Monday, October 31, 2022

A Tiny Tinsel Star - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

A Tiny Tinsel Star

 

For Sarah

 

While cleaning house I found a tinsel star

A tiny tinsel star from long ago

When once upon a time it shone so far

Above a Christmas scene in cotton snow

 

Or maybe for a little child’s birthday

Among the paper napkins and candled cake:

“And now you Poof! each wishing-flame away

But keep it a secret, that wish you make!”

 

And in this star her little friends’ sweet cheers

Still sound throughout the house after all these years

Sunday, October 30, 2022

The Governor Wasn't Popping Wheelies in the Parking Lot - weekly column 30 October 2022

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

The Governor Wasn’t Popping Wheelies in the Parking Lot

 

Could one start a Stagnation Party - which at General Elections would boast that during its time in office no event of the least importance had taken place...?

 

-C. S. Lewis in a letter to his brother, 23 March 1940

 

Last week I fulfilled my duty as a citizen of the Republic / Democracy (Is the United States a Republic or a Democracy? - WorldAtlas) by voting in a free, fair, open, honest, and well-observed election at the courthouse annex in Jasper.

 

The folks working the polls were professional and friendly, and a nice lady gave me an “I VOTED” sticker. Another man and I asked if we could have lollipops instead but the nice lady smiled and said she didn’t have any.  I wonder how often she gets asked that by would-be comedians, and I marvel at her patience.

 

There were no mysterious suitcases, no mules or jack-*sses, no loose boxes of ballots being smuggled in by Boris and Natasha, no cyber attacks (ya can’t hotwire a paper ballot), no loose bricks, no Jewish space lasers, no campaign posters near the polls, no mind-control electronic waves, no bonfires, no one denied me entry, no one looked over my shoulder, no observer was anywhere near me, and my ballot was not already filled out.  I don’t think my ballot was made in China from bamboo containing microchips, but then I don’t take orders from random consonants. Or from vowels, some of whom are silent.

 

But now Euclid and his Five Postulates, yeah, be careful about having anything to do with them, all those rays (and a guy named Ray?), parallel lines, segments, radii, right angles, and equiangle polygons. They’re not in the Bible, you know. I say we need to keep geometry away from our elections.

 

I admit that I did not look in the dumpsters for discarded ballots; I don’t even know where the dumpsters are.  Maybe the albino tri-lateral commission monks are hiding them in their subterranean lair on Oak Island. Where are the dumpsters!? We demand transparent dumpsters!

 

No one followed me through the parking lot, there were no armed wannabe G.I. Joe Secret Squirrel Commandos lurking about, Beto O’Rourke did not dance on any cars, Greg Abbot did not pop wheelies, Ken Paxton didn’t flee any process servers, no one took my picture, and no one wrote down my license plate number. And, really, I can’t imagine that even the looniest Qonspiracy goof snuggle-cuddling his testosterone compensation it’s-not-an-assault-rifle would associate a clapped-out, twenty-year-old heapster as part of a fast-moving unmarked UN globalist conspiracy to infiltrate microchipped bamboo ballots into the system in order to steal America’s precious bodily fluids.

 

Thanks to all the poll workers and poll watchers in Jasper County and everywhere, the worker bees who serve all of us and who are so essential to the peace, freedom, and good order of our democracy / republic / constitutional democracy / representative democracy / democratic republic. 

 

We read about goofy election stuff happening in other states, but through loyalty and good stewardship it’s not happening here. More Americans should act like us.

 

-30-

Offering it Up at 0200 - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Offering it Up at 0200

 

Offering up the surging pain - but to whom?

There doesn’t seem to be Anyone there

The hissing CPAP doesn’t want to talk

Outside the window there is no good-night moon

 

One could allude to the clock ticking in the night-time

But there is no clock ticking in the night-time

Because there are no clocks to tick anymore

Only computers manacled to our wrists

 

Two-o’clock-in-the-morning courage?

Just now there seems to be no Purpose in it



(I pinched a few allusions from Margaret Wise Brown and Arthur Conan Doyle.)

Saturday, October 29, 2022

The Crescent Moon over Marseille - doggerel

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

The Crescent Moon over Marseille

 

Let us now employ those cliched old rhymes:

 

Moon

Spoon

June

 

To ask if over Marseille there ever sails

A waxing or waning croissant moon!




A historical footnote of little significance: In late 1945 my father, Sergeant Hebo Ogden Hall of the 602nd Tank Destroyer Battalion, was posted along with other American soldiers to assist the city police in patrolling Marseille. His armored car was the "Razzle Dazzle" and had a picture of a naked lady painted on the side until an officer ordered her covered up. His war included Fort Leonard Wood, harvesting wheat in North Dakota, New Jersey, to Scotland on the British ship GOUCHER VICTORY, London, Normandy (the second day), France, Belgium (Battle of the Bulge), one of the first Americans into Ohrdruf, a sub-camp of Dachau, Munich, Zwickau, and a circuitous route home. There he was pretty much forgotten by a thoughtless nation.

Friday, October 28, 2022

The Ballot Lay Before Me Like a Snake - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

The Ballot Lay Before Me Like a Snake

 

The ballot lay before me like a snake

Or like a Klansman predatory in white

Slithering across the official page

That same old roster of the same old

 

Democrats

Republicans

Greens

Libertarians

 

That same old Unwanted List of ideologues 

Of plotters, scroungers, graspers, creepers, oafs

Aliases, scofflaws, incompetents

Poltroons

 

(I’m not sure what a poltroon is, but they are poltroons anyway, so there)

 

Ignoramuses, bigots, and bubbas in bad wigs

Best fitted for those old post office walls

Incapable of self-government, not to be trusted

With firearms, sharp objects, pointy scissors, or glue

 

(But those topics were not on the ballot)

 

The ballot lay before me like a snake

Or like a Klansman predatory in white

Slithering across the official page –

 

I gave it back as blank as the candidates

Wednesday, October 26, 2022

Flying to London on Nitrous Oxide - poem

 Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Flying to London on Nitrous Oxide

 

For Dr. Armstrong

 

Doctor A. has dropped a black cloth over my eyes

As if I were facing a firing squad in a vinyl chair

An uncomfortable vinyl chair

The firing squad is not in the chair; I am

 

How silly to think of a firing squad in a vinyl chair I mean how would they all fit, eh

 

I give the finger to an oxygen thingie

And air is piped into my itchy nose

scratch scratch

“I’m turning the nitrous on now, just let me know…”

What shall I think about during dentistry…?

 

A holiday in London long ago

I’m walking along crowded Oxford Street

A motor-scooter cop is writing a ticket

For a tiny little car that’s double-parked

 

Across the street is a used-book shop

I want to browse the old Oxford editions

(OUCH!)

But first I’ll find breakfast

I’ll find breakfast

I’ll find breakfast

(oh that one’s only a little ouch)

And what a happy breakfast!

In this little café with windows all steamed

And I find a seat among the shoppers and workers and shoppers and workers and the nice English waitress is from Viet-Nam and I was in Viet-Nam and she is still from Viet-Nam I was only in Viet-Nam and she is very English and writes on a pad eggs and sausages and toast and eggs and sausages and toast and after breakfast I’ll walk across Oxford Street for Oxford Books I can see in the dusty window and the nice English waitress takes my order for eggs and sausages and toast and somehow I never get across Oxford Street to browse the Oxford books because “I’m switching you back to Oxford oxygen now and you’re all done just sit there for a few minutes” and she wipes the drool off my chin and the ordinary air hisses through the nasal cannula and I feel a little fuzzy and I’m not in London and there are no eggs and sausages and toast but yes I can stand now and yes just go see Erin at the front for the paperwork and then I’ll ride in the passenger seat to Jack in the Box for some sort of golly-gee-whiz breakfast swaddled in paper and coffee in a paper cup which I will have to chew and swallow on the right because my left is all numb and I’ll dribble on myself and I wish I were in London but I’m not but coffee from Jack in the Box after being NPO after midnight is okay too…


Monday, October 24, 2022

General Flynn and His Reichskirche - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

General Flynn and His Reichskirche

 

The Putsch Began at the Spooky Nook Sports Complex

 

Saint General Flynn demands ein Reichskirche

President Trump fantasizes about prison rape

Marjorie Taylor Green toys with her Jewish space laser

And the Party obsesses on dirty books

 

Thirty-round magazines and stock-tank baptisms

Rams’ horns, made-in-China Wal-Mart camouflage

Squeezed around fat proud boy oaf-keepers

An unorganized militia of lemmings

 

Red-capped lemmings channeling QAnon

While waving Bibles and semi-automatics

20,000 jackasses marching out of step

Well-armed against sin at the voting booth

 

Trump!

Trump!

Trump!

Trump!

Edna St. Vincent Millay and Her Pickup Truck - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Edna St. Vincent Millay and Her Pickup Truck

 

Teaching Poetry to High School Boys

 

The fragility of teenaged boys is well known

Despite their tough hands stained with oil and grease

And their slouch and their ‘tude, wanting to be grown

Their loud voices disturbing the classroom’s peace

 

(Ooooh-RAH!)

 

And true enough they are rough-and-tumble souls

Who are seldom frightened away from any fray

But nothing blasts manly roles so full of holes

As a name like Edna St. Vincent Millay

 

(Shiver!)

 

In teaching boys poetry you’re just out of luck

Unless there’s a dog or a pickup truck

 

(Hey, Old Dude, is “deer stand” an iamb or a trochee?)

Sunday, October 23, 2022

A Licensed General Contractor Who Loves Jesus - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

A Licensed General Contractor Who Loves Jesus

 

Oh, man, hey, I’m sorry I missed your call

I was busy personal problems next week

For sure “the mailbox is full” I have to go to Houston

To pick up those flooring samples I just love Jesus

 

Was that last week I’m sorry I had to make sure this other job

Was going okay you didn’t get my call

I’m sure I’m called I’m sorry about that hey

I gotta take this other call just hang on a moment

 

Hey man I haven’t forgot about you yeah

I’ll be there first thing tomorrow you can bet on it

Saturday, October 22, 2022

King by the Grace of God - doggerel

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

The King is the King by the Grace of God

 

The King is the King by the Grace of God

Prime ministers are chosen by party caucus

The King reigns in dignity with sceptre and rod

And Parliament is useless and greedy and and raucous

Friday, October 21, 2022

Van Gogh or Your Lives, Comrades - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Van Gogh or Your Lives, Comrades

 

Sunflowers look to the sun

Protestors blink in the dark

 

Swivelling their angry eyes

From their pale Gadarene flesh

They shriek false dichotomies

And vandalize the sunflowers of Van Gogh

 

Sunflowers look to the sun

Protestors lurk in the dark

Thursday, October 20, 2022

Crazy Old Men with Rockets 'n' Bombs - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Crazy Old Men with Rockets ‘n’ Bombs

 

When you read to your brother or sister

A go-to-sleep book about bunnies and stars

You are healing a wound in Creation

Made by some malevolent old man

 

When you sing along with the washing machine

And help your MeeMaw up those tricky stairs

You are healing a wound in Creation

Made by some malevolent old man

 

When you sit on the steps late at night

And watch a pirate ship sail close by the moon

You are healing a wound in Creation

Made by some malevolent old man

 

When you pray for the bombed-out refugees

And put a little extra in the collection plate

You are healing a wound in Creation

Made by some malevolent old man

 

When you sing a song to the universe

It remains in the heavens forever

 

Because

 

You helped heal a wound in Creation

Wednesday, October 19, 2022

Upon Reading - a small collection as published in LogoSophia Magazine

 Upon Reading – LogoSophia Magazine


A small collection of recent poems published in LogoSophia (the editor makes even my poor work look good!).

Gender Selection is not Addressed in THE OXFORD BOOK OF ENGLISH VERSE ("Q" - not that "Q" - 1940 printing) - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Gender Selection is not Addressed in The Oxford Book of English Verse

 

That was the time when the custom of political re-education

                 of teachers by students had come in. 

 

-Doctor Zhivago, epilogue

 

Once upon a time a likeable student said

“You know, Mr. Hall, you can choose your gender now”

I paused, then replied, “And you know that’s impossible”

He was silent, folding his arms in contempt

 

I had been investigated before

And expected a summons from the Colonial Office

With a list of sensitive points to be addressed

But I hadn’t been reported this time

 

Someday, when this old world is set aright

Some will say such things could not have happened

 

In America

Monday, October 17, 2022

Lest Our Old Shoes Sit Easier Than Our New - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Lest Our Old Shoes Sit Easier Than Our New

 

-as Macduff does not say in Macbeth

 

When we were children we were proud of our new shoes

Our once-a-year shoes in situational poverty

Although we went barefootin’ most of the time

As long as the weather and parents allowed

 

But we had to wear them to Sunday church

And finally to school after the first chill

But it was something to own a new pair of shoes

To stand upon the earth in feigned prosperity

 

And even now, with lots of pairs to choose

We want to ask folks if they like our new shoes

Sunday, October 16, 2022

Taking Time to Stomp the Flowers - weekly column, 16 October 2022

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Taking Time to Stomp the Flowers

 

At London’s National Gallery last week two unhappy young persons, one styling herself “Ziggy Stardyke,” vandalized one of Van Gogh’s sunflower paintings by sloshing it with tomato soup.  Both were costumed in tee-shirts proclaiming, “JUST STOP OIL.” The purple-haired Miss Ziggy then yelled, “What is worth more, art or life? Is it worth more than food?”

 

[Van Gogh vandals are graduate, 21, and student, 20, who blockaded Trafalgar and Parliament Squares | Daily Mail Online]

 

The art was on the wall, and then the food was too; Miss Ziggy and her sullen comrade are the ones lacking a life.

 

Another reality is that the possibility of you or I having an intelligent, source-based give-and-take exchange of ideas with someone styling herself Ziggy Stardyke is remote.

 

Two topics obtain in the recent adventures of Ziggy Stardyke and her sour-faced little Renfield. The first one is the matter of fossil fuels, including oil, coal, and natural gas.  Without these sources of energy we would all be dead. There is not enough wood on the planet to replace them, and solar and wind are still laboratory projects. Nuclear, which would also work, is mostly forbidden because some lazybones at Three Mile Island chose to ignore the layers of warnings and then the safety protocols.  

 

The other topic is civilization.  To paraphrase a character in an episode of Northern Exposure, we are not monkeys with car keys. We are humans, sons and daughters of Adam and Eve, as C. S. Lewis reminds us. We think. We build. We speak. We write. We draw. We paint. We sculpt. We identify and solve problems. We recognize Creation and our part in it. We deal with the complexities of creation through science, math, art, and poetry. As the Greek philosophers teach us, life is about questing for the good, the true, and the beautiful. 

 

Any utilitarian structure confirms this: a bridge over, say, the Houston Ship Channel is good because it provides enhanced freedom of movement and the exchange of goods and services for people going about the business of life. A bridge is also true because its engineering and construction work together in physical harmony through the applications of engineering, geometry, metallurgy, hydrology, and the other sciences. Finally, a bridge is beautiful because its functions and proportions personify the human spirit. The suspension cables, the towers of steel, and all of the works of human minds and hands that make a bridge a bridge are aesthetically pleasing.

 

Ziggy Stardyke and her Renfield have looked upon the good, the true, and the beautiful, upon at least 10,000 years of civilization, and have found them wanting. Therefore, exactly like Nazis, Communists, Talibannies, and some of their own English ancestors [Puritan Iconoclasm in the English Civil War | Reviews in History], they censor them. They who have life only because of the wise use of fossil fuels condemn the use of fossil fuels, and express their condemnation by censorship, by attempting to destroy a work of art, one of Van Gogh’s sunflower paintings, which has no connection with fossil fuels except that we would need to take a London Transport bus to go see it.

 

These two childish individuals are purportedly educated women, but so far have demonstrated no knowledge of either the sciences or the fuzzy studies, and in their invincible puerile ignorance angrily destroy things of beauty while shrieking illogical demands at the rest us.

 

In the autumn of 1945 the Western world surely did not imagine that civilization would fall again into book banning, book burning, the censorship of movies, newspapers, and broadcasts, the destruction of art, and mobs chanting slogans of hate in the streets, but here we are. 

 

A sunflower is heliocentric – it turns to the light. Poor Ziggy Stardyke and her Grima Wormtongue turn to the darkness.

 

-30-

Like an Autopsy on a Dear Friend - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Like an Autopsy on a Dear Friend

 

I’m amputating limbs in late October heat

Grateful to this friend who gave me so much:

Those first green leaves and blossoms in the spring

Deeper greens through summer, and apples in season

 

Something went wrong in the winter, and she didn’t awaken

The summer passed with its more pressing chores

And only now can I cut my friend apart

Into sweet billets for the winter fires

 

She will be with me this Christmas in comforting flame

And then return to Creation, from whence she came

Saturday, October 15, 2022

Reported Side Effects Include... - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Reported Side Effects Include…

 

After a dose a sudden nap-attack

A sour afternoon of sour dreamful sleep

Unhappy sour imaginings among sour pains

Feverishly sour and dizzily sour

 

Feverishly up and dizzily up

To watch the feverishly sour news

Sour Putin parked nuclear bombers in my head

Is Nancy really threatening to punch Donald?

 

Sour!

 

I’ll verify with Lester Holt tomorrow

For now I’m clinging to my sour sorrow

Friday, October 14, 2022

Casualties of Being - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Casualties of Being

 

In the last century

I lost my youth in Viet-Nam

Last week I met a man

Who lost his son last year

 

Autumn - always autumn

Thursday, October 13, 2022

My New Shoes Might Test Positive for Traces of Blood - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

My New Shoes Might Test Positive for Traces of Blood

 

Brand-name boat shoes glued together in gloom

Canvas and rubber and toxicity from Shanghai

Bloody little hands and decaying lungs:

We are all guilty of slavery

 

Do the workers dream of luxurious yachts

Or even a day off for a picnic at the pond

Bloody little hands and decaying lungs:

We are all guilty of slavery

 

Bloody little hands and decaying lungs:

We are all guilty of slavery

Wednesday, October 12, 2022

A Geriatric Motorcycle Gang Invades the Bluebonnet Cafe' - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

A Geriatric Motorcycle Gang Invades the Bluebonnet Café

 

The Hearing Aids from Hell Roaring off the Screen

Biker Babushkas High on Geritol

Looking for Trouble and a Clean Restroom

The Wild One Searching for his lost Social Security

 

Hell’s Angels on Aluminum Walkers

The Thundering Electra Glide in Blue Rinse

Harley Davidson and the COPD Inhaler Man

Dentures Every Which Way and Loose

 

“What are you rebelling against?”

“What have…wait…it’s coming to me…what have you…dang, I forgot!”

Tuesday, October 11, 2022

Mention Stalin in Your Poem - a poem, but "Stalin" is mentioned only in the title

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Mention Stalin in Your Poem

 

“It was discovered that there was not one mention of Stalin in your poem…”

 

-Yevtushenko, A Precocious Autobiography, p. 67

 

A chill October morning of brilliant air

Leaves turning in their colors and on their stems

In the healing-cool Cerean breeze

As the goddess takes her dreamy walk

 

This bright October morning of happiness

It’s time to put the garden tools away

Summer, in need of healing, begins to rest

Each moment is an earth-crafted waykreuz

 

But to approved poets this morning is nothing

For it makes no mention of anti-colonialism

Monday, October 10, 2022

I Never Want to Hear a Child Made to Sing Cohen's "Hallelujah" Ever Again poem

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

I Never Want to Hear a Child Made to Sing Cohen’s “Hallelujah” Ever Again

 

Our first contestant will sing “Hallelujah”

After taking ten minutes for exposition

About what it meant to her granny

And she knows Granny’s in Heaven listening

 

Audience, you are obligated to cry

 

Our next contestant will sing “Hallelujah”

After taking ten minutes for exposition

About what it meant to his ol’ pop

And he knows Pop’s in Heaven listening

 

Audience, you are obligated to cry

 

Our third contestant will sing “Hallelujah”

After taking ten minutes for exposition

About what it meant to her cat Fluffy

And she knows Fluffy’s in Heaven listening

 

Audience, you are obligated to cry

 

Our fourth contestant will sing “Hallelujah”

After taking ten minutes for exposition

About what it meant to his big brother

And he knows his brother is in Heaven listening

 

Audience, you are obligated to cry

 

And the winner is…“Hallelujah!”

And in each listener there is a secret cry:

“Cohen, why are you doing this to us!”


Sunday, October 9, 2022

A Very Brief Review of WHEN BOOKS WENT TO WAR - weekly column, 9 October 2022

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

A Very Brief Review of When Books Went to War

 

When America entered World War II in 1941, we faced an enemy that had banned and burned more than 100 million books and caused fearful citizens to hide…many more.

 

-Cover note, When Books Went to War, by Molly Guptill Manning

 

The “we” is a bit precious; the blurb writer was not in World War II, nor was the author, nor I, nor you. Still, the point is well made: tyrants don’t want people thinking for themselves. Books are dangerous to bullies, whether they are Hitler, Stalin, Ho Chi Minh, Vlad the Bad Putin, Chairman Xi, or the Ms. Grundy down the street.

 

Molly Guptill Manning’s excellent When Books Went to War begins with an overview of what books have been accessible to soldiers, beginning with the American Civil War, and then examines censorship of all media but especially books in the Nazi time.

 

When American entered the war the average education level among soldiers was the 11th grade, which was the highest in U.S. military history. With an almost universal literacy rate, books would be important for morale and for helping promote critical thinking and a sense of culture for helping democratize learning among all Americans after the war.

 

The process of making books accessible was complicated, but by 1943 the Armed Services Editions (ASE) of all sorts of books – fiction, non-fiction, poetry, and scientific-technical - were being sent to our military all over the world.

 

These paperback editions were designed to fit a combat infantryman’s pockets, and were bound on the narrow edge rather than the wide. Given that printing presses and paper sourced had to be modified for this format, this was a challenge, but one successfully met.

 

Ironically, there were strong attempts to censor the content. Title V, the Soldiers’ Voting Rights Act, was burdened with a rider that would have banned any book with even a hint of politics. Although Title V was so botched that very few soldiers overseas were permitted to vote, the censorship was scrubbed. As The San Antonio News said, “One would think that the men who fight the Nation’s battles would be quite able to decide for themselves what they would like to read” (p. 142).

 

Miss Manning appends the titles and authors of the thousands of ASEs. Many of these are action books: westerns (Hopalong Cassidy Serves a Writ), detective stories (The Postman Always Rings Twice), historical novels (Death Comes for the Archbishop), and a very few war narratives, along with essays, science fiction, biographies, drama. There is a little poetry: Robert Frost, for instance, Carl Sandburg, Whitman, Longfellow, and others, including Robert Herrick, who would now be found only in a university graduate course. There is a Russian novel written by a fellow named Kalashnikoff (as spelt) and German Erich Maria Remarque’s Arch of Triumph.

 

The ASE’s would in fact represent the holdings of an especially good library in a mid-sized American city or a very large high school.  That is, of course, before all the Ms. Grundys thundered in looking for th’ dirty books.

 

…over 123 million Armed Services Editions were printed. The Victory Book Campaign added 18 million donated books to the total number distributed to American troops. More books were given to the American armed services than Hitler destroyed (p. 194).

 

Those free and uncensored books were examples of the many things this nation gets exactly right. Thanks to Molly Guptill Manning for reminding us.

 

-30-

 

 

 

A Mansie Wearing a Gun in the Supermarket - doggerel

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

A Mansie Wearing a Gun in the Supermarket

 

Wearin’ a big iron on his hip he swaggers down the aisle

The village idiot over by the vegetables

When you call him that, tomato, smile

He ain’t takin’ no lip from any of you edibles

 

Wearin’ a big iron on his hip he faces down

A mob of gluten-free breads carrying torches and a rope

Looking for back-shootin’ rice, white or brown

Who want rough justice for a cantaloupe

 

Step easy when he’s around, potato chip

That anal orifice with a big iron on his hip

Saturday, October 8, 2022

People of The Book and of Books

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

People of The Book and of Books

 

The Thought became Incarnate in Judaea

And thoughts become incarnate in the books we read

For thoughts are tabernacles of our hopes

Tents in the deserts of our wanderings

 

Our dreams worked out in careful lines of ink

Tippy-tap-typed on a computer screen

Or copied from those tablets in the Sinai

Then bound by an artist’s hands, and placed in ours

 

The Thought became Incarnate in Judaea

Our thoughts become incarnate in the books we write

Friday, October 7, 2022

An Airship in the Night - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

An Airship in the Night

 

Once upon a time they were ships of the air

And rarely seen in our rural skies

But I saw them in the picture books

In a three-color process, ships of dreams

 

And then I went to the Palace Theatre

Where from the middle seat in the very front row

I sailed over London in Captain Hook’s ship

Navigating past Big Ben and Saint Paul’s

 

Last night I saw a ship on the Houston approach

Its navigation lights signaling to dreamers

Thursday, October 6, 2022

Revenge is a Dish Best Served... -Senryu

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Revenge is a Dish Best Served…

 

Revenge is a dish

Best served warm from the oven

With mercy all ‘round

Wednesday, October 5, 2022

The Times They are not A-Changing - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

The Times They are not A-changing

 

Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in

 

-Thoreau

 

If the times they really are a-changing

Then they were never relevant, nor can they be

Love is not measured with a fine Martian watch

Nor do Sinai or Olympus count the minutes

 

The dances of the planets need no batteries

Galaxies do not bother with the news

The Torah can never be outdated

(Nor can Bob, but that’s for another not-time)

 

If the times they really are a-changing

Then this moment with you can have no meaning

Tuesday, October 4, 2022

No Bombers Over Our Lady Help of Christians Catholic School in 1958 - doggerel

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

No Bombers Over Our Lady Help of Christians Catholic School in 1958:

A Brief Discussion of a Successful Cold War Tactic

 

from an idea suggested by Kirk Briggs

 

Some have scoffed about hiding under our tables

As protection from the Soviets’ nuclear strikes

But scorn not this truth of those factual fables:

It worked! No bombers! Post that as one of our “likes!”

Breakfast in Constantinople and Other Poems

 Breakfast in Constantinople – LogoSophia Magazine


Another selection from LogoSophia, whose kind and thoughtful editor makes even my poor work look good!

Monday, October 3, 2022

Ridin' it Out - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Ridin’ it Out

 

You see him on tv: “I’m ridin’ it out”

He sneers, “I been through lotsa hurricanes

Ain’t never needed to leave, not gonna now

I’m protectin’ my own; I know what I’m doin’”

 

Ridin’ it out

 

You see the turtles eating the man’s eyes first

They’re soft and delicious, a scavenger’s treat

They’ve already eaten his children’s eyes

Except for the little girl, taken down by a ‘gator

 

Ridin’ it out

Sunday, October 2, 2022

A Court Order from the County Judge? - weekly column, 2 October 2022

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

A Court Order from the County Judge?

 

Some years ago, after one of our many hurricanes, a young woman complained to a local television reporter that she did not have any food or water in the house, or any milk for her baby. She concluded, in a burst of outrage, “They should have been better prepared!”

 

Whoever the “they” might have been, it hadn’t occurred to this adult that she bore any responsibility for the health and safety of her child and herself.

 

Similarly, after last week’s Hurricane Ian, some few residents of Florida are complaining that the “they” had not ordered an evacuation in a timely fashion.

 

One supposes that a rough equivalent would be residents of Montana sobbing to PBS that the state government hadn’t warned anyone that Montana gets lots of snow.

 

For weeks the weather services watched this storm, quite accurately predicted its landing in Florida, and warned and warned and warned. Among the many warnings was the well-known reality that hurricanes can shift positions and thus pin-pointing a landing before it happens is impossible. We must always remember the cone of uncertainty.

 

I’m not going Darwinian here when I say that we adults are responsible for our own behavior, and with the big-boy / big-girl pants come big-boy / big-girl responsibilities.  Public safety is a significant part of the duties of government, but it is not the sheriff’s job to come around each evening and remind me to lock my doors. The governor is not mandated to remind me to see my excellent nurse practitioner every six months. The several fire departments should not need to tell me not to burn litter with this autumn drought desiccating all the grass, weeds, and brush. The Department of Public Safety should not have to ticket anyone for not safety-seating the rug-rat.

 

This past Sunday evening the weather dude on the telescreen advised the audience of a “disturbance” out in the middle of the Atlantic that might develop through the levels of danger and which might enter the Gulf of Mexico in two weeks. As of the publication of this fine newspaper, that’ll be ten days.

 

That “might” and our adult experience with rough weather constitute the warning. Yes, we have been warned. Two Sunday evenings from now we will probably be sitting in the front yard enjoying the cool autumn air, but we might – might – be suffering the stings and buffetings of a hurricane.

 

We know these things, and so as we go about our daily endeavors this week we add to our pantries and shelves another case of bottled water, another few cans of stew or Spam, some more crackers, some condensed milk and other necessaries for the babies, and so on. We top off the gas tanks in the cars and add a few jerricans for the generator if we have one. We make some plans, we mark a map, we ask someone without resources if he or she will need a lift out, we talk to people, and we’re ready to go when we make that decision for ourselves.

 

Remember – no one needs a court order from the county judge to come in out of the rain.

 

-30-