Theology in the Head - poem

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

Theology in the Head

They aren’t the Jordan, the waters of the head
Unless maybe they are
Flowing not across the forehead
But across the tiles

Pursued less by a hound of Heaven
Than by a soul-scrubbing brush
At 0200 when we’re made to field-day the head
Not the forehead but the head

Where 60 recruits have washed and shaved
Brushed their healthy young teeth
Showered and (alliterate the “sh” in “showered”)
In haste, liturgically, upon command

And we in our skivvies speak of God
The meaning of life
The Lenten humility in scrubbing toilet bowls
And whether chief petty officers can be saved

The Reveille Summer of 1967 - Summer

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

The Reveille Summer of 1967

June

0200 on the First Day of Boot Camp

Some drunken chief in some office somewhere
On base played a record of “Reveille”
(From the French “reveiller,” to awaken)
And so we did, to lights and bellowings

And the liturgy of Matins and Lauds:
“Now hear this! Reveille! I say Reveille!
All hands hit the deck! Rise and shine, and greet the new day!
Reveille! Reveille! Reveille!”

A s**tcan sailed across the sleeping space
And crashed against our boyhood dreams

September

0400 on the Last Day of Boot Camp

Some drunken chief in some office somewhere
On base played a record of “Reveille”
(From the English “Shut the **** up”)
at which point a boot sailed against the b***h-box
And we woke up, to lights and grumblings

And the liturgy of Matins and Lauds:
“Now hear this. Taps. Taps. I say taps…
Taps? Reveille! Reveille! Reveille!
Aw, just get your ***es up!

All in dress blue, for pass-in-review
We had heard of Viet-Nam, of course

Recruit Training: I Wasn't Rich, But I Jingled When I Marched - poem for Veterans' Day / Remembrance Day

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

Recruit Training - I Wasn’t Rich, But I Jingled When I Marched

Dog tags for dogs and, for a time, for me
Old Uncle Sugar said my religion was CATH
(Had I remained a Methodist, a PROT)
My blood type was O POS (still is, I guess)

The Navy thought all that such a good idea
They made me wear a second tag just like it
On a second little chain attached to the first
All dangling down my skinny Gilligan chest

Beaded chains, tags, a Saint Christopher’s Medal -
I wasn’t rich, but I jingled when I marched

We Were Speaking of Trigger Warnings and Alarm Clocks - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

In Mixed Meter, A Meditation Upon Alarm Clocks

The healing sleep of which Macbeth spoke enviously…

SHATTERED!

The metal ****cans kicked across the room
A giant light fixture hurting my face
Because I thought a top rack a safer space
Large men yelling things my mother would not approve:

“REVEILLE! REVEILLE! REVEILLE!
RISE AND SHINE, AND GREET THE NEW DAY!
LET GO YER ****S AND GRAB YER SOCKS!
GET OFF YER LAZY ***ES YA SORRY SQUIRRELS!”

A hundred and sixty bare feet hit the deck
In perfect Navy unison at 03-my-God-is-this-real-00

And somehow, all these many years later
The soft ding-dong of a tiny MePhone
Sounds even worse

Remembrance Day / Veterans' Day 2 - Would You Like a Downgrade? - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Remembrance Day / Veterans' Day 2

Would You Like a Downgrade?

I.
“Everything I own I’m carrying on my back,”
A shipmate said wonderingly that last day
In the recruit barracks. And it was so:
Two sets of dungarees, one pair of shoes,
Two sets of Undress Blue and then one set
Of Dress Blue B, one pair of sneaks, one pair
Of this, more sets of that, a ditty bag
Of Personal Hygiene Articles,
Officially and carefully approved,
All in a new seabag.
                                      It was enough.
How much does a man need in order to die?

II.
And now we carry mortgages, jobs, books,
Televisions, cars, hunting rifles, clocks,
Lawnmowers, bills, Sunday suits,
Monday shoes,
Plastic boxes that light up and make noise,
Fences that need repair, cats to the vet,
Air conditioners, chainsaws, queen-sized beds,
Closets that need sorting out, chests of drawers
Of things we never needed anyway,
Cameras, clawhammers, pens, reading lamps,
Scissors, and writing paper.
                                               It is too much.
How much does a man need in order to live?

Pick up Your Brass - poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Pick up Your Brass

The rubrics of the firing range are clear
And most importantly, pick up your brass -
In learning to shoot, tidiness is most dear
And empty casings chap the sergeant’s…soul