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

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