Friday, August 3, 2018

Lunch at the Cleverly Named It's-Not-Really-A-Fish-Camp - poem (of sorts)

Lunch at the Cleverly Named It’s-Not-Really-a-Fish-Camp

A Penance in Two Parts

1.

Waitress-Speak

Or

What is the Correct Response When Someone Says “Thank You?”


No problem no problem sorry ‘bout that
no problem no problem sorry ‘bout that
your order should be here shortly no problem
no problem sorry ‘bout that no problem
no problem sorry ‘bout that your order
should be here shortly no problem no problem
sorry ‘bout that no problem no problem
sorry ‘bout that your order should be here
shortly no problem no problem sorry ‘bout that
no problem no problem sorry ‘bout that
your order should be here shortly no problem
no problem sorry ‘bout that no problem
no problem sorry ‘bout that your order should

Note: Read “no problem” as unselfconscious valley-speak with a nasal twang


2.

Sister-in-Law-Speak

So me and her tried this new place my grandson
said ****! so I said ****! back and then we
all just laugheddddddddddd oh man this is soooooooo good then
I said I was tired of her **** and me and her found this sale and then my
husband said **** So me and her tried this
new place my grandson said ****! So I said
****! back and then we all just laugheddddddddddd oh man
this is soooooooo good then I said I was tired
of her **** and me and her found this sale
and then my husband said **** So me and
her tried this new place my grandson said ****!
So I said ****! back and then we all just
laugheddddddddddd oh man this is soooooooo good then I said

Note: just one margarita but a whole bunch of cackling. LOUD cackling.





Thursday, August 2, 2018

Is There a God? - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com


Is There a God?

Is there a God? And did He really build
This world for us in which to live and serve
Each other and Him in sweet caritas?

Is there a God? And does he really love us?

If this is so,

Why does He permit motivational speakers?

Wednesday, August 1, 2018

THE PRESIDENT WRITES IN ALL CAPS - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

THE PRESIDENT WRITES IN ALL CAPS

The President is writing in ALL CAPS today
And that’s all right because caps are okay:
They keep his head warm in the winter’s cold
He has ‘em in colors: red, white, and gold

And an old one in green from Viet-Nam
Where he was a-serving 1 of his Uncle Sam
Only he didn’t, but that doesn’t matter
He’ll dodge the issue with bluster and natter

Be grateful he sports his red MAGA cap
To cover his head, ‘cause it’s full of

                                                                      hair



1 allusion to Kipling's "Gunga Din"

Tuesday, July 31, 2018

We've Always Sailed Among the Stars - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

We’ve Always Sailed Among the Stars

We’ve always sailed among the stars, for they
Do swim around us in their hemisphere
The sea’s a map whereon is writ the moon
In all her moods and whims and vanities

And too the sun, for he flies east to west
And so if we but trace his path across
To Sidon from the Pillars of Hercules
We calculate our course by his long wake

Oh, yes, we sail across the seas and skies -
But I would chart the starlight in her eyes

Monday, July 30, 2018

Quick - What's the First Line of the Chinese National Anthem? - column

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Quick – What’s the First Line of the Chinese National Anthem?

In Grand Prairie a minor league baseball team known as the Texas Airhogs (Airhogs - I don’t get it either) rotates through its roster a number of China’s Shougang Eagles. https://www.star-telegram.com/news/nation-world/national/article215482305.html

Maybe baseball is the international language of peace and love and, like, stuff.

Does everyone stand for the Chinese national anthem?

In China, where due process is according to Legal Code 7.62 and where murdering prisoners is a national spectator sport, people probably do stand for their anthem. Or else. They probably also chant something like, “Hail, Faceless Committee Who Rule Us with an Iron Rod of Love and Progress!”

The chant doesn’t mention the Faceless Committee’s Rolex watches, yachts, Swiss bank accounts, Italian luxury cars, and personal airplanes. Everything for The People, bless them.

In the U.S.A. one is free not to stand for the national anthem, which is the best reason of all for choosing to stand.

In the bleachers at a Chinese baseball game a hot dog really is a dog, maybe a beagle, raised to farm-fresh ripeness and then slaughtered for a good ol’ down-home taste treat. “Hot dogs! Get yer hot dogs! This one was named Rover!”

“Buy me some dog bits and kitty snacks / I don’t care if I never get back…”

When Saddamn Hussein’s soccer team lost the players were beaten, as in beaten up, by Beloved Leader’s security services. One wonders if that’s also true in China.

Outside the U.S. embassy in Beiping / Peking / Pekin / Beijing last week a fellow set off a bomb but wasn’t able to get away from it – that was a swing and a miss.

A schoolmate’s father, Douglas Dove, of happy memory, loved to attend his grandsons’ high school baseball games. Mr. Dove, like Katie Casey in the song about Cracker Jacks, was occasionally displeased with the rulings on the field, and offered his spectacles to the officials with a good and loud “You want my glasses, ump!?”

That’s the American way. God bless Mr. Dove and the great game of baseball.

-30-

One Mustn't Keep a Sensitive Executioner Waiting - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

One Mustn’t Keep a Sensitive Executioner Waiting

“You are your own god – and are surprised when you find
that the wolf pack is hunting you across the desolate ice fields of winter.”

― Dag Hammarskjöld, Markings

Crazy old men bellowing at each other
Crazy old women shrieking at us all:
The Spiritus Mundi is hard at play
Among the wreckage of civilization

The stripping of the altars 1 is complete
Holy innocence is a toilet joke
And the literature of millennia
Now serves as cleaning rags for The Machine

An executioner, while waiting for you
Pauses to admire his latest tattoo



1 cf. Eamon Duffy

Sunday, July 29, 2018

A White Tee Shirt and a Pack of Camels - peom

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

A White Tee Shirt and a Pack of Camels

A white tee shirt with a pack of Camels
Tucked up ‘way cool in the left-side sleeve
And new blue jeans, the cuffs exactly right
And in my back pocket a happenin’ Ace comb

For keeping that duck tail so hot for the chicks
To swoon about, so High School Confidential
A cheap tin switchblade hidden carefully away
More Sharks than the Sharks, more Jets than the Jets

Even Kookier than Kookie, oh, my! -
While swaggering home from junior high

Saturday, July 28, 2018

We Are All Reptilian - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

We Are All Reptilian


We’re all reptilian; our skins slough free
Each hour, a few epidermal cells cleared
Sliding away so silently that we
Don’t even know that we have disappeared

And then the dermis – it steps bravely up
The hypodermis in its place stands to
All cells and capillaries to duties new
And slowly, slowly, there is a brand new you

But what is truly important every day
Is that we don’t slough our dear friends away

Friday, July 27, 2018

This is the Last Straw! And Some Inspirational Singer-Songwriters... - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

This is the Last Straw –
and Something About Sacred Buckets of Holistic Ice Water

Sexual predators, human smugglers
Starvation in the Sudan, civil war
in Syria, mass executions in China
Journalists murdered almost everywhere
Fashionable infanticide, homelessness
Unemployment, urban terrorism
Mass murder, school shootings, wildfires, racism
An unstable national government
Anti-Semitism, border desperation
Riots, arson, ecclesiastical corruption
Meth, alcoholism, historical cleansing
Skinheads, abuse, Khardassianistas
Volcanos, the death penalty, free verse
Affluenza, Jerry Springer, The View
Herbal tea, antifa, anti-antifa
And the soul-sucking existential despair
Of inspirational singer-songwriters:

Nah, not a bit worried about plastic straws

But I must go now; The Voices are telling me
To pour a bucket of ice water over my head
(As long as it’s not a plastic bucket)

Thursday, July 26, 2018

A Straw Man Accessorized with Exclamation Marks from the Eighth Grade - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

A Straw Man Accessorized with Exclamation Marks from the Eighth Grade
 (Rainbow Brite™ © Glitter Optional)

I heard it, dude; it’s part of the nexus!
A floating island as big as Texas!
All made of straws, there in the Pacific!
It’s on the ‘Net, dude, it’s there, specific!

It’s a Russian plot, sponsored by Putin!
It’s on the ‘Net, dude, sure as shootin’!
Them plastic straws will soon bring down the grid!
They kill the whales; they even got a squid!

The science is settled; let’s make some laws:
The source of all evil is them plastic straws!!!!!!!

Wednesday, July 25, 2018

It's Not a Bad Cell, But it is a Cell - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

It’s Not a Bad Cell, But it is a Cell

         If…
          Some Crown of sorrows sit
          Upon a little world for a little hour –
          Who shall remember it? Who shall care for it?

-C. S. Lewis, “In Prison,” Spirits in Bondage

It’s not a bad cell, but it is a cell
Requiring you not to be who you are
Quietly within your designated space
And keeping your insolence to yourself

A grated hatch of disapproval drops
And leaves you to the berth penanced to you
A hard and narrow bunk of pain and guilt
Against a wall that now must be your world

And in that world do thoughtful battle against
Shrill voices telling you how wrong you are

Tuesday, July 24, 2018

On the Resignation of the Executive Director of a Certain Veterans' Service Organization - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

On the Resignation of the Executive Director
of a Certain Veterans’ Service Organization

Our leaders’ reputations decay in the corners
Of their star-spangled offices, curling up
Like fallen leaves wind-blown against a fence
Then writhing in the rubbish-fires of history

Their bubble reputations in their own mouths 1
Ephemeral as the grey and ashy smoke
Adrift among the vaporous lies that once
Scented the sewage of their resumes’

Our leaders call us comrades, shipmates, brothers -
From their forward positions on the 501C

1 Shakespeare, “The Ages of Man”

Monday, July 23, 2018

Saint Gregory of Nyssa Orders a Cup of Coffee in Constantinople - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Saint Gregory of Nyssa Orders a Cup of Coffee

The whole city is full of it – in the squares,
The coffee shops, the ‘blogs, the op-ed pieces
The emails, the news sites, the grocery stores
They are all busy arguing -

If you ask someone to give you change
He says the President is the Begotten One
If you inquire about the price of a croissant
You are told by way of reply that he is not

That the Supreme Court is greater, and that
The President is inferior; if you ask
“Is my cup of Blue Mountain ready?”
The barista answers that Congress is nothing

In the squares, the coffee shops, the ‘blogs,
The op-ed pieces – the whole city is full of it





Saint Gregory’s amused (one hopes) observation on the fondness of the population of Constantinople for arguing theology is well known, and is available at:

http://readthefathers.org/2012/08/19/patristic-theology-is-for-everyone/

Sunday, July 22, 2018

The Dangers of Smoking after Heaving the Dead into a Helicopter - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The Dangers of Smoking

from an idea by Sheila Sharpe

In the foul heat and damp and rot and stench
After dusting off 1 the bodies of dead pals
The living and the dead, the living dead
Old Boats 2 lit off a cigarette and growled

“They say this stuff’ll kill ya.”


1 Dustoff – noun. Dust off – verb with an adverb. A dustoff is a medical evacuation via helicopter, as in “Doc, your dustoff will be here in three.” To dust off a patient, then, is to transport a patient, not to tidy him. I have recently read detailed arguments about the terms dustoff, dust off, and medevac, but no one quibbled about such minutiae along the Cambodian border.

2 Boats – a boatswain’s mate, the brains and muscle of the Navy. Boatswain’s mates do it all and are seldom acknowledged in history or art, not even in the recent film about Dunkirk. A boatswain’s mate is usually addressed as Boats, and always with deference, even by the C.O.

Saturday, July 21, 2018

M. Poncy Hector-Tworbst, B.A., M.Ed., Ph.D. Candidate, Speaks - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

On the Packing of Intersectionality: A Cross-Cultural Study

By M. Poncy Hector-Tworbst, B.A., M.Ed., Ph.D. Candidate

Unpack that intersectionality
And privilege transphile autonomy
Unite the paradigm’s hegemony
In the diaspora of agency

Cross-gender all peripherality
In post-colonial diversity
Dialogue augmented reality
And deconstruct avatar identity

All for the cause of authenticity
(But mostly I’m all about me, me, me)

Friday, July 20, 2018

A Summer Afternoon at 209 East Huisache Avenue - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

A Summer Afternoon at 209 East Huisache Avenue

Kingsville, Texas, 1955

A loaf of bread from the Piggly Wiggly
A quart of milk because MawMaw forgot
A Coke and a Mickey Mouse funnybook
A water pistol and Eskimo Pies

A pack of PawPaw’s brand of cigarettes
So he can watch his Yankees this afternoon
On the Sylvania with the rabbit ears
In gloriously static-y black-and-white

Plays called by Dizzy Dean and PeeWee Reese
In our childhood world, forever at peace

Thursday, July 19, 2018

Two Middle-Aged Youth Ministers in a Convertible - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com


Two Middle-Aged Youth Ministers in a Convertible

Two middle-aged youth ministers (perhaps)
In a convertible babble away
A dialogue but poorly understood
By a seeker wanting a burger and fries
                                                and truth

Their message seems to be that a pilgrim
In search of meaning might find happiness
                                                and lunch
At a famed neon-y fast-foodery
And so I gird up my billfold and I go

I push the red votive button and wait
And wait
                And wait
                                And wait
                                                And wait
                                                                And wait

And in the end go empty away

Wednesday, July 18, 2018

Syllabus for a Summer Day - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com


Syllabus for a Summer Day

Awaken with the sun, and while thin mist
Slinks eerily across the fields, step out -
Labor across the dewy grass, near ripe
For the second cutting of summer hay

The lesson for today is clearing brush
Along the fence lines of both fields and life
The attendance check is for needed tools:
Old gloves, old boots, old saw, and fresh new verse

Awaken with the sun, honor the day
With work and play to earn a grade of A

Alternative Syllabus for a Summer Day

Ignore the stupid sun; go back to sleep
Reject the chatter of the alarming beep
And waken at a reasonable Christian hour –
Oh, ten will do; earlier is so sour!

Then bathrobe-shuffle to the coffee pot
See what is on the news, or maybe not
And scratch and yawn and look around to see
That nothing has changed since last night at three

Ignore all work; just stick it on the shelf
And for my grade, I’ll happily take an F!

Tuesday, July 17, 2018

Provide Yourself with Words - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Provide Yourself with Words

Tollite vobiscum verba, et convertimini ad Dominum

-Osee 14:3 1

Provide yourself with words, with magic words,
And like Old Väinämöinen 2 sing them
Into the air, the wild, clean air, those words
Sing all that’s Good and Beautiful and True

The Sampo 2 of your mind spins not out flour
Nor salt nor gold, but needful thoughts and songs
In words that sing and sail beyond the sun
And back into that Founding whence they came

Write, then, the Good, the Beautiful, the True
And let God write them back again to you



1 Osee / Hosea
2 The Kalevala

Monday, July 16, 2018

If You Don't Have a Guitar, Are You Permitted to Pose for Publicity Photos on a Railway Line? - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

An Existential Issue for Many Writers: If You Don’t Have a Guitar,
Are You Permitted to Pose for Publicity Photos on a Railway Line?

His battered old laptop slung across his back
That famous laptop with the sticker that reads
In font Albertus “This Machine Kills Haters”
He poses rustically on a railway line

His happenin’ hipster hat pulled ‘way down low
Over the deep-souled Eyes That Have Seen It All
While his slender, artistic fingers seem
To flutter in search of existential truth

(Or maybe two forms of identification)

While off camera a cop writes him a ticket
For trespassing on railway property

Sunday, July 15, 2018

Of That Ilk (or, perhaps, Ilk Hunting) - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Of That Ilk

For three Voices

First Voice:

What is an ilk?

Second Voice:

Well, they got ‘em up in Montana, you know,
And Canada, and them countries like that
And they got horns and stuff; you can hunt ‘em
They make good eatin’, or that’s what they say

Third Voice:

Naw, man, ilks is what attaches to boats
That’s why you got to scrape the hulls each year
They’re kinda like sea urchins or barnacles
They make good eatin’, or that’s what they say

First Voice:

I read about ilks in the op-eds each day -
They make good eatin’, or that’s what they say

Saturday, July 14, 2018

Robin Hood's Favorite Saint - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The Farmer to Saint Swithin

O good Saint Swithin, please, to you we pray,
On this your high-summer rain-making day –
Of your blest kindness send us sweet, soft showers,
The kind that gently fall for hours and hours,

To heal the sunburnt land of thirst and drought
And nourish the corn that sees the winter out;
And if you grant the boon we humbly ask
We’ll work the harder on each rural task:

We’ll ditch and fence and plough, and milk the cow,
Share with the widder-folk, and feed the sow,
Count out some plantful seeds for poor folks’ needs,
And daily tell God’s Mysteries on our beads.


(The 15th of August is Saint Swithin's Day.)

Friday, July 13, 2018

Dici ei Pilatus: Quid est Veritas? - poem

Dicit ei Pilatus: Quid est Veritas?

Pontius Pilate was probably being flippant
When he asked of a prisoner, “What is truth?”

But he was an administrator, and so
He possibly did not know

Thursday, July 12, 2018

Exclamation!!!!! Marks!!!!!!!!! - a frivolous but useful rhyming couplet

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com


Exclamation!!!!! Marks!!!!!!!!!!!!

One exclamation mark is right and proper
Add any more, and your thought comes a cropper

Real Cowboys Don't Forget the Oxford Comma - column

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Real Cowboys Don’t Forget the Oxford Comma

A sports team whose mascot is the cowboy is usually an unoriginal disconnect, copying the Dallas Cowboys who aren’t really cowboys anyway.

With the University of Wyoming, however, one understands that many of the students, both men and women, Arapaho, Crow, Lakota, Shoshone, and generic white people, grew up ridin’ and ropin’ on the High Plains. Their usage of the cowboy as a symbol is authentic.

One imagines a UW student being a little late for his Brit Lit 1302 class: “Dang, Hank, you forgot to take your spurs off.”

At the University of Wyoming a student can be ticketed by the campus cops for double-parking his horse.

The reality is that our Hank (or Chloe or SueAnn or Leonicio or Kimana or Yevgeny) is fluent in two languages, has applied for UW’s law school, and loves horsemanship.

The University of Wyoming (http://www.uwyo.edu/), with an enrollment of some 12,000, offers degrees and programs in law, engineering, education, biology, chemistry, psychology, earth sciences, mathematics, pharmacy, social work, and speech-language pathology. UW students come from all fifty states and ninety nations.

UW’s famous outdoors programs include rock climbing, white water rafting, ice climbing, snowshoeing, backcountry skiing, and mountain biking.

Unhappily for the real students, those with intellectual curiosity and a desire to learn as much as they can in the great matters of civilization, the campus is infected with a group styling itself The University of Wyoming Committee on Women and People of Color (http://www.laramieboomerang.com/news/new-uw-slogan-draws-criticism-from-faculty/article_acc18990-8242-11e8-911f-c3e97f4bc1bd.html).

The purpose of any group with so many words in its title is to be against things, in this instance, the use of “cowboy” as a mascot. Professor of Communications Tracey Patton has published a book on the subject entitled Gender, Whiteness and Power in Rodeo.

One notes that the learned professor does not employ the Oxford comma; for clarity and for parallelism in structure the title should read Gender, Whiteness, and Power in Rodeo.

Real cowboys don’t forget the Oxford comma.

From Tierra del Fuego to the Yukon, gauchos, vaqueros, charros, caballeros, picadors, and the First Nations horsemen who made themselves the world’s finest light cavalry can only smile in disdain at the ignorance of The University of Wyoming Committee on Women and People of Color in stereotyping the cowboy as a white-boy construct.

The concept of the cowboy in every language and culture is an ideal to which all should aspire: courage, strength, character, ruggedness, ethics, the ability to work alone when necessary, the ability to work together when necessary, horsemanship, iron-mongery, fence-building, agriculture, equine and bovine nutrition, veterinary skills, knowledge of weather and geography, cooking outdoors in all weathers, mathematics, report-writing, and dozens of other skills and skill-sets.

In stereotyping the horsemen of the Plains and of the world in their own false and narrow-minded construct, The University of Wyoming Committee on Women and People of Color deny noble strivings and positive identification with high ideals.

To paraphrase George Orwell, little boys and girls sit on the floor and play with toy cowboys and Indians; no little boy or girl ever sat on the floor and played with a toy committee.

-30-

Wednesday, July 11, 2018

Non Draco Sit Mihi Dux - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Non Draco Sit Mihi Dux 1

That wicked liar offers us a poisoned cup
In whose sheeny surface we see ourselves
Reflected in his cold imaginings
And not our own, in what we ought to be

There is another Cup for us, not this one
Just as there is a stone that must be moved
A bird of night to be repudiated
A thorny bush that burns, but not itself

A blessing breaks that false and bitter cup -
We share the one that God has lifted up


1 In English, let not the dragon be my guide; it appears on the medal of Saint Benedict as NDSMD.

Tuesday, July 10, 2018

The Awful Majesty of American Law, Free from the Tyrannies of Kings and Czars - doggerel

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The Awful Majesty of American Law,
Free from the Tyrannies of Kings and Czars

Children shot daily despite our stern laws
But at least they are safe from plastic straws

Children shot daily, caught in street-gang fights
But at least they are safe from 100-watt lights

Children shot daily, high death rankings
But at least they are safe from parental spankings

Children shot daily, murdered by crooks
But at least they are safe from The Little House books

Children shot daily, may God bless their souls
And too our regulated toilet bowls

Monday, July 9, 2018

When Romantic Conventions Go Bad - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com


When Romantic Conventions Go Bad

O Dear Heart…or Pancreas…or some vital organ…

When I gaze into your ear canals
And cuddle you in my comforting feet
Oh, yeah, I wanna hold your earlobe
You make my sella turcica skip a beat

Your nostrils are so very soft to the touch
Your toenails are like silver-pale moonlight
Your elbows smell like roses in the spring
Your hair follicles are so sunrise bright

And when I meditate upon your liver
Cupid shoots every arrow from his quiver!

Sunday, July 8, 2018

The Last of the Anna Apples - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The Last of the Anna Apples

That lopper-thingie on the end of a pole
Indelicately intrudes among the leaves
Telescoped out, its harsh geometry
Unnatural among the greenery

There seeking out an elusive apple spared
The nightly browsings of the day-shy deer
Or the nightly pillagings of raccoons
Who destroy more than they will ever eat

But there’s that apple – careful, careful – snip:
And down it falls, with an apple-saucy flip!


(I nurture Anna-apple trees, which flourish in warm climates, and every June they bless me with bushels of sweet apples.)

Saturday, July 7, 2018

News Item: Bananas Could Soon Become Extinct - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

News Item: Bananas Could Soon Become Extinct

Let the childhood dose of cod liver oil
Perish from its own sour smell and foul taste
Send yellow squash to the poor children in China
May Popeye keep his spinach to himself!

But not bananas!

The appeal of the peel, yes, what a deal!
A wrapper that children may throw away
A summer-yellow star sky-spiraling
Onto the garden grass (it’s good for the soil)

Alas, poor banana, joy to eye and tongue:
Why is it that the Cavendish dies young?


Note: the banana is not going away; the sustained monoculture of the Cavendish variant is said to make it increasingly susceptible to disease. If it fails, other varieties will be cultivated. As Rick did not say in Casablanca, “We’ll always have bananas."

Friday, July 6, 2018

The Theory and Practice of Summer - column

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

The Theory and Practice of Summer

On Thursday last we were told that summer began at 0507 Central Standard Time (central to what and standard to what have never been explained).

At 0507 on the 21st of June in Anno Domini 2018 summer began. How does anyone know that? How is it that at 0506 we are in spring, and at 0508 we are in summer? What happened?

Y’r ‘umble scrivener proposes a truer means of determining summer, a joy from our childhood. All small children know, even if adults have forgotten, that summer begins when they open the kitchen door (no other door will do) and look out onto the happy new world that comes with the first Monday morning after the end of term. That is the first day of summer.

At eighteen, of course, a young man or young woman looks out the same screen door and realizes that he or she is just another unemployed American.

Beyond barefootin’ freedom, summer in Texas is better in theory than in practice. The advertisements feature happy families posing in the sunlight with paper plates and slightly carnivorous grins around a chromium grill the size of a Buick where Dad, in cartoon tee and ball cap and a made-in-China that says “Hail to the Chef,” burns hamburgers and wieners.

In this Sunday supplement world of summer there are no mosquitos, allergens, or rattlesnakes. No one sweats or faints because in the ads the air is free of soul-withering heat and damp, just as the children are free of heat rash, pustules, and sunburns that will erupt as skin cancer before they are thirty.

The unadvertised reality is that the kids will sleep late, gripe when made to get up for breakfast, gripe about the breakfast, and then sullenly resume Kill-Millions-of-Your-Fellow-Human-Beings videogames left incomplete in the middle of the night.

The household employed will have to get off to work as usual, reminding the older children to wash the dishes and a load of clothes, and they won’t.

If an especially energetic boy decides to shoulder his rod and reel and bicycle to the old fishin’ hole, his chances of being eaten by an alligator are much higher than in his parents’ time. Alligators are a protected species and, after all, by this infallible logic of posters to the U.K. Daily Mail, alligators were here first and so enjoy proprietary rights to human flesh.

Those few children who are rousted out of bed and required to cook, clean, wash, and maybe even help in the garden or fields are the blessed ones, though they don’t see it that way at the time. Children who are required – not yelled at and then ignored with a sigh – to help around the house learn self-discipline, a sense of duty, the decision-making processes to accomplish different forms of work, and an appreciate for the duties of grownups. Household chores are an element of love.

And children folding clothes are doing the dishes are less likely to be eaten by alligators, who seldom lurk by the washing machine or twist themselves around the vacuum cleaner.

-30-

A Tool of the Establishment - column

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

A Tool of the Establishment

Stopping for bright, shiny things lying on the road is seldom a good idea, but since there was no other traffic on a rural road the other morning I stopped to pick up a bright, shiny thing.

Said bright, shiny thing is a spark plug wrench with a handle welded at a right angle. The handle can also be used as a flat-blade screw driver or a pry. The handle is stamped with “STIHL” and a sequence of numbers, so presumably this is a tool which came with one of Stihl’s highly-valued chainsaws.

Most such small-engine spark plug wrenches are double-ended, offering two sizes so that the tool can be packaged with different models. The pronounced asymmetry of this one suggests that the owner hacksawed off the other end, presumably to help manipulate the needed spark plug socket in an awkward space. Your mechanic could tell you many narratives about how the engineers who design gasoline engines sometimes seem determined that spark plugs be placed in almost inaccessible locations.

This wrench is a nice thing someone has lost off a trailer or a pickup, and I hope I can return it to the owner.

Hand tools are in themselves good, honest things, but are now mostly cobbled together out of pot metal in Shanghai, which is why hitting the yard sales for American, German, or Finnish tools is useful. Even if you don’t need another screwdriver, wrench, socket, or chisel right now, you will eventually, and you might as well pick up good used hand tools now instead of paying more for crumbly junk later.

Besides, you might run across some of the good stuff stolen from my garage by those among us whose concept of ownership of the means of production is more from Marx-Lenin-Stalin than from Jesus.

In an aside we may note that Marx, Lenin, and Stalin often spoke of the nobility of the working man, though like many of our modern leaders they seem never to have busted a sweat themselves except on the tennis court or the golf course. (Our state representative, James White, and our federal representative, Brian Babin, are intimately familiar with stringing barbed wire, shoveling ****, pushing a broom, and working the night shift to get through school. That is part of why they are work-boots-on-ground effective. I imagine many of their colleagues just don’t get it.)

There is no app for a properly balanced hammer, for the hammer is the app. It is not programmed, nor can it be recharged. A good steel file responds to the craftsman’s hands, not to a code. A wrench, once purchased, serves the careful owner for the rest of his life, and is not subject to a densely-worded and deceptive contract. Your grandpa’s pocket knife has lasted three generations without losing a satellite signal.

I will never be a good comrade, because I know that books (I’m speaking of Keats, Wordsworth, Lewis, Chesterton, Viktor Frankl et al, not Barbara Cartland [shudder]) are as essential to civilization as hunting, fishing, and good, honest work. This nation needs men and women in “all the offices, both private and public, of peace and war” (John Milton), men and women who know their way around Paradise Lost, the pea patch, iambic pentameter, and a good socket set.

-30-

Memorial Day Speech, 2018

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Memorial Day Speech Given at the Veterans' Memorial, Kirbyville, Texas, 2018

Mayor George, Judge Folk, Mr. Chandler, Mrs. Herrin,
Mrs. Freeman, Mr. Smith, Mr. Ozan, Mr. Kyle, Mr. Wood, Mrs. Bush, Doc Stanley, Chaplain Wiltshire, Mrs. Adams, Mr. Tibbits, veterans, honored guests, and all here today who love our nation.

Thank you for the honor of being with you today, and for asking me to speak very briefly.

Memorial Day is said to have begun during the Civil War as Decoration Day, when the fresh graves of the war dead were decorated with flowers in their memory. Numerous towns, north and south, claim to have begun the tradition of decorating the graves of all soldiers of both sides. Wherever this noble custom began, honoring those who served is what civilized nations do.

Today we honor the loyal departed, both our home folks and all American servicemen and servicewomen everywhere.

Last month, a C130 of the Puerto Rico Air National Guard went down with the loss of its entire crew.

These fine young men recently served our nation throughout the Caribbean in evacuation and supply duties for months after Hurricane Maria.

As we now know, they were flying their aging C130 to Tucson to be scrapped. Some sources say the plane was 40 years old; some say 50 and some say 60. What we do know is that the plane was older than any of its crew.

I want to recognize these fine young men:

Major José Rosado, pilot

Major Carlos Serra, navigator

1st Lieutenant David Albandoz, co-pilot

Senior Master Sgt. Jan Paravisini, mechanic

Master Sgt. Jean Audriffred

Master Sgt. Mario Braña, flight engineer

Master Sgt. Víctor Colón

Master Sgt. Eric Circuns, loadmaster

Senior Airman Roberto Espada

We did not know these young men who died for us, but let us praise them now, and honor them, and let us remember these three things about them:

1. All of these young men served in the Air National Guard – you know, that allegedly safe duty. For decades some who never made the first day of recruit training have claimed that the Reserves and the National Guard are easy billets, a nice soft way of avoiding hazardous duty.

Rupert Brooke wrote in 1914 “If I should die, think only this of me / There is some corner of a foreign field that is forever England.”

Well, we can write that there are lots of corners of lots of foreign fields that are forever American Reserves and National Guard.

2. All of these young men were millennials – you know, that generation of delicate snowflakes who just lay around the house playing video games and who won’t demonstrate initiative. The reality is that our military, our emergency and police services, our workforce – they’re millennials, the generation that came of age at the turn of the century and who now are entering early middle age.

3. And they were not eligible to vote in federal elections. Residents of Puerto Rico have been, since 1917, citizens of the United States, and yet they may not vote in federal elections. These nine young men, as part of their oath of enlistment, pledged personal loyalty to their president, and they could not, by law, vote for their president. They could not vote for the government of the nation for which they died in active military service.

I think we should do something about that.

I return to Senior Airman Roberto Espada – how old was he? 21? 22? – who is survived only by his grandmother, his meemaw. We can infer that his meemaw raised him. And she raised a good young man. And he won’t be going home to her. And yet some are pleased to dismiss Roberto as a millennial, a snowflake. His meemaw knows better, and we do too.

In closing (and let the people say “At last!”), a few words from Lawrence Binyon, who in 1914 was in his fifties and so was too old to enlist. However, Mr. Binyon volunteered as a medical orderly, and served in forward hospitals up against the front, within artillery range.

Mr. Binyon was a writer, an art critic, and a good man, but he was perhaps not a very good poet. In 1914 he wrote “For the Fallen,” and most of it is forgettable, florid, late-Victorian parlor poetry. However, within this poem there are four brilliant lines, as brilliant as sharpened steel, which we have all heard. And they are worth hearing again now:

They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn
At the going down of the sun, and in the morning
We will remember them.

Thank you.

-30-



What's Wrong with America? It's the Shortage of Poker-Playing Dogs - column

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

What’s Wrong with America? It’s the Shortage of Poker-Playing Dogs

What’s wrong with America?

Well, as Tevye the Dairyman didn’t say, I’ll tell you – everything went wrong when we got rid of the pictures of those poker-playing dogs.

The other day I visited to the salon of the nice lady who cuts my hair every two weeks, and realized that an essential facet of Americana was missing – pictures of dogs playing pokers, especially that great American classic, “A Friend in Need.”

Oh, sure, the licenses and health certificates are amusing reading (unless Texas laws have been changed recently, acquiring a balloon pilot’s license to take people up into the air and then drop them to their deaths is easier to acquire than a beautician’s license). Last month’s copy of Texas Monthly, fine, fine. It’s not Field and Stream, of course. Flowers, fine. Smelly candle-thingies, okay.

But what’s really missing is an uplifting picture of dogs playing poker.

Early in the twentieth century, Cassius Marcellus Coolidge, aka “Cash,” was a jack-of-all-trades but a master of painting anthropomorphic dogs for an advertising firm. His most famous series is known as Dogs Playing Poker (although his dogs were also known to play football and practice law), and they became a staple artistic statement in saloons, waiting rooms, and, most especially, barber shops.

It was poker-playing dogs that made America great.

As Keats would have said were he an American, where are the poker-playing dogs of yesteryear; aye, where are they?

When we had poker-playing dogs we still had a good ten-cent cigar.

When we had poker-playing dogs all our children were good, did their homework, helped out on the farm, and went to Sunday school.

When we had poker-playing dogs we had real battleships, by golly.

When we had poker-playing dogs our airplanes had propellers just as Wilbur and Orville intended, and not those funny-looking jet things.

But now that we’ve gotten rid of the poker-playing dogs, where are we? Hah?

We need those pictures of poker-playing dogs back, yes, sir. I think we should place them next to pictures of George Washington and Abraham Lincoln in the classrooms of America.

When children pledge Allegiance to the Flag every morning they should be able also to see those poker-playing dogs, and be proud of what this great nation has accomplished in art.

Every barber shop and every hair salon in the Land of the Free should display poker-playing dogs as an inspiration to our fine young men and women.

Restore the poker-playing dogs, and make America unselfconsciously proletarian again!

Shave and a haircut – six bits!

-30-

The Troublesome Life and Lamentable Death of Christopher Marlowe - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The Troublesome Life and Lamentable Death of Christopher Marlowe

Marlowe! Dark and dangerous Kit Marlowe
Whose hooded eyes, like a subtle serpent’s, held
In mysterious charms Hero, and too
Leander, perhaps, in the ways of night

And in the councils of foul Walsingham
Where innocence and guilt knew not each other
Through sly reptilian tangles of false oaths
Among the pale queen’s writhing coils of shame

Beneath which altar, then, or perhaps none
Was the famous reckoning paid, and done?

Thursday, July 5, 2018

What's Wrong at Connie's Beauty Shop? - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

What’s Wrong at Connie’s Beauty Shop?

For Connie, a Friend Indeed

There are no pictures of poker-playing dogs!
The health certificates make for dull reading
And last month’s issue of Texas Monthly
Has not the old cache’ of Field and Stream

There are no pictures of poker-playing dogs!
Among the snaps of Baby’s First Haircut
Children and grandchildren in cute little frames
And lovely young girls all styled for the prom

There are flowers and scents and catalogues

But –

There are no pictures of poker-playing dogs!

Woof!

Wednesday, July 4, 2018

The Stuffed Men Who Praise Our Soldiers on Independence Day - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The Stuffed Men Who Praise Our Soldiers on Independence Day

1.

Stuffed men who never made a single day
Of training make brave speeches on this day

Surely each one of them has his reward -

A government SUV
And bodyguards
And a household staff
And a clean, dry place to sleep
And an income
And medical care
And a pension
And a book deal
And a library
And maybe an eternal flame

2.

And the nation’s enlisted daughters and sons
Who sweat among the rocks, not on the golf course

Have their reward from a grateful nation -

Taking cover behind a blown-up Hummer
They are the bodyguards
They dig holes in the rocks and sand
MREs contracted by the lowest brother-in-law bidder
They stand-to all night under fire
They are paid something less than the president’s special, um, assistant
They will be ignored by the DVA
Their eternal flame is the memory of a death-burnt friend
They are dismissed as millennials and snowflakes
          By the Keyboard Kommandos who learned about war
          Just like our stuffed men in Washington
          By watching Patton over and over

The stuffed men bray every hollow cliché,
But this is what the stuffed men really say:

“Thank you for your service; now shut up and go away
Until we want another photo-op on Remembrance Day”

Tuesday, July 3, 2018

Solzhenitsyn at Harvard - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Solzhenitsyn at Harvard

Some prophets spoke before the thrones of kings
And others at the gates of Jerusalem
One stood upon a rock and split the sea
And others heard God in the soft, soft wind

A prophet of our time at a table stood
Before a cafeteria table draped in cloth
Fronted a trinity of microphones
And split complacency that rainy day

Umbrellas were dripping, the sky was low
A prophet spoke to us, and we did not know

Monday, July 2, 2018

Should Children be Allowed to Watch This? - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Should Children be Allowed to Watch This?

A woman. A knife. A very sharp knife.
She has waited for this hour, this moment
Her eyes – they gleam with passion dark upon
A figure recumbent upon a slab

She is not alone; she is being watched
But no one will dare cry for her to stop
They have all made their agreement, their bond
And now the woman lifts the knife…she strikes…!

She has cut the heart from an artichoke
And the studio audience applauds

Sunday, July 1, 2018

Canada Day - Only Once a Year? - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Canada Day? Just One?

With love from an ‘umble Yank

But every day is Canada Day!

The afternoon plane lands in Halifax
When the hatch is popped, cool air rushes in
Even the fog is happy in Canada

The Muskogee 1 never made landfall here
And so we pilgrimage for her, completing
Her voyage from ’42 to Canada

Wolfville, Grand Pre’, Le Grande Derangement
The Deportation Cross and beer cans
Well, God forgive the Redcoats anyway

Newfoundland
Is a bold
Anapest

The church spires in a line, the light is green
The bold young captain shoots the narrows wild
Can you find your way to your painted house?

To walk again the cobbles of Ferryland
And smell the very blue of the Atlantic
The sea-blown wind is cold in Canada

Blue Puttees and a mourning Caribou
Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord
Good children sing “We love thee, Newfoundland”

Quebec – royal city of New France
May Le Bon Dieu bless the Plains of Abraham,
And may God bless
The signs an English driver cannot read

The Coca-Cola streets of Niagara Falls
Yanks laugh at made-in-China Mountie mugs
And buy them, happy to be in Canada

A cup of Toujours Frais from – well, that place
But to us in your southern provinces
Below Niagara, Tim too is Canada

Though Canada goes on, these scribbles must not –

Your grateful guest wishes only to say
That every happy day is Canada Day!


1 My mother's first husband, Claude Blanchette, was second officer on the oiler Muskogee, torpedoed with the loss of  all her crew while en route from the Caribbean to Halifax in 1942.  My wife and I took Mother to Halifax shortly before her death.

Saturday, June 30, 2018

The 10,000-Year-Old Girl - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The 10,000-Year-Old Girl

She is a 10,000-year-old girl
Although she is rather younger today
Only 240 or so
While taking coffee with James Madison

She has discussed the weather with Gilgamesh
Given Keats her handkerchief for his cough
Danced with the fairies on Midsummer Eve
And captured the castle with Cassandra

Because she has listened when the Nine have sung
An old soul she is, and so
                                                          forever young

Friday, June 29, 2018

Soulfight in a Locked Room - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Soulfight in a Locked Room

In the end, they had to break into his room
He was dead in his chair, and quite alone
Self-exiled from his family for years
Alone in a shell, silent, and alone

The accidentals of life were cast away:
A coffee pot, a coat over a door
His schedule for the methadone clinic
A note to meet with his parole officer

But the pathologist’s tox screen was clean -
Better than most of us, he went down fighting

Thursday, June 28, 2018

A Tool of the Establishment - column

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

A Tool of the Establishment

Stopping for bright, shiny things lying on the road is seldom a good idea, but since there was no other traffic on a rural road the other morning I stopped to pick up a bright, shiny thing.

Said bright, shiny thing is a spark plug wrench with a handle welded at a right angle. The handle can also be used as a flat-blade screw driver or a pry. The handle is stamped with “STIHL” and a sequence of numbers, so presumably this is a tool which came with one of Stihl’s highly-valued chainsaws.

Most such small-engine spark plug wrenches are double-ended, offering two sizes so that the tool can be packaged with different models. The pronounced asymmetry of this one suggests that the owner hacksawed off the other end, presumably to help manipulate the needed spark plug socket in an awkward space. Your mechanic could tell you many narratives about how the engineers who design gasoline engines sometimes seem determined that spark plugs be placed in almost inaccessible locations.

This wrench is a nice thing someone has lost off a trailer or a pickup, and I hope I can return it to the owner.

Hand tools are in themselves good, honest things, but are now mostly cobbled together out of pot metal in Shanghai, which is why hitting the yard sales for American, German, or Finnish tools is useful. Even if you don’t need another screwdriver, wrench, socket, or chisel right now, you will eventually, and you might as well pick up good used hand tools now instead of paying more for crumbly junk later.

Besides, you might run across some of the good stuff stolen from my garage by those among us whose concept of ownership of the means of production is more from Marx-Lenin-Stalin than from Jesus.

In an aside we may note that Marx, Lenin, and Stalin often spoke of the nobility of the working man, though like many of our modern leaders they seem never to have busted a sweat themselves except on the tennis court or the golf course. (Our state representative, James White, and our federal representative, Brian Babin, are intimately familiar with stringing barbed wire, shoveling ****, pushing a broom, and working the night shift to get through school. That is part of why they are work-boots-on-ground effective. I imagine many of their colleagues just don’t get it.)

There is no app for a properly balanced hammer, for the hammer is the app. It is not programmed, nor can it be recharged. A good steel file responds to the craftsman’s hands, not to a code. A wrench, once purchased, serves the careful owner for the rest of his life, and is not subject to a densely-worded and deceptive contract. Your grandpa’s pocket knife has lasted three generations without losing a satellite signal.

I will never be a good comrade, because I know that books (I’m speaking of Keats, Wordsworth, Lewis, Chesterton, Viktor Frankl et al, not Barbara Cartland [shudder]) are as essential to civilization as hunting, fishing, and good, honest work. This nation needs men and women in “all the offices, both private and public, of peace and war” (John Milton), men and women who know their way around Paradise Lost, the pea patch, iambic pentameter, and a good socket set.

-30-

Hesychasm as Practiced at Midday - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Hesychasm as Practiced at Midday

Cicadas contribute to the silence
With their impious reproductive racket
A cloud of whistles, whirrs, buzzes, and clicks
In the otherwise still and stiller noon

An old man rests his shovel and himself
And sits in the flickering shade awhile
To think of nothing while sweet incense rises
Up from the sacred bowl of his Peterson’s pipe

The Eternal breathes silently over all
(Them cicadas sure is noisy, though)

Wednesday, June 27, 2018

Because We Respect Words, We Wrestle With Them - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Because We Respect Words, We Wrestle With Them

Suggested by a Thought from Temporal Fugue

Because we respect words, we wrestle with them
And because they respect us, they wrestle back;
We shape them in order serviceable 1
And they refuse to be pinned as cliches’

We fling a needful verb against a noun
To make a thought complete, but then adverbs
And adjectives begin cluttering lines
And then we all must take a coffee break

Because we respect words, we wrestle with them
For every scrap of story, verse, or hymn


1 Cf. John Milton, “Hymn on the Morning of Christ’s Nativity”

Tuesday, June 26, 2018

Everyone has a Clothing Line These Days - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Everyone has a Clothing Line These Days

Well, okay, it’s out there in the back yard
Where on display you’ll see: old boonie hats
Uncool, but good when working in the heat
And cotton khakis from the discount store

Just washed, and drying in the summer sun
Admired by every Merry Little Breeze 1
Skivvies and socks sewn in Cambodia
And work shirts stitched together in Viet-Nam

Nothing by Versace or Calvin Klein
Just old clothes drying on the old clothes line


1 Thornton W. Burgess’ Mother West Wind stories

Monday, June 25, 2018

An Immigration Czar (do we have any spare Romanovs about?) - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

An Immigration Czar

Someone demands an immigration czar
Which could be interesting: a crown, a throne
A double-eagle flag, the border guards
Singing a Troparian while on patrol

On the Steppes of Central Texas 1
The Czar in progress royal comes to see
His happy villagers waving MREs
From behind the merry Potemkin wire

The Czar, contented, turns his escort then
To Petersburg, and lunch at the Little Red Hen

1 cf. Borodin's "On the Steppes of Central Asia"

Let no one take this scribble as anything more than a bit of fun about the use of “czar” in a mixed republic / democracy. I am about a thousand miles from the border and don’t know what’s going on there, and prudently do not trust any news source.

Sunday, June 24, 2018

The Prophet and the Dancing Girl - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The Prophet and the Dancing Girl

When the kitchen staff did the washing-up
They could not but notice, among the bowls
And serviettes, spoons, knives, pitchers, and plates,
One of the best silver trays, blotchy with blood

And scraps of vertebrae, ruining the shine
“Oh, bother; these stains will never come out,”
Muttered the old woman in charge of such things
But she scrubbed and polished, did a good job

With that and with each costly silver cup
When the kitchen staff did the washing-up

Saturday, June 23, 2018

The First Blast of the Trumpet (if not the Trump) Against the Monstrous Regiment of Social Media - poem (not much of one, though)

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The First Blast of the Trumpet 1 (if not the Trump) Against
the Monstrous Regiment of Social Media

V: Follow us on Facebook or Twitter
R: No


1 No apologies to the odious John Knox

Friday, June 22, 2018

Every Page is Open to the Sun - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Every Page is Open to the Sun

In my religion we're taught that every living thing, every leaf, every bird, is only alive because it contains the secret word for life. That's the only difference between us and a lump of clay. A word. Words are life, Liesel.

- Max to Liesel in Markus Zusak’s The Book Thief

We cannot walk with Dostoyevsky as
Guards drag him chained before a firing squad
Comfort Saint Joan against the English flames
Or pray with good Saint Thomas in his cell

We cannot slosh through sodden trenches in France
With Lieutenant Lewis on his birthday
Argue with Akhmatova at The Stray Dog
Or with Frankl at Auschwitz bury dead friends

Unless we read, and then through words we see
The morning sun upon Byzantium

Thursday, June 21, 2018

The Existential Sorrow of Waiting Room Art - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The Existential Sorrow of Waiting Room Art

Sunlit sailboats in daubs of orange and red
And mass-produced impressionist barn owls
In flight above an unsecured wire rack
Of greasy copies of Reader’s Digest

Behind the receptionist’s hole-in-the-wall
Children of the Cornbread centered in plastic
Jesus-frames grin against their will, freeze-posed
Among department-store studio trees

Across the walls some glued-on murals roam
(But at least this isn’t the funeral home)

Wednesday, June 20, 2018

The Summer Solstice as Not Celebrated in Texas - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The Summer Solstice as Not Celebrated in Texas

One might as well call this an equinox
For night and day are equinoxious now:
Mosquitoes, soul-withering heat and damp
Itch-allergens and rattlesnakes not featured

In advertising fantasies about
Bugless, unbitten happy families
Posing with plates and carnivorous smiles
Before neighbor-envious chromium grills

And playing free of heat rash and pustules
Around surgically sterile swimming pools

Tuesday, June 19, 2018

Instant Canonization (no cannons, though) - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Instant Canonization

Don’t bother about being a saint so rare-y;
They’ll make you one in your obituary!

Sunday, June 17, 2018

Shhh - TITANIC was Sunk by a Bilderberg - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com


Shhhhh - Titanic was Sunk
by a Bilderberg

Albino rabbis, the Illuminati,
Protocols of the Elders of Zion -
The evidence seemed a little spotty
‘Til a radio guy had us wonderin’ and sighin’

Fluoridation by the New World Order
Backed by the Trilateral Commission
A scheme to open our southern border
To crop circles – that’s his suspicion

Area 51, the Templar Knights
FEMA lurking in the Bohemian Grove
Perfidious Rothschilds through menace and fright
Guarding a Jewish-Viking treasure trove

Poor Newfoundland is Occupied by Commie rats
Who scheme in secret tunnels beneath St. John’s
Brewing magic potions in Macbethian vats
In Rodentian rituals from the Age of Bronze

The Priory of Sion, runes, swastikas, the Vril
Roswell and the Thule Society
No wonder the air is darkly chill:
We all live within a conspiracy.


From Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play, p. 166, available on amazon.com via Kindle and as nicely-bound fragments of dead trees.

Saturday, June 16, 2018

Our Fathers' Stories - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Our Fathers’ Stories

Our fathers told of hard times on the farm
Of walking barefoot down the road to school
And walking home again to get the cows back up
From woods and fields to the old dairy barn

And joining the Army at seventeen
Sleeping later in boot camp than on the farm
Coming home from the war to look for a job
Thirty years at the sawmill – then laid off

And in his turn a New Man proudly says:

I scored real high on Minecraft on my ‘phone
While standing in line for my free school supplies

Friday, June 15, 2018

Shall I Compute Thee to a Summer's Day? - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Shall I Compute 1 Thee to a Summer’s Day?

A Lament for the Unlettered

They launch no voyages of discovery
To sail beyond the sunset 1 of their dreams
No pages open to them; no books, no boots,
No paths lead them to Constantinople or Rome 3

For the horns of Elfland 4 they listen not
Nor for the unheard pipes on a Grecian urn 5
The Red Book of Westmarch 6 is forever closed
And lines of lyric verse sing not to them

They cling to their precious palantiri 7
And launch no voyages of discovery


1 As Shakespeare did not say

2 From Tennyson’s “Ulysses.” Heinlein used the phrase as the title for his final novel.

3 Patrick Leigh Fermor and Hilaire Belloc

4 C. S. Lewis, Surprised by Joy

5 Keats, “Ode on a Grecian Urn”

6 Tolkien, Lord of the Rings

7 Tolkien again

Thursday, June 14, 2018

Did Canada Burn Down the White House? - column

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Did Canada Burn Down the White House?

The question has been asked: Did Canada burn down the White House?

Well, no, not exactly.

In 1812 Congress declared war on Britain, thinking that the several provincial Canadas of that time (Canada did not become a Dominion until 1 July 1867) would easily be conquered and absorbed into the land of the free, whether or not they wanted freedom imposed by conquest and absorption. Irony, eh?

Britain was at war with Napoleonic France, and her army and navy were committed to the defense of the home islands and to distant campaigns against the French Empire. The D.C. war hawks (as always, hawkish with the lives of other men and their sons, not with the lives of themselves and their sons) in congress envisioned a quick and victorious campaign over the British regulars, English militias, French-Canadian militias, and the allied First Nations.

Thomas Jefferson, slaveowner (https://www.monticello.org/site/plantation-and-slavery/thomas-jeffersons-attitudes-toward-slavery) and former president, said that the conquest of Canada would be a matter of marching. He, however, did not march. He never marched. Thomas Jefferson fought in the wars by writing thinky-stuff and attending diplomatic receptions.

During the campaigns United States forces burned York (now Toronto), the capital of Upper Canada, and other towns, and in 1814 regular British forces in their turn burned much of Washington and other towns.

Apparently there were no Canadian militia units involved in torching our capital, but instead regular British soldiers and militia from the Caribbean. Canadians claim the honor anyway, and since they remain part of the British Empire, one can with a grain of salt and a cup of Tim Horton’s coffee admit their claim.

When the war ended in 1814, and everyone signed The Treaty of Ghent on Christmas Eve, the boundary between the several Canadas and the United States was exactly where it had been two years before. Some 50,000 American, British, Canadian, French Canadian, and First Nations soldiers, and far more civilians, died for the irresponsible ambitions of the War Hawks (who did not themselves hawk to war, not even for the defense of their own capital).

So God bless Canada, and us, and everyone. Let’s drop the tariffs and the passport requirements, apologize nicely for ill manners shown to this nation’s best friend, shake hands all ‘round, send the prime minister some socks appropriate for grownups, and go catch a Toronto Blue Jays game.

-30-

An Ikon of Saint Seraphim of Sarov among Birch Trees - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

An Ikon of
Saint Seraphim of Sarov among Birch Trees

Saint Seraphim among the birch trees, bent
In penitential pain – O pray for us
A thousand souls depending on your peace
And then a thousand more for each, and more

Saint Seraphim among the birch trees, bent
And leaning on your axe-stave now become
Your staff of office among foxes and bears
Please consecrate in us your Spirit of love

Saint Seraphim among the birch trees, bent -
Dear friend of penitents, dear Heaven-sent

Wednesday, June 13, 2018

Two Kiddie Pools in the Back Garden, with Honeybees and a Dachshund - doggerel with a real dog

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Two Kiddie Pools in the Back Garden,
with Honeybees and a Dachshund

The dachshund loves her kiddie pool
The honeybees love theirs
The dachshund splashes to get cool
The bees mind their affairs

(Honeybees cannot launch from water, so I keep freshly-cut leafy limbs in their pool.)

Tuesday, June 12, 2018

Drunk Girl Crying in the Parking Lot - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Drunk Girl Crying in the Parking Lot

Drunk girl crying in the parking lot
     Always begins her ‘plaints with “I”
Dull boy whining on an email screen
     Always begins his notes with “I”
Mean girl screaming in the shopping mall
     Always begins her rage with “I”
Sad boy sucking on a cigarette
     Always begins his verse with “I”
‘Lone girl staring at a tv set
     Always begins her sigh with “I”

And why?

Because they overdose on I, ME, MY

Monday, June 11, 2018

The Hegelian Dialectic on Garbage Day - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The Hegelian Dialectic on Garbage Day

Thesis and antithesis became one
And synthesis became thesis again
Another synthesis antithesis
And they became a higher synthesis

And the higher truths rose higher and higher
Higher and higher in a spiraling spire
Of conceptualizations like holy fire
Thoughts far above all earthly muck and mire

until

Until Mrs. Hegel told Mr. Hegel
That he ought to get off his lazy geist
And begin helping out around the house,
And set the weltseele out on the curb

Sunday, June 10, 2018

Tactical Thirty-Year-Old Tactical Children Tactical - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The Bedrooms of Thirty-Year-Old Children

                        “I am looking for a some what tactical bible cover. I would prefer that it have hook and loop
                        some were on it, so I can put moral patches on it.”

-https://www.ar15.com/forums/general/-/135-1549758/

Each tactical gun and each tactical knife
Made in China by tactical slaves
Tactical gear for tactical strife
(Tactical guys to their tactical graves)

Tactical undies and tactical pen
Tactical chocolate and paintball paint
Tactical everything for wannabe men
Desperate to be whatever they ain’t

Tactical shelters for when it’s raining –

But

They never made Day One of army training

Saturday, June 9, 2018

Eek! Who Burned Down the White House? - a limerick

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Eek! Who Burned Down the White House?

Someone once burned down the White House!
Someone who was wearing a red blouse
The British claim it loudly
But others more proudly:
“We Canadians burned down the White House!”

In 1812 Congress declared war on Britain, thinking that the several provincial Canadas of that time (Canada did not become a Dominion until 1 July 1867) would be easily conquered and absorbed. During the campaigns United States forces burned York (now Toronto), the capital of Upper Canada, and in 1814 regular British forces in their turn burned much of Washington. Apparently there were no Canadian militia units involved in torching our capital. Canadians claim the honor anyway, and since they were part of the British Empire, one can with a grain of salt and a cup of Tim Horton’s coffee admit their claim.

God bless Canada. Let’s drop the tariffs and the passport requirements, apologize nicely for ill manners shown to this nation’s best friend, shake hands all ‘round, and go catch a Toronto Blue Jays game.

Friday, June 8, 2018

Upon Finding a Souvenir of Canterbury in a Desk Drawer - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Upon Finding a Canterbury Remembrance in a Desk Drawer

Astride his horse, the gift-shop blisful martir
Raises his glov’ed hand in priestly blessing
For those who wear his token in evidence
Of a devout pilgrimage to Canterbury

By tour bus those who wolden ryde there
To seek a blessing (and a souvenir)
In brass Saint Thomas and his horse and groom
Forever stand; Saint Thomas asks of us:

“Sin you have seyn the paving wher I deyd –
Let now Iesu forever be your gyde”

Thursday, June 7, 2018

When Computers, Eggs, and Airplanes Go Bad - Column

Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

When Computers, Eggs, and Airplanes Go Bad

“Have you no idea of progress, of development?"
"I have seen them both in an egg," said Caspian. "We call it 'Going Bad' in Narnia”

-C. S. Lewis, Voyage of the Dawn Treader

In a careless moment the other day I pushed the wrong response when a software provider named – let us say MacroPlop – suggested that their latest update would make the world of personal computing much better, leading my internet experience into the broad, sunny uplands or something or other.

I have spent the last two days repenting of my misplaced trust in the blandishments of MacroPlop by roaming through Dante’s Darksome Wood while trying to follow the software provider’s wonderfully opaque instructions on how to remediate the mess they made while improving my computer:

Error 500 this will take a few minutes please leave your computer online now Error 370 and a yo-ho-ho check the cleverly named icon which is nowhere on your screen you may need to restart your computer to make this update take effect can’t rename because a file ERROR with that name already exists the application failed to initialized because the window station is being shut down you must restart window to complete the program removal failure unknown error you may need to restart your computer to make this update take effect an error occurred ERROR the following information might help you resolve the error if an wah-wah error is returned which is not defined in the standard woo-woo filter, it is converted to one of the following errors which is guaranteed to be in the filter you may need to restart your computer to make this update take effect in this case information is lost you may need to restart your computer to make this update take effect however, the folder correctly handles the exception (doobydoobydo) if there are any messages that are stuck, follow these steps to clear those messages in outlook, click the send/receive tab, and then click work offline note this stops outlook from trying to send all email messages select the outbox you can now take one of the following actions move the message move the message to the drafts folder you may need to restart your computer to make this update take effect…

My favorite message advises the frustrated computer user to go online to seek help about the computer that is unable go online.

But I caught up on some reading.

While waiting hours for the several this-may-take-a-few-minutes remedies to download I finished reading John Mortimer’s Rumpole and the Age of Miracles. Given that I am a slow reader and easily distracted – oh, look, a squirrel! – a better reader could work his or her way through the Old Testament, St. Augustine’s City of God, William Manchester’s Churchill trilogy, or McMurtry’s Lonesome Dove while waiting for MacroPlop promises.

You can find the books online if your machine isn’t offline.

And speaking of going offline, modern passenger planes are built with the control surfaces connected only by computer signals, not by cables. When those computers system crashes, so will the airplanes.

Progress.

-30-

Oh, Please, Not Another Tapestry! - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Oh, Please, Not Another Tapestry!

Slowly weaves a magnificent…tapestry 1
O’Murchu weaves a tapestry of science and spirit 2
A brilliant tapestry of love, pain and dogs 3
Quartet weaves a tapestry to serve as background 4

Weaves a tapestry of contemporary life 5
The Banner saga weaves a tapestry 6
Local author weaves a…tapestry 7
Weaves itself into Toronto’s tapestry 8

Weaves a tapestry of two romances 9
Burke weaves a tapestry of unique characters 10


1 http://www.theimaginativeconservative.org/2012/08/the-english-war-and-peace-paul-scotts-raj-quartet.html

2 https://www.ncronline.org/books/2017/08/o-murchu-weaves-tapestry-science-and-spirit

3 https://www.wsj.com/articles/SB985905633270438842

4 http://articles.chicagotribune.com/1988-10-26/news/8802100482_1_fluegelhorn-soul-eyes-art-farmer-quartet

5 https://www.dallasnews.com/arts/books/2012/09/20/in-between-days-by-andrew-porter-weaves-a-tapestry-of-contemporary-life-and-hot-button-issues

6 https://www.vg247.com/2014/01/09/the-banner-saga-weaves-a-tapestry-of-loss-morality-and-hope-impressions/

7 http://www.reformer.com/stories/local-author-weaves-together-a-tapestry-of-conflicting-emotions,372745

8 https://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/national/canadian-hindu-temple-weaves-itself-into-torontos-tapestry/article1079566/

9 https://bookpage.com/reviews/6557-sandra-brown-tough-customer#.WmOZAkly7IU

10 https://www.bookbrowse.com/bb_briefs/detail/index.cfm/ezine_preview_number /6557/feast-day-of-fools

Wednesday, June 6, 2018

Alienation is the Constant Theme - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Alienation is the Constant Theme

Alienation is the constant theme
A child for whom the family dinner table
Is the scene of nightly interrogations
Can never be at home outside himself

Alienation is the constant theme
When every word is dissected by others
For any taint of beauty, love, or truth
And any deviation from today

Alienation is the constant theme
When trust is but a morning-broken dream

Tuesday, June 5, 2018

Microsoft Windows Latest Update - a caution


Microsoft Windows Latest Update

 

Windows 10

Fails again

 

 

 

I was an hour or so repairing the mess made by the latest Microsoft update.  In the end, the only remedy was to purge the update via the control panel

 

Beware of progress.

Upon Reading a Graduation Program Which Features a Clumsily-Formed Sentiment Wrongly Attributed to Shakespeare - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Upon Reading a Graduation Program Which Features
a Clumsily-Formed Sentiment Wrongly Attributed to Shakespeare

Scorn not the printed word, O thoughtful soul,
As Wordsworth 1 did not say, and do not set
An electric machine to grind through files
In search of gobbets all thinky and stuff

For Shakespeare set in iambs clean and neat
All the transcendent ideas of the good,
The beautiful, and the eternal true
Sustained in meters of steel and words of gold



Shakespeare never

                                     wobbled
all over the paper in unmetered rubbish
                                                                                                                  lines
of disconnected babble about stars and selves 2 without any citations for verification
stirred around in a sort of it-sounds-like-Shakespeare-kinda-sorta-they-won’t-care-anyway soup to be copied and pasted onto sheets of 8 1/2” by 11” fake parchment woodpulp because, like, y’know, that’s what you do for graduation ceremonies



1 Wordsworth, “Scorn not the Sonnet”
2 Possibly a misremembering of Cassius’ words to Brutus in Julius Caesar: “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars / But in ourselves, that we are underlings.” If so, the quotation has been, like Caesar, assassinated.

Monday, June 4, 2018

Monday Morning after Graduation - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Monday Morning after Graduation

For thirteen years one’s life is organized
By Mom and Dad and the glorious state 1
Passive behavior rewarded and prized
Just work your sums on an electric slate

Bubble in circles with a number two
Glitter-glue posters for every right cause
School’s all about state scores, not about you
And state exams, according to state laws

For thirteen years you were controlled and toyed -
Today you’re just one of the unemployed



1 You are the state. A school will be exactly what you and the other citizens want it to be. Always vote in your local school board elections; self-government is not a spectator sport.

Sunday, June 3, 2018

Life High the Red Cuppa, Rather - a mildly amusing couplet

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Lift High the Red Cuppa, Rather

A proper English Communist, I say,
Should drink only that tea called Comrade Grey

Saturday, June 2, 2018

The People Gather to Honor Their Children Graduating from High School - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The People Gather to Honor Their Children Graduating from High School

To the Accompaniment of “Land of Hope and Glory” on a CD Player
Piped to Speakers on the Artificially Turfed Football Field
 
“Here, sir, the people govern”

-attributed to Alexander Hamilton, Benjamin Franklin, and others

Beards flowing over beer-swollen bellies
Tattoos, tee-shirts reading “I’m With Stupid”
Knee-pants, hairy legs, knives worn openly -
And some of the men are dressed that way too

Bubba caps worn defiantly during the pledge
Cell ‘phones at full wail during the opening prayer
Too few genetic codes and too few teeth
Rattling loudly during the valedictory

And air-horn cousins out on probation
To lend some elegance to graduation

Friday, June 1, 2018

A Doctor Seuss-Free Graduation Poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

On a Morning in June – a Doctor Seuss-Free Graduation Poem

The earth is all before me: with a heart
Joyous, nor scar’d at its own liberty,
I look about, and should the guide I chuse
Be nothing better than a wandering cloud,
I cannot miss my way.

- Wordsworth, Prelude, I.15-19

Soon you’ll depart for your own pilgrimage,
Seafaring through the life God has given you,
To the golden Canterbury of your heart,
Along the sunlit road you’ve chosen to walk,
A pilgrimage, perhaps, to Orwell’s dusty room,
Or deep into the mind of Thomas More
Or far-off Saint James of the Field of Stars,
Or sea-passages swift to Denmark’s shores,
Or fields of sonnets singing in the dawn -
All these you’ll find along your pilgrim road.

Take then, your haversack, and neatly pack
Your book, your song, your dream, a change of clothes
(Your dreams are happier when you wear dry socks)
A prayer that your parsoun will write for you
A cup, a bowl, a pocketknife, a pen;
And do take care to pack those useful words
Learned, shaped, and sharpened, polished from your youth:
The baby-sounds for supper, sandwich, cat,
The childhood sounds for play and your best friend,
Then words from Mom and words from books - and words from  
     you.

Words flown by you in dreams like sunlit sails
Then shaped again in pencil or in ink
And flung in hope upon a waiting leaf
Words made by you for honest purposes
And never employed in wicked deceit,
For thieves might steal your book, your song, your hopes,
And time decay your purposes and strength
But your own words, oh, yes, your good, strong words,
Like an old pair of boots will see you through
To your heart’s desire at your journey’s end.

Thursday, May 31, 2018

Existential Ants - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Someone mentioned existential angst the other day. At first I misread “existential angst” as “existential ants,” and so I dedicate this doggerel (why is there never catteral?) to all of you who suffer existential angst or existential ants:

Existential Ants

All creepy ants are existential ants
If ants across your old blue jeans advance
And bite into your tender skin by chance
You leap into an existential dance

And swear profane, wild, existential chants
Your good companions look at you askance
Each with a wondering existential glance
They seem to be in an existential trance

As you flail among the flowering plants
Because of those wicked existential ants!

Attack of the Robot Disposable Plastic Cups - column

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

Attack of the Robot Disposable Plastic Cups

A fast-food joint in California features a robot burger-flipper-robot-thingie (“Mustard, Will Robinson!”) that grills 300 hamburgers a day. A human short-order cook must marvel at the concept of only 300.

The restaurant says that no humans are losing jobs because of automation, and given the robot’s leisurely pace that’s probably true.

Any true burger-meister will want only a human cook, Clyde or Maria or Junior or Jorge or Bobbie-Ann, laughing and joking, building a burger with one hand while making coffee with the other, and at the apex of culinary creation calling out your number with a voice reminiscent of one of Bertie Wooster’s brassy aunts, loud enough to call the cattle home across the Sands of Dee.

The robot is not going to approach your table with a coffee refill, pop chewing gum, tell a joke, or ask you how your day is because it’s not programmed to move from its assigned spot on the floor and in any event is broken down again.

No robots, thank you, either in the fast-foodery or in the big-box store; there are no ethics or economy in firing a loyal, long-time local worker in order to lose money on an expensive gadget that never functions as it should and which requires constant maintenance and adjustment while the customers, tired of waiting, drift away to stores staffed by humans.

On the other hand, or grasping robotic arm, the manager of a taco stop in Chicago stabbed one of his employees in an argument over a woman. Possibly a robot worker would not flirt the boss’s girlfriend: “Hey, good-looking, do you ever go out with Chinese robots who dig Microsoft and The Big Bang Theory?”

The Scottish parliament has banned single-use coffee cups, a menace to the environmental purity of the highlands often related in iambic tetrameter in Sir Walter Scott’s yarns. In The Lady of the Lake the real crime of Roderick Dhu is not that he murdered a fellow knight in a sghian dubh-free zone and betrayed his king but because he drank his morning dram of whisky (with a frothy layer of latte and lightly dusted with cinnamon) from a plastic cup.

And then threw it away. Gasp!

This ban on nefarious plastic and paper cups applies only to parliament buildings for the present, saving the heather from the depredations of 450,000 cups a year. Given that Scottish parliamentarians drink 450,000 cups of coffee and tea each year, hardworking Angus in Dundee must wonder what his elected representatives do except sit around and quiver from atrial fibrillation.

The Scottish parliament has also appointed a high-level commission to study (translation: vacations under the guise of fact-finding missions) the elimination of the scourge of other fast-food disposables from Scottish society.

All good Scots still mourn the loss of Stirling Castle in 1304 to an attacking English force better armed with semi-automatic paper cups, wall-breaking plastic clamshells, and unregistered drinking straws.

From California to Scotland the theme seems to be the betterment of the world through the eradication of human workers and plastic cups. This continues the theme that since gasoline comes from a pump (now with a little television screen), electricity from a socket in the wall, and milk from the market, we don’t need those nasty, polluting oil wells, generating stations, and farms.

Once the purge is accomplished, no one will ever again be in want, and whales (vegetarian whales, of course) will frolic in the Sacramento River and in the Solway Firth.

-30-

Wednesday, May 30, 2018

School Websites - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

School Websites

A solution driven technology
Committee…paying it forward…globally
Competitive…peace poster…this flu season
We have had extra reminders in place

To wash hands and be contentious1 of spreading
Germs…child-centered learning…preparing your child
For the twenty-first century…a vibrant
And diverse living-learning environment

A cross-section of the district’s stakeholders

And, as ever,

Home of the Fighting Something-or-Others


1"Contentious of spreading germs" is the wording on the site during 'flu season.

Tuesday, May 29, 2018

A Modest Celebration of the Dipthong - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com


A Modest Celebration of the Dipthong

A dipthong - this is not a foolish man
Inappropriately dressed for sea or sand
Nor yet a verbal dipping, nor a thong
Nor yet a tropic river that flows along

A dipthong is two vowels in harmony
One with another dancing gracefully
Without a consonant to interrupt
Through a harsh, hinging sound that’s too abrupt

The poorly called but sweetly sounded dipthong
Is just another name for a little song