Our Lady of Walsingham

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Our Lady of Walsingham

O how beautiful is Our Lady Queen!
Queen of our hearts and hopes, and of the May
Sweet Empress over forest, down, and dene,
And happy Sunrise over the pilgrim’s way
O let us crown Our Queen with leaf and flower
Gathered this morning in the dawnlit dew
For we in this island are Her true dower
Pledging our faith with thorn and rose and yew
She gives us Her feast day, cool and quiet and green -
O how beautiful is Our Lady Queen!

Baby Boomers

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Baby Boomers

For William Kristol Epiphanes

Children of privilege getting up at four
To herd milk cows in from ice-sleeted woods
And then at dawn running late down the lane
To catch the rattling school bus into town

Self-indulgent baby-boomers sentenced
In the gasping heat of Indo-China
Along the banks of the Song Vam Co Tay
Not optimistic about seeing the dawn

A useless, indolent generation
Working double shifts at the shop by night
Chaucer, geometry, history by day
Coffee, noodles, used textbooks, the laundromat

Those insolent, unfocused layabouts
On pilgrimage along the American road
Jobs, families, house-notes, voting, and taxes
But judged and found wanting by Divine Bill

Mockingbirds on Patrol

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Mockingbirds on Patrol

At dusk the slithering cat stalks mockingbirds
Oozing in silence ‘cross the no man’s lawn
Of bread and seed contested by raccoons,
Squirrels, birds, and an unhappy ‘possum
Her target those most insolent mockingbirds
Who bully the doves and cardinals about
There driving them from the supper they want
And mockingbirds in turn supper for the cat
But no! the victims form squadrons like Spitfires -
At dusk the mockingbirds stalk the cringing cat

A Keeper of Civilization

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

A Keeper of Civilization

A tie clasp serves no useful purpose now,
This ornament that keeps a tie in place
But no one wears a tie, so what’s the point?
Like cufflinks, collars, and humility
This bourgeois affectation is passé;
A tie is not Authentic like a tee
Garnished with a cartoon grotesquerie
Aggressively proclaiming empty noise.
A tie clasp serves no useful purpose now
And that is why it is useful indeed

Dimitri in America

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Dimitri in America

Did Mitya escape to America?
He might have changed his name to Bob or Al
Married Myrtle in the Methodist Church -
Myrtle, nee’ Agrafena Alexandrovna -
And worked the candy counter at Woolworth’s
Riding the trolley downtown every day
While saving up for a new Model T
In obedience to his New World staretz
Horatio Alger hissing behind a tree
Was Mitya sentenced to America?

The Witanagemot

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

The Witanagemot

Under wide oaks men sit with pipes alight
And soft old amber single-malt to hand
The sun has just now set, the failing day
Resolves itself into a cooling dusk
Tobacco, talk, and time incense the air
And silent fireflies dance until the stars
Join with them in a festival of lights
While birds make wing to Shakespeare’s rooky wood
Crickets and frogs sing to celebrate the moon
And good men sit and talk, with pipes alight

Subversive

Subversive

Lapsing into 1968-Speak
The television priest says “subversive”
While waxing (and polishing?) discursive
He says it often, at least thrice a week

Pursued by Hallway Gideons

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Pursued by Hallway Gideons

Hi there how are you doing isn’t this a
wonderful day would you like a New Tes
tament sir thank you hi ma’am good to see
you would you like a New Testament you
are so welcome Hi there how are you doing
isn’t this a wonderful day would you
like a New Testament sir thank you hi
ma’am good to see you would you like a New
Testament you are welcome Hi there how
are you doing isn’t this a wonderful

Repeat

Hi there how are you doing isn’t this a
wonderful day would you like a New Tes
tament sir thank you hi ma’am good to see
you would you like a New Testament you
are so welcome Hi there how are you doing
isn’t this a wonderful day would you
like a New Testament sir thank you hi
ma’am good to see you would you like a New
Testament you are welcome Hi there how
are you doing isn’t this a wonderful

Repeat

Hi there how are you doing isn’t this a
wonderful day would you like a New Tes
tament sir thank you hi ma’am good to see
you would you like a New Testament you
are so welcome Hi there how are you doing
isn’t this a wonderful day would you
like a New Testament sir thank you hi
ma’am good to see you would you like a New
Testament you are welcome Hi there how
are you doing isn’t this a wonderful

Exeunt omnes, pursued by a bore waving a little green book about

The Ten-Thirty / Seven-Thirty Shift

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

The Ten-Thirty / Seven-Thirty Shift

For Nurses

No one writes verses much about nurses
Though no one more deserves a few kind thoughts
No, not about the lady with the lamp
(Not with all that oxygen around!)
Nor the nurse with eternal sad-me crises
Who often calls in sick and leaves her work
To be taken up by others – by you
So these poor lines are for wonderful you
Driving to work in your ten-year-old car
And carefully tending life throughout the night

No One Ever Said the War was Over

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

No One Ever Said the War was Over

No one ever said the war was over
They were honest in that one thing, at least
Since that which never began cannot end
Not for those in a war that never was
Some made fortunes, some got a bus ride home
Some shook it off, and made it out okay
And some stare vacantly in lonely rooms
Red, yellow, green – what did they ever mean?
“Thank you for your service” – what does that mean?
No one ever said the war was over

Invasion of the Metaphors

Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

Invasion of the Metaphors

On the Orwellian telescreen a woman recently returned from Nepal said that the country looked like a war zone.

One never hears young men and women returning from any of this nation’s many undeclared wars saying that the ditches and gullies and rocky slopes where they fought to stay alive looked like an earthquake.

What, exactly, is a “war zone?” Is that just a two-syllable way of saying “war?” Just say “war.”

Congress won’t, of course.

In the neverending quest (how’s that for filler language?) for metaphors, “war zone” appears to be most fashionable just now. Earthquakes, storms, messy rooms, the litter left after a football game, leaf-fall after a storm – all are grist for the war zone mill (mixing several tired metaphors).

If a family is killed by a building collapsing in an earthquake, we do their memory no service by saying that the wreckage looks like a war zone. It doesn’t. It looks like the result of an earthquake, and that is because it is the result of an earthquake. It isn’t like anything else; it is itself.

A common metaphor along our stormy coast is to allege that trees snapped like matchsticks. Does anyone ever maintain that matchsticks snap like trees? Does anyone sit around snapping matchsticks anyway? No one ever says that trees snap like cheap plastic cigarette lighters, which would be slightly more logical because almost no one uses matches anymore. Anyone wanting a box of matches might be advised to check the newsstand, over by the pay telephones, in the railroad station down the street past the Packard dealership.

Our part of the planet is subject to strong winds because of tornadoes, hurricanes, and thunderstorms, and sometimes these winds break trees. We should state this simple fact, that winds break trees, and not pull from a rag-bag (another tired metaphor – what is a rag-bag?) any of a collection of old metaphors that occupy space and obscure clarity of thought.

If, in the same storm, the winds toss your 1956 Plymouth about, they toss it about like a 1956 Plymouth, not like a toy, because a 1956 Plymouth is not a toy. It is itself. The toy comparison has been done, over and over and over, for decades. Now if you say that your 1956 Plymouth was tossed about like a referee after a close soccer match between Sheffield and Arsenal you’d be making a fresh and praiseworthy metaphor. Even so, it would probably be better to state the plain, clear fact that strong winds blew your 1956 Plymouth about, especially when making your case to the insurance company: “Like a toy, eh? Okay, here’s a voucher good for a Fisher-Price replacement, with a Ken and Barbie deductible…”

In East Texas another tired metaphor is to say of a child’s room not that it needs tidying up but that it looks like a hurricane hit it:

“But Dad, my room’s not here. The whole house is gone!”

“Exactly right, my son. Your room looks like a hurricane hit it.”

Sometimes reality is not subject to a metaphor at all.

-30

The Bates Motel and Recording Studio

Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

The Bates Motel and Recording Studio

John Hinckley, Junior is a spoiled misunderstood, self-indulgent sensitive, vicious artistic, treacherous creative, disgusting delicate, back-shooting generous fecal impaction seeker after truth who all his life has been occupying space and breathing air that might have been used for better purposes trying to find himself. After all, we try to see the good in everyone.

In 1981 Hinckley, fascinated with a cinema actress instead of with life, decided that he would prove himself worthy of her by murdering the President. At close range he discharged a revolver and struck police officer Thomas Delahanty, White House Press Secretary James Brady, Secret Service agent Timothy McCarthy, and President Reagan. James Brady spent the remaining decades of his life paralyzed and in pain, and his death in 2014 was ruled a homicide.

Despite the movie scripts, no one, no matter how young and healthy, ever fully recovers from gunshot and fragmentation wounds. Everyone Hinckley shot that day received a life sentence of pain and disability.

For assault, treason, and murder, John Hinckley was sentenced to – the hospital.

Adolescent shoplifters have received sterner punishment.

Come to think of it, you’ve received sterner punishment. When you went to see the justice of the peace about that out-of-date inspection sticker the judge did not say, “You know, I understand your needs. I’m sure you forgot about the annual inspection because you had a rough childhood. Since your mumsy and dadsy are rich and connected, let’s skip that fine, and talk about your feelings.”

For the last three decades, gentle reader, you have been working and paying taxes to support John Hinckley’s hospitalization, psychiatric care, and, yes, music therapy. You get up and go to work every day; John Hinckley hangs out and practices the guitar.

For the past few years Hinckley has spending much of every month with his 89-year-old mother. Well, hey, family is everything, right? His family, of course, not yours, and certainly not the families he destroyed.

Having committed murder and ruining the lives of many individuals and families, this detritus inspirational singer-songwriter wants to start a band, which is pretty much the dream of every 60-year-old.

One can imagine the rehearsals – “Stan, you might want to strengthen that opening note when you come in on ‘Baby Baby Baby Yeah Yeah Yeah’ – or die. Just a thought, dude.”

If Mrs. Hinckley Senior suggests it’s time for Junior to go night-night, will our geriatric artiste respond with “Mumsy, don’t make me go all Bates Motel on you, okay?”

When Junior does achieve his dream of putting his band together, the first number could, appropriately, a cover of the Beatles’ “I’m a Loser.”

Music might not be Junior Hinckley’s thing, of course, in which case he seems perfectly fitted by disposition and experience to be a customer service representative for an internet company.

He could do something with drones.

Or maybe the new Secret Service.

And since Junior is soon to be released from hospital completely, perhaps his room will then be given to an injured worker, a war veteran, or someone else who has made an effort to do something meaningful in life.

-30-

The Face on the Twenty-Dollar Bill

Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

The Face on the Twenty-Dollar Bill

“The Face on the Twenty-Dollar Bill” sounds like the title of a Robert W. Service poem, but is in fact a matter of some discussion – who should replace stern, handsome, Trail of Tears President Andrew Jackson on the price of a cup of designer coffee?

That President Jackson will be replaced is not in doubt, and a mature discussion (which you certainly will not find in my scribblings) of the matter by Steve Inskeepmay can be found at: www.nytimes.com/2015/05/05/opinion/should-jackson-stay-on-the-dollar20-bill.html.

Curiously, Mr. Inskeepmay proposes replacing President Jackson, a slave owner, with John Ross, another slave owner, but since Mr. Ross was a Cherokee that’s okay with Mr. Inskeepmay.

As we know, the one-dollar-bill features George Washington, inept British colonial officer in his youth, slave owner, general of the armies in the American secession from the British Empire, later president, and still a slave owner.

The five-dollar-bill gives us Railsplitter Abe, a handsome man save for that fungal growth at the end of his chin, a fashion statement he shared with Democrat Jefferson Davis and with Doctor Ben Carson, like Lincoln a Republican candidate for the presidency.

Gentlemen, please, if you love your country, step closer to your designed-in-Holland-and-made-in-China Norelcos. Please.

The tenner shows another dignified man, Alexander Hamilton, who later found fame as drummer for The Dave Clark Five. Or was he one of the guitarists?

Easy, The Alexander Hamilton Fan Club. Just a little attempt at humor. Your Alexander Hamilton posters are not threatened.

After Andrew Jackson the poor man’s wallet enjoys little familiarity with presidents, although President Grant is known to be on one of the holiday-in-Davos bills. But he drank whiskey and smoked cigars, and we can’t have that, no, sir.

Whose face will next grace the twenty? My prediction is Harriet Tubman or Sojourner Truth, who accomplished wonderful things without later becoming involved in genocide, land swindles, or the ownership of their fellow human beings.

In the meantime, we are free to indulge in a little whimsical wish-fulfillment in considering other possibilities for adorning our national currency:

How about a three-dollar bill with President Clinton on the front and Lindsey Lohan’s reverse on the reverse?

The problem with President Obama’s picture on a currency bill is that the reverse would read “You Didn’t Earn This,” and he would take the money away from you.

President Hilary Clinton’s twenty-dollar bill would have her “WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE!!??” moment embedded in a little audio chip.

President Hilary Clinton? Deal with the reality, Republicans: you complain but you don’t vote.

Hey, how about Louis Armstrong on the twenty? But, no, he made people happy, and that would never do.

Here is an idea for an image on the twenty-dollar bill that no one has yet considered: the now-forgotten American worker. Put a picture of a worker on our currency. I propose variants to be printed on the face of the twenty in monthly or yearly cycles: a farmer harvesting wheat, a woman behind the counter at a fast-foodery, a bus driver, a welder, a logger, a nurse’s aide, the nice lady in the ticket window at the movies, a (gasp!) police officer, a private in the Army, a miner, a railway engineer, a mechanic, a lineman in a thunderstorm, a kindergarten teacher, or any other worker, all without any reference to DNA.

Nah, it’ll never happen.

-30-

Upon Re-Reading The Brothers Karamazov

Just now I finished re-reading The Brothers Karamazov, not without relief but with more appreciation, especially for the trial. The defense speaks of Russian justice as redemptive, quoting Peter the Great’s aphorism that it is better that ten guilty men are acquitted rather than one innocent man be convicted. The defense attorney sees redemptive justice as Christian; I don’t think Peter the Great saw it that way.

Rachael and Eldon advised me to look for the humor, and they helped me to see that, both the ironic and the gentle, and Tod Mixson suggested that I remember that there is much drama of the old pulp magazines sort, and I became aware of that too. Ingrid said…oh, what did Ingrid say?

But the trial – that is something I mean to re-read soon.

So great is the worth of Dostoevsky that to have produced him is by itself sufficient justification for the existence of the Russian people in the world; and he will bear witness for his countrymen in the last judgment of the nations.

-Nicholas Berdyaev, quoted in The Brothers Karamazov: Worlds of the Novel, Robin Feuer Miller

Emmaus isn't on the Map

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Emmaus isn’t on the Map

The road from Emmaus is not in the book
Emmaus isn’t even on the map
Still, people walk to Emmaus every day
And then they go away to somewhere else
Because while everyone visits Emmaus
It’s only for supper and a new assignment
Although the directions seem somewhat vague
Those who have been there seem to know the way
The road to Emmaus is in the book
The road out of town is mapped in the heart

Had Byron Lived a Few Years Longer

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Had Byron Lived a Few Years Longer

V:

She stalks in Makeup, like a fright
Of Senior Specials and takeout fries;
And all that’s worst of snark and bite
Meet in her painted layers of guise:
Thus billowed in that fluorescent light
Which Heaven to youthful lads denies.

R:

He talks of Makeup, silly old wight
Of faded beauties – through his old eyes!
And his slim waist and muscled might
Have long departed – he is no prize!
Thus now of greater width than height
Which Heaven to happy girls denies.

A Morning in March

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

A Morning in March

This morning is a sonnet sweetly sung
First by the breeze sighing through apple leaves
Then by the sun laughing across the grass
And by murmuring doves and nattering sparrows
Fussing with squirrels under a happy oak
Dressing itself in the fashion of spring
Covering the barrenness of winter with
Young leaves only now learning how to flirt
In anticipation of summer days:
This morning is a sonnet sweetly sung

The Styled One

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

The Styled One

“What are you rebelling against?”

“Whaddaya got?”

“A philosophical matrix predicated
Upon experience analyzed rationally
Without incessant self-reference
Or submission to transient fashions.
This matrix considers natural law,
Epistemologically demonstrable,
Ecclesiastical law, which is subject
To discussion because of variant
Concepts of divine revelation
And then secular law, which grounds
Even a republic, in its origin,
In the Jewish-Christian Mosaic law
But which is subject to modification
According to the federal constitution
And the various state constitutions
Expressed by popular will according to
Due process of law, that is, elections.
Applying the Hegelian dialectic,
One can sort out for himself a mode of life
In harmony with both his conscience
And with the needs of a multi-cultural state.”

“Got a beer?”

The Morning Paper and a Cigarette

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

The Morning Paper and a Cigarette

The morning paper and a cigarette,
A cup of coffee to complete the theme
A booth with creaky, cracked leatherette seats
And a sticky-top table stained with stories
A joint called Al’s, just off the interstate
Dry desert cold lingering from the autumn night
Until the sun rises to light the way
To California, and The Hungry i
For now: the desert, a cup of coffee,
The morning paper, and a cigarette

Said to be a Suicide

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Said to be a Suicide

Adrift among old sheets in a shadowy bed
Emptying breaths into an empty space
A purse, a bottle, a pack of cigarettes
No minutes left on a no-contract ‘phone
A truck-stop bracelet that was pretty on her
Pale bathroom light through a half-open door
Traffic rattling by on the two-lane
Beery laughter from the parking lot
But only stillness here, an empty form
Adrift among silence in a shadowy world

Two in the Morning

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Two in the Morning

Two in the morning is its own Good Friday
When the insolence of catalogued years
Accuses the restless sleeper of age
Sends him out night patrol, and back again
To ponder through the empty, sleepless hours
An Altar stripped of light and hope and dreams
A unmade sacrifice in swirling chaos
Pillows and sheets and life formless and void
Cold, vaporous blue light dying in the air
Two in the morning is its own Good Friday

False Autumn

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

False Autumn

Dripping and damp, another dull, dark day
Heavy and low, months-old cold, drifting mist
And sodden leaf-mould from the autumn past
Scented with coming life as it decays
The morning frogs sing with enthusiasm
The mourning doves sing with reluctance
A solitary goose flaps sort of north
All uncertain about their calendar
But for now eccentrics are happy with
Dripping and damp, another dull, dark day

Secrets and Seasons

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Secrets and Seasons

Even a lover of autumn must yield this point:
This mild March morning disposes a world
Of flowers red and pink among the mist,
Bathed fresh with dew in anticipation
Of hours glorious but brief until the sun
Awakes, and shakes his fiery beams to fall
Upon the leafy, grassy, silent scene
Like a sergeant censoring an errant smile
Lest happiness corrupt the young recruits
Who only in secret may love the seasons

Palm Sunday Travel Tips

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Palm Sunday Travel Tips

At last we have come to Jerusalem
Spiritual gawkers checking out the sites:
The Beautiful Gate today, the Temple tomorrow
Juices and maps from vendors who charge too much
That statue of Jupiter really doesn’t work -
What is that procession? A local folk thing?
We don’t want to get into trouble with the law
We’re only here for Passover, okay?
Let’s avoid whatever that is because
At last we have come to Jerusalem

Instructions to the Chauffeur

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Instructions to the Chauffeur

Said the owner, most intently,
“Mind, now, how you drive my Bentley:
Always drive it confidently,
Never, ever insolently
‘Sure to watch the road intently
Take the sharp curves very gently
Follow my rules most excellently
Then you’ll never get a dent, see?”

Sola Scriptura

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Sola Scriptura

“It’s right here in the Bible!” she said,
Waving around her smart ‘phone over her head

Rachel, Weeping for Our Children

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Rachel, Weeping for Our Children

From an idea suggested by Kelly Rogers

No soldiers come, with glaring eyes, with death
To drag our children out into the road
To thrust away their lives into the dust
With pilum, gladius, or manly fist
And Romans as advisors standing by
Amid obscenities, curses, and screams
A fog of witness for that old excuse:
It’s all about the quality of life
Confusion now persuades with soft, soft breath
And therapists come, soothingly, with death.

Chertkovo

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Chertkovo

For Eugenio Corti

Perhaps the site is now a garbage heap
A parking lot, a drainage ditch, a field
Where little children chase a soccer ball
Among the flowers of a Russian spring
Whispering a memory of Italy
For here a good Italian soldier died
His life ripped from him in a desolation
Of screams and violence and frozen horror -
But he is a candle, lit again, in Heaven where
His feet are always warm, and “Savoia!” is a hymn

Old-People Coffee

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Old-People Coffee

A cup of senior coffee – forty-three cents
But coffee – how can it be a senior –
Is it graduating from high school?
Someone decided that I am not worthy
Of the Social Security I paid
And the Veterans’ Administration
Doesn’t even acknowledge my existence
But corporate America still loves me:
Every morning McDonald’s greets me with
A cup of senior coffee – forty-three cents

Economic Exile

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Economic Exile

Another dreary airport boarding gate
Ear-phones, MePhones, travelers huddled in
Leatherette seats between flickering signs
Feet up upon duffles and each other
Like refugees waiting long nights for trains
In Doctor Zhivago, with different dreams:
Youth longs for adventures in Italy
While age is often content to journey through books
Like Bilbo in Rivendell, not waiting here
At yet another airport boarding gate

Pasch

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Pasch at St. Michael’s, 2015

What sort of man sits in the silent dark
And waits for a small candle to be lit
When he could reach over and flip a switch
For the miracle of electricity
Bravely to course through the building’s wired veins
The march of progress with a touch controlled
By the hand of humanity triumphant
Over old Byzantine superstition
What hopeful sort of man waits for the dawn,
For Light to appear from a cold, sealed tomb?

Contra Ivan Karamazov

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

A little exposition: In The Brothers Karamazov Ivan is an agnostic who cannot reconcile faith and his Euclidian mind. My thesis (last line) is that everyone and everything, understood by us or not, is in unity with God.

Still, about those fire ants…

Contra Ivan Karamazov

Though some maintain that parallels don’t meet
And three-point-something is the sum of pi
And whether X is found; no one knows why
(Was it lost, perhaps wandering in the street?)
Curious matters all Euclidian
Even for the bold mathematician
Are as obdurate as obsidian
Each an illogical proposition
To the rationalist impossible, and yet -
Parallel lines are at the Altar met

The Wandering Gentile

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

The Wandering Gentile1

For Tod on his 75th birthday

How odd to be Bilbo at Rivendell
Or Jack and Warnie in the Little End room
Finishing up that book you meant to write
From the long ago, but not knowing the subject
Until this now, when sunset-softened light
Makes clearer the Words on the eternal page
More morning than ever any morning was
Sunlight and moonlight on the pilgrim road
Until you realize, with a gentle laugh:
How odd ever to have been here at all


1An allusion by Rabbi Shulman in the last episode of Northern Exposure

Searching for God and a Lost Shoe

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Searching For God and a Lost Shoe

For a university student

The morning sails through your window as light
Dark blue when winter rests upon the world
All green and golden in the happy spring
But welcome every day, in every way
The silence is soon broken by the noise:
A rattling faucet, a rattling roommate,
The merry chaos not yet organized
Into the poetry of this day in God
So sing while searching for that other shoe:
The morning shares with you its hymn of joy

Mr. Dogg and the Copp

Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

Mr. Dogg and the Cop

Several weeks ago a Texas state trooper took an off-duty gig on his own time, providing security for a concert in the capital of our fair state. Afterward, one of the musicians asked the security guard to pose with him for a snapshot.

The photograph shows two middle-age men, one in a DPS uniform and another, balding and wearing eyeglasses, who looks much like a middle-school math teacher. This second man is Snoop Dogg (possibly not the name on his birth certificate), said to be a famous musician.

Some busy individual at the Department of Public Safety was not happy with this harmless photograph because Mr. Dogg is a convicted drug offender. Apparently Texas DPS troopers are not supposed to associate with convicted drug offenders. One supposes that if Rush Limbaugh, also a convicted drug offender, had been in the photograph along with Mr. Dogg the DPS would have been, like Marty the Martian, very, very angry.

As it is, an official with the Texas Department of Public Safety gave the DPS trooper a reprimand (in DPS-speak, “a one-time coaching opportunity”) for associating with Mr. Dogg. A DPS trooper may protect Mr. Dogg from harm but must not be seen to do so.

If a Texas DPS trooper helps provide security for a Wagner concert directed by James Levine, should the trooper run a computer check on Mr. Levine’s background? How about the trumpet section? And are drummers ever to be trusted?

And then, hey, about Richard Wagner – he didn’t pay his debts, he participated in revolutionary activities, his music instigated riots, and he was anti-Semitic. Would a DPS trooper who was seen at a concert featuring the music of such a disreputable character be given a “one-time coaching opportunity?”

A Texas state trooper cannot possibly know the criminal histories of everyone with whom he (the pronoun is gender-neutral) comes into contact, nor should he: firefighters, medics, reporters, tow-truck drivers, the shop assistant who sells him a new bullet, and, of course, the waitress at the doughnut shop.

Maybe some in DPS administration ought to leave their Austin offices on occasion and take a night shift on the streets in order to remind themselves where they started.

The trooper was not taking bribes.

The trooper was not being racist.

The trooper was not sexually harassing anyone.

The trooper was not smuggling drugs.

The trooper was not trafficking in human beings.

The trooper was not nekkid.

The trooper was not using his badge and his office for official oppression.

The trooper was not whooping it up with the Secret Service, the Drug Enforcement agency, and some, oh, fun dates.

The trooper was not doing any of these things. What got him into trouble was appearing in a snapshot by the request of an American citizen who, whatever his past, was not under indictment and who was going peaceably about his lawful daily business.

As for a “one-time coaching opportunity,” the only coaching that the trooper seems to require would be for a weight-loss regimen. To re-phrase an old gag, maybe Mr. Dogg stays so skinny by running laps around his favorite Texas DPS trooper.

-30-

The Back Yard Hardware Store

Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.om

The Back Yard Hardware Store

Several years ago Butch and Debbie Pachall sold me a nifty metal detector which has proven to be great fun. I don’t use it often enough to sort out the subtleties of sound like Debbie can, but I have never switched it on without finding something of interest. Since assisting in archaeology sites in California in my youth I’m easily interested in anything old, and a brass hinge or a long-lost knife are for me good finds. Debbie, however, has practiced the arcane (to me) art of interpreting beeps and the computer images so assiduously that she can identify most objects before taking out the trowel: “That’s a penny…another penny…ring tab…a piece of pipe…a quarter…”

Recently I learned to practice another form of metal detecting, with a big, heavy magnet from the hardware store. Several summers ago I had the lads make some modifications around Chateau D’Aula, and upon completion of the strengthening of fortifications I used a big magnet to pick up the unseen nails, screws, and other bits of metal before the lawnmower did.

In the event, the magnet is almost as much fun as the electronic metal detector. Most of the nails and screws I find are re-usable, as are many of the hinges and bolts. In Ye Olden Days, these objects really were manufactured better than they are now. Nails, screws, and bolts were made in the USA of extruded steel; what is sold now is often the unhappy result of odd scraps of pot metal melted down and cast in molds in China.

Using recycled ironmongery for my own back yard projects is thrifty in itself, and even after years of lying in the ground the American nail is often more durable than the Chinese one.

There was a dairy farm and another house on this site long ago, and in addition to ferric objects the ground often covers other modest treasures. Where there are nails and screws, there are often bottles (usually in fragments), coins, brass objects, ceramic doorknobs, game pieces of glass or lead, switch plates, expended bullets, axe heads, tractor parts, a sturdy length of chain, a canning lid made in Canada, marbles, and other oddments.

I haven’t yet found Jean Lafitte’s treasure, but I’m looking. Beep-beep-beep…bonk – maybe that’s it…

-30-

Let's End a Conversation

Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

Let’s End a Conversation

An all-purpose campaign speech for candidates of all parties:

My immigrant Native-American parents came to this great country with only a few dollars and a dream of beginning a conversation in order that no child should be left freedom of choice behind the American dream while we still have a lot to do time for a change and a new beginning with real leadership to win the war on drugs and break the gridlock in Washington because I’ve met with real Americans just like you in the heartland where dreams live in a good ol’ down-home pickup truck defending freedom around the globe as leader of the free world building a bridge to the 22nd century by reaching across the aisle by running a positive campaign unlike the Fascist scum running against me and empowering people to put children first because at the kitchen table the other night my six-year-old reminded me of the hunger in Martha’s Vineyard and together we can build a future that will once again make America great by turning the key that unlocks the focus on the issues not partisan politics by growing the economy across party lines and celebrating diversity because no dream is beyond our reach through fresh new real leadership as I sit with my head bowed in church I know the middle class deserve a tax break in order to grow the small businesses that are the engine of our campaign and America with affordable birth control for seniors that change the tone in Washington and along the highways and byways of this great land of one people united in fresh approaches and a common set of common ideas where the real credit belongs to the American people whose heritage of winning the hearts and minds of the people will empower the stake on which rests our children’s bright future because together, united as one, we will build a future in order to get America working again and keep America great in the forefront of technological innovation that will see our dreams to the stars and beyond joining with you little people who join with me in shared sacrifice in a conversation around a table in a roadside diner where the true heart of America beats with the rhythm of the lottery-ticket machine as I order a plain, honest cuppa joe while wearing my plain good-ol’-workin’-folks blue jeans because deep inside my soul I’m just as common as you are in these tough economic times because I know what it’s like to get my hands dirty in the clean, honest soil of real America planting corn, and, like, stuff and although I live in a modest apartment in Manhattan my true heart is in the deep, rich soil of Kansas…oh…this is Iowa…where real Americans wear made-in-China baseball caps and worry about the multi-cultural weather and fertilizer, and, like, stuff, because deep down inside I’m just one of you people with my Bible and a dream that all can be one united in the diversity of the American dream for a greater tomorrow because the past is behind us, the present is now, and the future lies ahead because your children are going to die for one side one week and the next side the next week in undeclared wars while my children attend Columbia Law School…wait…did I really let that slip…?

May the deity or the19th century philosophical principle of your choice bless and / or enlighten this great country. Thank you, and good night.

-30-

Snake, Interrupted

Snake, Interruptedruptedruptedrupted - A Song of Spring

Our merry springtime is a glorious feast
Of joyful sights and scents and happy sounds,
Of breezes turning warmly from the east
Of bustling bees winging their flowery rounds
Above, around, and through a world of green
In dreams of life that move the seasons along
Where each day’s sunrise halos a Creation scene
And every blossom is its own soft song
But the sweetest sound echoing through the glades
Is a snake being shredded by the lawnmower’s blades

The University as a Free-Fire Zone

Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

The University as a Free-Fire Zone

The Texas legislature has considered the problem of violence in universities, and proposes to make everything all better by allowing students to carry weapons on campus (http://dfw.cbslocal.com/2015/03/18/texas-senate-approves-concealed-campus-carry-gun-bill/).

One can see the therapeutic value. If drunken frat boys chanting racist slurs are allowed to open-carry .44 magnums on their hips they will sit down together in Christian fellowship, shoot merrily at the overhead lights, and open a conversation about their culture of puerile cloddishness.

Campus-carry could make maths more interesting: “If Tiffany fires her Glock at a sophomore on a northbound train going 70 miles per hour…”

Or languages: “Class, write an ode to a Kalashnikov in Russian. Keep asking yourself how Pushkin might have worded it.”

Or history: “I hope everyone has brought a black or blue pen and a Lee-Enfield to class today…”

Anatomy and physiology: “Class, we’re short on cadavers for our long-term dissection project. Would someone please go outside and bag a couple of sophomores? Do it for science. Do it for your school. And, hey, try not to mess up so many internal organs this time.”

“Professor Bogdown, me and my little friend here would like an ‘A.”

And that graduate student arguing with the clock in the hallway – yeah, she needs a gun.

Those late-night sessions helping each other cope with life’s challenges would become more efficient: “Biff, me ‘n’ the guys know you’ve been having a rough time, what with failing chemistry and your girlfriend leaving you, so we’ve all chipped in and bought you this revolver. We’re going to leave you alone now. Good luck, buddy.”

Dorm rules might require silencers between midnight and five a.m., except on weekends.

Residence hall supervisors would have to adapt: “Okay, people, I’m tired of stepping over all the corpses in the mornings. Let’s all develop a professional attitude in disposing of dead bodies, okay?”

Those friendly rivalries on the sports fields would change: “In the fourth quarter, the score here at Friendship Stadium stands at Redbrick State Teachers’ University 2,329 killed, 4,356 wounded; Our Mother of Mercy 1,242 killed, 3,054 wounded.”

Veterans coming home from the desert might not be happy to see the university campus as yet another outpost shared with unreliable friendlies.

If the Texas legislature permits the open-carry of firearms, would campuses still be tobacco-free zones?

Given that the death rate of university students during spring break alone is pretty much personified in the “Casualty lists! Casualty lists!” scene in Gone with the Wind, the possession of firearms on the job should be limited to trained law enforcement professionals - the Secret Service and the Drug Enforcement Agency come to mind.

Campus carry – no, it’s really not funny at all. Is there no one in the Texas legislature who has served in law enforcement, in the military, or in emergency medicine?

-30-

Had Byron Lived a Few Years Longer

Had Byron Lived a Few Years Longer

V:

She stalks in Makeup, like a fright
Of Senior Specials and takeout fries;
And all that’s worst of snark and bite
Meet in her painted layers of guise:
Thus billowed in that fluorescent light
Which Heaven to youthful lads denies.

R:

He talks of Makeup, silly old wight
Of faded beauties – through his old eyes!
Tho’ his slim waist and muscled might
Have long departed – he is no prize!
Thus now of greater width than height
Which Heaven to happy girls denies.


Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

A Morning in March

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

A Morning in March

This morning is a sonnet sweetly sung
First by the breeze sighing through apple leaves
Then by the sun laughing across the grass
And by murmuring doves and nattering sparrows
Fussing with squirrels under a happy oak
Dressing itself in the fashion of spring
Covering the barrenness of winter with
Young leaves only now learning how to flirt
In anticipation of summer days:
This morning is a sonnet sweetly sung

The Morning Paper and a Cigarette

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

The Morning Paper and a Cigarette

The morning paper and a cigarette,
A cup of coffee to complete the theme
A booth with creaky, cracked leatherette seats
And a sticky-top table stained with stories
A joint called Al’s, just off the interstate
Dry desert cold lingering from the autumn night
Until the sun rises to light the way
To California, and The Hungry i
For now: the desert, a cup of coffee,
The morning paper, and a cigarette

The Morning Paper and a Cigarette

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

The Morning Paper and a Cigarette

The morning paper and a cigarette,
A cup of coffee to complete the theme
A booth with creaky, cracked leatherette seats
And a sticky-top table stained with stories
A joint called Al’s, just off the interstate
Dry desert cold lingering from the autumn night
Until the sun rises to light the way
To California, and The Hungry i
For now: the desert, a cup of coffee,
The morning paper, and a cigarette

The Great Gatsby

The Tedious Gatsby, Old Sport

I took up Gatsby, and I read,
And now I’m glad that Gatsby’s dead.

A Letter from France, 1919

Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

A Letter from France, 1919

At an estate sale I considered buying an old letter, and decided not to. Then I considered it again, and bought it after all. It is written from France on stationery printed “AMERICAN YMCA” and ON ACTIVE SERVICE WITH THE AMERICAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCE.” The envelope is franked “SOLDIER’S MAIL” and features the “OK” and the illegible signature of the censorship officer.

A young man from Orange, Texas, probably a teenager, writes of occupation duty, erratic mail service, the marvels of electricity (few American homes had electricity in 1919), and of frustration because he and his regiment have been kept behind in France for months after their active service in combat.

Although the penmanship from this doughboy of a century ago is elegant, the paper and the ink have both deteriorated and so I may have erred in transcription. The letter is addressed to:

Mrs. M Akins
R. A. Box 69
Orange
Texas

Febuary 5, 1919

My Dear Mother & All:

Well I hope you have heard from me by this time as the last letter I got from you said that you had not heard from me in 3 months and I don’t know what the matter was as I write very often and I sure mail them. Well what kind of weather are you having at home we are having bum weather now it has quit snowing and going to raining but it is not so very cold but last week it was awful cold. Well we are still working on the French roads and I think we are doing fine as you know all of the boys are disgusted as we have been over hear almost 15 months and haven’t got to go home yet and there were some regiments over here that weren’t over here hardly no time and now have gone home and we are still in France and I sure do want to come home awful bad. I sure do want to come home but I guess I will just have to stick it out. Say the country here sure is wonderful you have heard of cave dwellers well there are miles and miles here along the river front some of the prettiest houses you ever seen just dug out in the solid rock and the farms here are all nice all the towns around here have eletcric lights and they sure look old I mean the cave dwellers. And there sure some crooked stretts here and they are about wide enough for a baby buggy.

Well I will ring off for this time and write more the next love to all

Ralph H Akins 17104
30th Company
20th Engineers
American E. F.

Almost a century later we are left wondering about young Ralph, about when he finally got to go home to Orange, what his mom cooked him for supper that first night back, and what he did afterward in life.

-30-

What Was in the White House Package?

Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

What Was in the White House Package?

That the Not-So-Secret Service seems to consist only of superannuated frat boys carrying firearms is old news, so there is no surprise about their latest comedy routine from The Naked Gun: From the Files of Police Squad.

Paging Detective Frank Drebin…

In their latest (as of this scribbling) comedy routine, a couple of the Secret Action Hero lads drove to the White House under the influence of a late night of merriment and good fellowship, and compromised an investigation into a suspicious package (are there any trusting packages?) left at the gates.

If the local coppers / flatfoots / Peelers / gumshoes / Sherlocks / constabulary / Officer Semanskis had been permitted to investigate we would have known all about the package within a day or two. Given that The Happy Hour Cocktail Commandos are in charge, we can only speculate about what was in the suspicious package left at the White House gates. Some possibilities:


1. An advance copy of the new federally mandated cookbook for schools and hospitals: Gruel – It’s Not Just for Victorian Orphanages

2. Transcripts of a former secretary of state’s misplaced emails

3. A map to Vladimir Putin’s secret hideout where he plans world domination, beginning with Disneyland

4. A copy of the U.S. Constitution

5. A book of Hillary’s cookie recipes

6. Pizza

7. The complete The Brady Bunch Meet The Flintstones on DVD, including The Lost Episodes

8. An invitation to join Governor Christie and his wife for a game of bridge

9. The remains of a fence-jumper who misjudged speed, distance, height, and those really sharp spikes

10. The complete edition of late-night TV Secret Service Jokes in three DVDs dropped by a renegade drone

But I must close now. It’s midnight, and there’s a knock on the door. Wonder who it could be…

-30-

A Funeral

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

A Funeral

The hymns have been sung, and the Gospel read;
We prayed for everyone except the dead

Old Karamazov

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Old Karamazov

Young Karamazov – once upon a time
Strolled dreaming through the happy hopes of youth
And surely wondered about spring and love
Wrote clumsy verse, perhaps, for a pretty girl
Then fell unfortunately into fashion:
The acquisition of proud vanities
Through the disposition of dreams and souls
Until he was only an old man who
Sat brooding through the bitter schemes of age
Old Karamazov – lost upon a time

Welcome to Texas

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Welcome to Texas

Welcome to Texas no bathroom no no
Museum closed left lane closed right lane closed
The clerk has your receipt no bathroom no
Rest stop closed traffic fines double if you don’t
Slow down for the workers who aren’t there
This is the lane for 287 south
But it isn’t ha ha fooled you again
Detour now past the Blackberry beggar
Who must go to the bathroom somewhere here
Welcome to Texas no bathroom no no

POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS POLICE LINE

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS POLICE LINE

Another world beyond the yellow tape:
Chaos and smoke, confusion, blood, and pain
A wreckage of souls, cigarettes, and beer
Grim death encompassed within appointed bounds.
Some order on this side the yellow tape:
Cheeseburgers and fries, sodas in paper cups
MePhones uplifted in Hitlerian salute
Recording the pagan chant: “OMG!”
Sung by life’s postulants surprised to see
Another world beyond the yellow tape

Die Skihutte / The Ski Hut

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Die Skihutte

Upon a shelf a tiny hut awaits
Its tiny skiers on their holiday
A tiny bench sits on the lamplit porch
And someone’s skis are leaned against the wall
The tiny door is closed against the cold
But windows with their shutters open wide
Invite a peek into a tiny world
Of bunks and boots and books and bottles of beer
A pot of stew kept warm beside the fire -
Upon a shelf a tiny hut awaits

Dante

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Dante

Dante Alighieri
Wasn’t very merry
Whenever he didn’t feel well
He imagined his enemies in (Newark)

A Flicker of Life

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

A Flicker of Life

Movies are but flickering images
Sometimes, to the observer, so is life

On the Desecration of Jewish Cemeteries in France

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

On the Desecration of Jewish Cemeteries in France

An obscenity scrawled upon the gates
Is Satan screaming outrage at the Sh’ma
A booted foot crunching riot-shattered glass
Is only death’s passing futility
A smear of swastikas by unclean hands
Is lambs’ blood on the holy lintels of Heaven
A tombstone tipped onto the grass – a throne
In a mansion promised in the long ago
In a happy Garden of eternal spring
Where blessings are engraved upon the gates

Muster

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Muster

There is no American Legion hall
It was sold long ago to pay the bills
A few old men gather in borrowed rooms
To pledge allegiance to a nation that
Has never pledged her allegiance to them
But still they offer their service and faith
To a wonderfully indifferent nation
And to its equally indifferent God
They muster again on the trail because
There is no American Legion hall

Feeding the Beast

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Feeding the Beast

The doors into the flames are open wide
Now shovel that gossip into the fire
Tittle-tattle no one will ever read
Unless a bit of tattle raises a flag
Whatever is flaggy to administration
Unless a bit of tittle raises eyebrows
Whatever is eyebrowy to administration
It’s all HTML, type it or talk it
So shovel it in, little worker bees:
The doors into the flames are open wide

President Jerry Judge Judy Genn Rush Kardashian

Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

President Jerry Judge Judy Glenn Rush Kardashian

This nation’s non-stop election cycle continues, along with cooking shows and
Kardashians, but, alas, nothing about cooking Kardashians. Politics is no longer Ciceronian or Jeffersonian, but rather Iphonian.

Every four years about 50% of the electorate choose a president. They do not choose the president’s family. The president, not anyone else, should support the president’s family. If the president wants all his relations to go on shopping tours and holidays, he or she can pay for their airline tickets on American or United out of his paycheck, just like an American.

Every four years the other 50% of the electorate choose nothing. They’re probably too busy complaining.

Why does the president have access to a fleet of luxury aircraft? Why so many armored Al Capone-y luxury cars? Where is the candidate who will foreswear these expensive vanities? The airplanes should be refitted as medevacs for the soldiers wounded in this nation’s many undeclared wars, and the look-at-me- cars sold to record producers.

The President of the United States is not the leader of the free world. If the president were the leader of the free world, the free world would have agreed to this by now. They haven’t. Constitutionally, the president is not even the leader of this country. Let us not elect a Napoleon manque’ but instead a president who wishes to serve the people of this nation.

Let us elect a president who pledges not to play golf, ride a bicycle, or sing with a hillbilly or rock band for the duration of his or her term.

Let us elect a president whose spouse swears a sacred oath not to mess with school lunches or confuse his or her moods and whims for a Delphian Oracle.

Let us elect a president who repudiates all executive power over toilet tanks and light bulbs, and who sacks the EPA as quickly as Monica’s boyfriend sacked the White House travel agency staff (who didn’t deserve it).

Let us elect a president who is at least as friendly to Canada, Israel, the United Kingdom, and our many other friends and allies as he is to China, Viet-Nam, Arabia, Qatar, Cuba, Turkey, Indonesia, and all other tyrannies.

Let us elect a president who once had a real job or who served in the military.

Let us elect a president who will not compromise the dignity of the office by granting faux-absolution to turkeys and messing about with groundhogs. Look, Mr. or Madame President, do your job and leave comedy to Congress.

Let us elect a president who understands that the practice of medicine is predicated on the doctor-patient relationship, not on a money-sucking third party.

Let us elect a president who will never attack another nation without a Congressional declaration of war as required by Article I, Section 8 of the Constitution. This nation thought badly of Japan for attacking us without a declaration of war in 1941. Sauce for the goose…

Let us elect a president who knows that there is no such law as a War Powers Act, only the War Powers Resolution, and a resolution is only smoke drifting in the wind.

Let us elect a president who looks to God, to the at least 6,000 years of human civilization, to the realities of history, and to the Constitution, not to some transient ideological screed he or she read in his sophomore year.

Let us elect a congress equally wise and discerning. And let us be worthy of the good government we say we want.

-30-

Do Luddies Read?

Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

Do Luddites Read?

If in the past a tyrant wanted to eliminate a book not acceptable to his ego or his ideology he had to go to a great deal of bother to discredit books and their writers. Seizing and burning books meant organizing government or military departments to search out copies, although many university students were (and still are) eager to volunteer in ideological censorship.

With gadgetry our culture has progressed from burning books (which, after all, pollutes the air) to deleting books from the disinformation superhighway by clicking an app.

One of the early sellers of electronic books discovered that it was selling a book without the permission of the copyright owner. The book was not only withdrawn from sale, but all the copies already sold were made to disappear instantly from the little plastic boxes of all the people who had bought the book. The purchasers were given credit, and all was well except for this disturbing reality: any book, or even all of them, can be made to disappear from any electronic reader at any time.

Books on any sort of electronic device can be altered or deleted by someone else upon command. The book you begin to read can be changed before you finish it. Any titles you read can of course be monitored by anyone who is interested in knowing what you are up to.

And this is nothing new, except for improved efficiency in shoving unacceptable words down the Orwellian memory hole. In church, for example, some familiar hymns have been altered for contemporary sensitivities. Church committees and publishers have sometimes determined that our ancestors were wrong, and have then changed or eliminated words, phrases, and entire songs very dear to generations of worshippers.

Destroying art is an ISIS / Taliban thing, not our thing, even when prefaced with “as arranged by…”

However, the words in the printed hymnal do not change while you are holding the hymnal. Any printed book in your hands can be determined by you to be a bad book or a good book. But nothing about that physical book is going to change except for the inevitable decay of physical matter through fire, immersion in water, or the passage of years. The contents of an electronic edition, however, could be whatever the publisher or service provider wants them to be at any moment.

Resistance both to snooping and to changing words and songs and texts is not a matter of being a Luddite, but a reasonable desire that the editors and purveyors of those words and songs and texts remember that they are not Shakespeare, John Newton, or Lord Byron. Ms. Grundy and her doppelganger Josef Goebbels don’t rate a veto on art, music, and faith.

An electronic book is even more ephemeral than Radio Shack™. There is much to be said for – and by – that printed book on the shelf.

And, hey, Luddites – happy bicentennial!


Bloom, Allan. The Closing of the American Mind. New York: Simon and Schuster. 1987.

Finn, Peter, and Petra Couvee’. The Zhivago Affair. New York: Pantheon Books. 2014.

Manning, Molly Guptill. When Books Went to War. New York: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Pubishing Company. 2014.

Shirer, William L. The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich. New York: Simon and Schuster. 1960.

Slonim, Mark. Soviet Russian Literature: Writers and Problems, 1917-1967. New York: Oxford University Press. 1967.

-30-

Rainbows

Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

Rainbows

Rainbows are nice, and no one has to sign up with Mega-Tentacle Wireless to see one.

At the beginning of Lent the matter of the rainbow in Genesis 9:11 is often one of the appointed readings:

I will establish my covenant with you, and all flesh shall be no more destroyed with the waters of a flood, neither shall there be from henceforth a flood to waste the earth. And God said: This is the sign of the covenant which I give between me and you, and to every living soul that is with you, for perpetual generations. I will set my bow in the clouds, and it shall be the sign of a covenant between me, and between the earth. And when I shall cover the sky with clouds, my bow shall appear in the clouds: And I will remember my covenant with you, and with every living soul that beareth flesh: and there shall no more be waters of a flood to destroy all flesh.

Although the Romantics (with a capital ‘R’), were usually hostile to revealed religion, Wordsworth is one of the more congenial and accessible of that rowdy lot. In one of his first poems he connects the rainbow with humanity:

“My Heart Leaps Up”

My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began,
So is it now I am a man,
So let it be when I shall grow old
Or let me die!
The child is father of the man:
And I would wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

In this little poem of indeterminate line, meter, and rhyme, Wordsworth connects the rainbow intimately to three ages of a man’s life on earth: childhood, maturity, and old age. The adult speaker delights in rainbows just as he did when he was a little boy, and hopes that he always will. He maintains that the joys of childhood are important to the development of the man, and that these joys are part of a life of harmony and balance, or “natural piety.”

Rainbows aren’t scheduled. They appear at will, usually around dusk on a rain spring or summer day, and then disappear quickly. Langston Hughes says that “Poems are like rainbows; they escape you quickly.” Conversely, rainbows are like poems. To go for the camera is to lose the rainbow, and even if not, the pictures of the rainbow don’t really match the real rainbow. Might as well catch the Wordsworthian moment while it lasts.

And, as Christina Rossetti says,

There are bridges on the rivers,
As pretty as you please;
But the bow that bridges heaven,
And overtops the trees,
And builds a road from earth to sky,
Is prettier far than these

-30-

The Yankee Doodle Cigar Box

Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

The Yankee Doodle Cigar Box

Open the old cigar box,
Get me a Cuba stout
For things are running crossways,
And Maggie and I are out

- Kipling

The decay of civilization continues with the demise of the cigar box.

In the not-so-long-ago even the cheapest cigars (Roi-Tan – “The Cigar That Breathes”) were sold in wooden boxes secured with little brass nails.

Little boys didn’t smoke cigars (well…once or twice…) themselves, but a castoff cigar box was a childhood treasure, a source of almost-raw materials for building toy forts, airplanes, cars, ships, and army tanks.

A cigar box also served as a pirate’s treasure chest for hiding old pocketknives, marbles, Canadian pennies, firecrackers from last Christmas, brass washers, keys without locks, locks without keys, a Timex wristwatch that didn’t run anymore, stubs of pencils, bits of chalk, string, airplane glue, crayons, .22 shell casings, pliers, screwdrivers, dice, and a little plastic disc that, when tilted, made a tiny hunter in a boat lift his shotgun and bring down a duck.

Every child took a cigar box to school to hold crayons, those dinky, stamped-metal, blunt-nosed scissors, and that crumbly white paste which wouldn’t stick anything together. The labels remained, which would now be forbidden under state law as promoting the use of tobacco by children.

Some manufacturers sold empty no-name boxes as school supplies for a time, but these were quickly superseded by the now ubiquitous and iniquitous transparent plastic boxes which somehow seem un-American.

Wooden cigar boxes for cheap machine brands were first replaced by thick, heavy cardboard. These were sturdy enough for squirreling away little oddments in a drawer, but wholly inadequate for building another USS Texas, a bomber, or a railroad station for the three-rail O-gauge (the Marx vs Lionel vs American Flyer debate is deferred).

Sadly, grocery store cigars no longer come in real boxes at all; they are tucked into folding envelopes of thin cardboard, useless in every way. Straight shame.

After the Depression and World War II, the concept of “the richest nation on earth” was almost as much a fiction as it is now. National prosperity didn’t much come down to ex-G.I.’s, but they figured they were blessed in having jobs and food and no one shooting at them, and the promise of a better future. A J. C. Higgins on the gun rack instead of a garand, a pair of dress shoes instead of combat boots for going to church, and the luxury of a six-cent cigar after work or down at the American Legion - all spoke of small victories.

The names of those brands return from the past: Roi Tan, King Edward, Wm Penn, Dutch Masters, White Owl, Phillies, El Producto, Muriel, Swisher Sweets, John Ruskin, most of which have gone the way of the Missouri Pacific, Pan American, and Studebaker. The plain wooden boxes in which those cheap, machine-made, post-war cigars awaiting the touch of the match contained more than cigars, they were cultural artifacts.

Cardboard just won’t do.

Where now is the modern boy to hide his old pocketknives, marbles, Canadian pennies, firecrackers from last Christmas, brass washers, keys without locks, locks without keys, a Timex wristwatch that doesn’t run anymore, stubs of pencils, bits of chalk, string, airplane glue, crayons, .22 shell casings, pliers, screwdrivers, dice, and a little plastic disc that, when tilted, makes a tiny hunter in a boat lift his shotgun and bring down a duck?

-30-

The Twenty-One Egyptian Martyrs

Twenty-One Martyrs of Egypt

Baptized into the mystery of death
Simon again carrying the Cross of Christ
But now each Simon carrying his own
Marched to the beach under the whips of scorn
Crowned with humiliation, fear, and pain
Agony, the obscenity of death
Canonized on the Cyrenian shore
Lifted up into eternal Joy
Twenty-one martyrs teach us how to die
Baptized into the mystery of death

Cambodia Comes to an End

Mack Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Cambodia Comes to an End

 

The Cambodian government recently arrested two American sisters for desecrating a religious and historical site by taking bare-bottom pictures of each other in Angkor Wat.  The two young women kept their shirts on, though – perhaps these were tees printed with “These ARE My Church Clothes®™” or maybe the obligatory portrait of pathological murderer and capitalist fashion ATM Che Guevara®™.

 

Someone might ask where their parents were, but, really, should twenty-somethings need mumsy and dadsy to tell them to keep their britches on in somebody else’s church?

 

The government is unsure about the proper punishment.  Given the reported poses, a few swings with a switch wouldn’t be amiss for the misses.

 

Many people the age of the moonbeam girls are working double shifts at minimum-wage jobs to maintain themselves, and can’t afford a holiday at all.  These two consumers, who enjoy enough disposable wealth to visit a UNESCO World Heritage Site, could think of little else to do at one of the world’s wonders except to act out the content of American television programming.

 

This failure to respect others and one’s self is not limited to Yanks.  Only a week before the bad American moons arising three French tourists chose to give the temple more exposure to the, uh, culture of La Belle France than was necessary.  The Cambodian government gave them suspended sentences and sent them home, which demonstrates that Cambodia is more civilized than France.

 

The week before that some other tourists, said only to be “Asian,” also thought that a thousand-year-old religious site was a clothing-optional experience.

 

At some point Cambodia might become so exasperated at those visitors who act like British footie fans that the punishments might involve more than a scolding and a ride to the airport in a police car.  And this might be happening now - as of this writing, the two young American women are still in a Cambodian holding facility.  No privacy, no air-conditioning, no MePhone, no television, no menu choices, and maybe only a damp, crowded concrete floor instead of a bunk.  That must fun.

 

Although the young women’s lack of a proper upbringing is probably George Bush’s fault, the reality is that no matter how shabby the parenting or lack of parenting, a young adult can begin to think for herself (the pronoun here is gender-neutal).  She can choose not to be fifty shades of victim.  She can choose not to be a cliché, a parasite, or a passive receiver of destructive sub-cultural indoctrination. She can choose to respect others by first respecting herself. 

 

Helping visitors grow up is not the responsibility of the government of Cambodia, who are busy enough recovering from a generation of Communist horror.

 

In the end (as it were), Cambodian tourists don’t visit churches in the USA in order to drop trou for a selfie in front of the baptismal font.

 

-30-

Brittle Sunlight

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Brittle Sunlight

 

Most say a sunbeam’s glare is beautiful

The February sun slanting upon

Poor optimistic flowers opening out

To celebrate the trickster’s transient warmth

Haze grey is gentler, drifts of morning mists

Through which ascending light speaks promises

Of happiness along life’s pearling dreams

When no sun marks or assigns us dutiful hours

To those who see whole worlds in shoaling leaves

Cold February fogs whisper happiness

National Public Radio Considers the New Cardinals

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

National Public Radio Considers the New Cardinals

 

authentic marginalized periphery

environment climate change key issues

chained to the tradition smacks you in the face

geographical diversity voices

of the global church geographic choice

revolutionary crop developing world

spiritual Alzheimer’s ideological conclusions

mandarins at the Vatican the left

upper echelons hot button dialogue

diverse comments for this thread are now closed

A Flickering Light Among the Winter Trees

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Shhhhh - Did You See That?

 

A flickering light among the winter trees,

A bell that’s barely heard within the wind

Like rumors of poor wandering souls who mourn

Departed glories through a moonless night

While guarded in forgotten rites by soft

Mysterious footfalls heard in the dark

By frightened men who scuttle quickly back

To where the feeble streetlamps flail against fear,

Saying nothing to their pals in the pub about

A flickering light among the winter trees

Texas' Proposed Open-Carry Law

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Texas’ Proposed Open-Carry Law

 

All teachers trample the Constitution

All teachers promote contempt for the Flag

All teachers should be in an institution

All teachers are weird (and that one’s a fag)

All teachers despise the military

All teachers should be slowly microwaved

All teachers hate meat; they’re vegetary

All teachers hate Jesus; they can’t be Saved

All teachers are evil; the children are harmed:

And thus, they say, all teachers should be armed

Upon Learning that the Southern Poverty Law Center Maintains an Enemies List

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Upon Learning that the Southern Poverty Law Center

Maintains an Enemies List

 

Does anyone maintain a list of friends?

The construction flagman who smiles and waves

The neighbor’s boy who visits for a game of chess

The Friday morning coffee commandos

The waitress who flirts with all her old men

          The helpful sackboy at the grocery store

          The man who repairs your air-conditioner

          The nurse-practitioner who makes you all better

Does anyone maintain a list of friends?

The President Asks Congress to Approve More Corpses

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

The President Asks Congress to Approve More Corpses

 

military force resolution robust

authorization national security

interests into harm’s way absolutely

necessary deployment enduring

offensive combat role limits authoritative

document timetable revisit the issue

discussion constitutional authority

AUMD  ISIL  ISIS, stability

integrity necessary and appropriate

associated persons or forces boots

Vocations

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Vocations

 

“I consecrate you to a great novitiate in the world.”

 

-Father Zosima to Alyosha in The Brothers Karamazov

 

The monastery gate opens easily

If it really needs opening at all

The road outside often leads somewhere else

But then it just as often leads back again

The distance measured by a crucifix

Where a weary traveler can pray awhile

Or maybe Harry Bailey’s hamburger joint

A cup of coffee and a cigarette

Offered by a pilgrim in the neon night

The monastery gate opens easily

The Student Commons

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

The Student Commons

 

In the student commons between classes

Fluorescent lights over the Coke machine

Cartoons and soaps on the television screen

Grim thirty-somethings hunched in plastic chairs

Staring like Eloi at the Morlock box

Where Tom chases Jerry past Vanna White

And then across the bed where Brook and Ridge

Wrestle in geographic ecstasy

On the muddy banks of the sports channel

In the student commons between classes