?”

 

OVER HERE! I NEED SOME WHITE BREAD OVER HERE!

 

There aren’t any newspapers anymore

“In a minute!” So I studied my MePhone

 

WHITE BREAD! I NEED SOME WHITE BREAD OVER HERE!

 

I don’t think the cook was yelling about me

I don’t know, of course

 

The beggar at the door shivered quietly

Friday, November 5, 2021

Highway 96 - Dead Dogs and Shredded Tires - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Highway 96 – Dead Dogs and Shredded Tires

 

U.S. 96 is paved from north Texas to the Gulf

With fragments of dead dogs and re-capped tires

We love to let our doggies run wild and free

And save ourselves some money with unsafe tires

 

“That’s a big 10-4, good buddy!”

 

U. S. 96 is paved with articles of faith

For in spite of all the evidence we believe

WE BELIEVE! CAN I HAVE AN “AMEN!”

That a paint stripe will keep cars from hitting each other

 

“I’m gonna take me a selfie!”

 

Corpses of rotting dogs and shredded tires -

But the dead humans are scraped up and hauled away

 

“Can you hear me now?”

Wednesday, November 3, 2021

Guilted to the Cemetery Next to the Sewage Plant - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Guilted to the Cemetery Next to the Sewage Plant

 

The dead with charity enclosed in clay

 

-Henry V IV.viii.121

 

I did not want to go to the cemetery today

And do things with Hobby Lobby flowers

Made in China plastic $8.95

And floral foam in chemical green blocks

 

The streets of my youth are rubble and weeds

The woods of my youth are now trailer parks

The church of my youth is a hollerin’ place

For even they have lost all dignity

 

The soft wind sighs over our people’s graves

The stench from the sewage plant sweeps in waves

Election Day in Texas: Proposition 3 - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/                                   

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Election Day in Texas: Proposition 3

 

Pastor’s gotta have his collection coming in

No matter how many of the faithful must die

Vaccination-free for Jesus and America

It’s God’s will (so no one cares when the orphans cry)

Tuesday, November 2, 2021

Putting All the Hearts Back Together - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Putting All the Hearts Back Together

 

A child who takes a clock apart to see

Just how it works can easily be forgiven

 

Someone who takes a heart apart to see

Just how that works is justly unforgiven

Monday, November 1, 2021

The Culture Wars We've Been Hearing About - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

The Culture Wars We’ve Been Hearing About

 

Corporal Keats flung himself into the trench

“It’s no good,” he gasped, lighting a cigarette

“The Free Versifiers have ta’en our outposts

We spiked our sonnets but our blank verse is lost”

 

“And there’s an end on’t,” cried Corporal Johnson

“You will hear thunder,” sighed Corporal Ahkmatova

“Maybe we took the wrong road,” said Corporal Frost

“Where is Yevtushenkko?” asked Corporal Tsvetaeva

 

“Back in Moscow, awarding himself the George Cross

And promoting himself to field marshal”