Wednesday, September 5, 2018

The Land of L. L. Bean - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The Land of L. L. Bean

How wonderful to live in Freeport, Maine
Where beautiful women and handsome men
In youth eternal rock their five-bar boots
And flannel shirts in happy, snowy scenes

Where laughter echoes through those forest glades
Forever free of electrical lines
Skunks burrowing under the cabin floor
And neighbors’ overflowing septic tanks

Oh, what a dreamy life for you and me
In Freeport, Zip Code 04033!


(Just having a little fun; everything I’ve bought from L.L. Bean’s catalogue is wonderful! I’d love to live in the perfect New England scenes depicted in the catalogue. If you squint your eyes carefully you can see Bob Newhart’s inn on page…)

Tuesday, September 4, 2018

Her Batlike Wings Pulsing Malignantly - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Her Batlike Wings Pulsing Malignantly

The nectar of youth from which the hummingbirds fed
In the joyful sweetness of their morning flights
Now sullies and sours the afternoon hours
Through bitter infestations and corruptions

Its former clarity corrupted now
Trapped in a tube of stagnation and rot
And scavenged by a malevolent wasp
Her batlike wings pulsing malignantly

But there is always hope: new songs, new words
In the morning’s return of sweet hummingbirds

Monday, September 3, 2018

A Child Curls up into a Little Ball - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

A Child Curls up into a Little Ball

In fear a child curls up into a ball
A very little ball, a little soul
Desperately seeking approval, and love
And given only disapproval, and blows

Hiding a favorite toy from a screaming purge
Childhood vaporized in an angry hour
Withdrawing into books and shining dreams
Withdrawing behind a fear-frozen face

Forever

Somewhere out there, discarded in the wild
Brave toy soldiers wait for a little child


A Letter from the Bishop - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com


A Letter from the Bishop

Click to make a gift

My Dear Brothers and Sisters in Christ,

Click to make a gift

My sadness, anger, and shame concrete plan
I will travel to Rome third-party reporting
Mechanisms examining specific
Options advocate concrete proposals

Click to make a gift

Expertise relevant disciplines need
Such tools already exist our structures
Must preclude criterion zero tolerance
Outreach psychological development

Click to make a gift

This is the church house, this is the steeple
Where the Bishop dumps words upon the people

Click to make a gift

Saturday, September 1, 2018

The Foul Stench of Summer - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The Foul Stench of Summer

From an idea by Jean Fisher

Six months of gasping, sere, soul-sucking heat
Blood-sucking mosquitoes, venomous snakes
And fetid, lung-drowning humidity

I loathe the summer, and I care not if
That wretched season goes away in silence
Or in noise -
                           only that it GOES AWAY

Friday, August 31, 2018

When High-Tech Goes All Manual Typewriter on You - weekly column

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

When High-Tech Goes All Manual Typewriter on You

Did you hear the one about the man who walked into a ‘phone store and was greeted immediately?

Really, it happened.

Within my aging MePhone there was an email failure somewhere along the Verizon / Apple / AOL continuum which I was unable to resolve by following the instructions on various InterGossip sites.

With a desperate prayer on my lips and after bidding farewell to friends and family (can you hear me now?), I closed out my business affairs, packed what I thought I would need for a long sojourn in the wilderness of hard plastic chairs, and bid farewell to the past.

I took my existential despair and distressed MePhone to the Verizon store in Jasper, Texas, and as I entered - a staffer immediately stood up, smiled, and offered to sooth the wounded ‘phone.

Hey, if I am false in this matter may I be subjected to the agony of an eternity of Marty Haugen hymns.

I’m not kidding. I walked into a ‘phone store. A staffer stood up, smiled, and greeted me. Immediately.

In a world where customer service is more and more a grudging grunt from an unraised head behind a computer, this was a moment of joy, not unlike the Pilgrim’s Chorus from Tannhauser.

The staffer then listened to me – as in LISTENED TO ME - worked mysterious wonders with my MePhone, consulted briefly with another staffer, solved my problem within mere minutes, and thanked me for visiting Verizon.

Really. This happened.

Upon returning home I determined to send an email to Verizon praising the customer service at their Jasper store.

I accessed Verizon’s official webfootsite and soon realized that I was K in Kafka’s Das Schloss – access would be forever denied. Verizon told me that my access code, the one I have used for years and which the young staffer employed successfully only hours before, was not really my code. Not only would I have to give Verizon the right code, which would not be the right code, I would have to join a club or something.

Verizon does provide a physical address so that a grateful customer can send them a letter. A letter, with a stamp. Typed on a sheet of paper. So high-tech, eh?

Apparently the one thing impossible with Verizon is sending them an ordinary email complimenting the excellent customer service at one of their stores.

But then, perhaps the concept of good customer service is alien to corporate structures.

Anyway, thanks to the nice folks at the Jasper store for coaxing my MePhone into lighting up and making noises again.

-30-


Prelates and Presidents: The Summer of 2018 - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Prelates and Presidents: The Summer of 2018

An urgent message that was never written
Was then not left beneath the third lantern
On an arching bridge that was never built
Under a wondrous river that never flowed

And men wondered at the unwritten words
They could not find atop the fourth lantern
In an echoing tunnel never dug
Over the steppes east of an eastern shore

And the message never written did not say:
O prelates and presidents – for whom do you pray?

Thursday, August 30, 2018

Argument over Wal-Mart Parking Space Leaves One Dead - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Argument over Wal-Mart Parking Space Leaves One Dead

-headline

                    And how can man die better
                       Than facing fearful odds,
                       For the ashes of his fathers,
                       And the temples of his gods

-Macauley, Lays of Ancient Rome

An argument over a parking space –
Lest all the pink Chinese flip-flops are gone
Triple-wide thongs in naughty, frothy lace
And a rhinestone case for a new MePhone

Cartoon shirts from the Vietnamese, sippy cups
Nicaraguan underwear and funny hats
Squeaky plastic toys for the little pups
And genuine autographed tee-ball bats -

There are causes for which a man might die
But “Ten Percent Off!” is no battle cry

Wednesday, August 29, 2018

Manichaeism is Quite Wrong, You Know - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Manichaeism is Quite Wrong, You Know

“…without God and immortal life? All things are lawful then….”

-Ivan, The Brothers Karamazov

If there are no boundaries, there is no freedom
With nothing to push against, one’s strength must fail
If God is not, then one can make no plaints
And must take on a burden that can’t exist

If man is never told no, there is no Yes
For him to answer then against the no
And if there is no Yes, there is nothing at all
There is no dichotomy, only the Yes

If there are no boundaries, there is no Yes
And man must cease in silent nothingness

Tuesday, August 28, 2018

The One, Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic Beach House - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The One, Holy, Catholic, and Apostolic Beach House

Your Eminence:

Speaking of apostolic poverty
From the queen bed in your apostolic beach house
To those working two jobs to make life happen
Is pretty thin gruel –
                                     serve it to someone else

Monday, August 27, 2018

A Rabbi Tells a Story - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

A Rabbi Tells a Story

Once upon a time:

An aged rabbi talking with two men
Asked them about their holiday in Paris

The first man said: Oh, I hated Paris
There was muck and filth everywhere I went
Stray dogs and prostitutes roamed the foul streets
And the Parisians were incessantly rude

The second man said: Oh, I loved Paris
There were flowers everywhere I went
Artists and beauty, writers scribbling away
And the Parisians were so kind to me

And so:

The rabbi said to them (his voice was kind):
Each of you found the Paris you wanted to find



(Worked up [or down, or sideways…] from a story Rabbi Joel Goor, a visiting lecturer at the University of San Diego in 1975, told his students.)

Sunday, August 26, 2018

No. - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

No.

Dixit ergo Iesus ad duodecim, “Numquid et vos vultis abire?”

“Will you also go away?” He asks us.

                                                                 No.

Only sinners mourn at the foot of the Cross
Only sinners approach the baptismal font
Only sinners recline at Table with the Lord

To whom shall we go?
                                      An empty shopping mall?
A 501C cafeteria?
A feast of ashes with the cardinal?

                                                                  No.

There is only one Place, one Space, one Grace

Only sinners are invited, and so
Our yes to Him – we will not go

Saturday, August 25, 2018

"To Write Poetry of No Political Significance Whatever" - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

“To Write Poetry of No Political Significance Whatever”

“But my chief argument in defence of Wang An-shih is that…he retired from the Court decisively, ignored  all recalls, and took to the mountains to write poetry of no political significance whatever.”

– David Warren on the poet-philosopher Wang An-Shih

Recusancy is not pious quietism;
In silence it is a brave voice withdrawn
From pompous Kratos’ halls of treachery
From screaming Demos’ marketplace of noise

And up into the silent hills to save
Something of civilization, to sing
Matins among the mountain mists, to write
A page in praise of Creation, to live -

Recusancy is not quietism at all;
It is a firm rebuke to tyranny

The Platonic Ideal of the Good, the True, and the Beautiful - photograph


Friday, August 24, 2018

While Dressing for an American Legion Meeting - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

While Dressing for an American Legion Meeting

A pair of slacks, a pair of shoes, a shirt
A watch to count the weary meeting hours
Coffee with comrades in the old church hall
And all of these are very good indeed

But like old shoes, old pals, the scenes of youth
We must someday let them all go, and pass
Peacefully, one prays, through the spray and foam
And sail until dawn to that farthest Shore

Where only the NCOs must dress right, dress
And the coffee’s always fresh in the company mess


(But will the smoking lamp will be lit?)

Thursday, August 23, 2018

A Poetry Installation at the Temple of the Muses - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

A Poetry Installation at the Temple of the Muses
 

              Number Forty Two: “You're trying to undermine my rehabilitation. Disrupt my social progress!”

              Number Six: “Strange talk for a poet.”

-The Prisoner, “A Change of Mind”


Installing a poem to factory specs
Setting iambic feet into concrete
And lifting adverbs to the tops of verbs
Through the use of heavy machinery

Metaphors must be government-inspected
For solidarity with the collective
And images most closely interrogated
For their relevance to the latest cause

The Good, the True, and the Beautiful

As cleared by United Auto Workers Local 2110
So you’d better like it; youknowwhatI’msayin’

Bridge of Sorrows - weekly column

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

Bridge of Sorrows

Last week the Ponte Morandi, a modern bridge of interstate highway proportions, collapsed in Genoa, Italy. Thirty-nine deaths are known as of this scribbling

The Ponte Morandi was only 51 years old. Built according to the latest scientific principles and to a daring design by a civilization whose architecture, manufacturing, and design have earned the world’s admiration for centuries, the bridge failed and fell.

And yet in the area around Genoa, possibly in site of the wreckage, are bridges 2,000 years old. They don’t take big trucks because they weren’t meant to do so, but they still serve. The Ponte Morandi was meant to take big trucks, and did so for something less than 2,000 years.

Someone on the science / maths continuum looks at a bridge and considers the design according to the site and the various stress loads that will be made. Dr. Science then considers the quality of the materials and the professionalism of construction.

Someone else, that guy who thinks math is unscriptural because Jesus never told us to solve for X, looks at the same bridge and exclaims, “How pretty!”

But even the science-challenged among us can look at pictures of the Ponte Morandi and perceive that something was wrong in the design. The masses of concrete appeared to have been flung out too far between supports given that concrete is a glue of minerals and very heavy, with little tensile strength, and the spindly supports were inadequate for the load. Further, there seems – seems, and only from the pictures – to have been little provision for sway in any direction and from any cause. We all remember from Mr. Johnson’s sixth-grade science class that a triangular form will support more weight than a square because in a triangle the three sides each provide the anti-sway factor for each other, whereas the corners of a square are only hinges.

Engineering is the study of, among other things, bridge-building, real bridges, not metaphorical ones. The liberal arts, quite unfashionable these days, in their turn ask us if a bridge is needed in a given place so that people and trade can transit an obstacle and contribute to the common good, or if it is a political bridge to nowhere. The liberal arts – the fuzzy studies – also remind us that bridges have been built before, and if a bridge built 2,000 years ago still functions as a bridge we might want to apply our higher order thinking skills to learn how, and then apply the abstract principles to the specific needs of our own construction.

The two supports that converge on the apex of a triangle need each other in order to work; similarly, both hemispheres of our brains also need each other in order to work.

All that is something to think about while zipping along the long, concrete spans of our own flyover bridges whose footings are in swamps and bayous.

-30-

Barnum's Non-Human Animal Companions - weekly column

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

Barnum’s Non-Human Animal Companions

Nabisco, now a subsidiary of Mondelez International, which used to be Kraft Something-or-Other, grovels to The Loud People Who Are Against Things to prove that it is a good corporate comrade. Nabisco has redesigned its famous circus trailer cookie box to free the cartoon animals from their cartoon cages.

Barnum’s Animal Crackers are little cookies shaped like animals. In your ‘umble scrivener’s youth they were packaged in a little box printed as a circus wagon. The wheels of the wagon continued from the sides to the bottom and were perforated as cutouts so that the little wagon could stand on its four wheels. Printed on the sides of the box were cages of critters which varied from time to time, but the essential nature of the box, complete with a little string for carrying it or hanging it from a Christmas tree, didn’t change until The Glorious Ever-Now.

This month Barnum’s animals are free of their cages, roaming in good fellowship across a printed veldt. The gorilla, being somewhat arboreal, is probably unhappy about this. All the animals, both arboreal and nonarboreal, carnivorous and herbivorous, stroll toward the viewer in oneness ‘n’ peace ‘n’ love, surely wanting a hug.

That famous rhetorical question still obtains: how many people has Walt Disney killed?

As the old alligator might say of its latest human meal, “New Look – Same Great Taste!”

Now that the cartoon animals are free to roam, perhaps someone could redesign our cities, beginning with Chicago, so that the humans could also roam free.

Given that the Mondolez-Nabisco Barnum’s Animals box has been purged of anti-social elements, the animal cookies inside could be next.

Instead of little lions and tigers and bears (oh, my!) the cookies could be shaped as carrots and kumquats and corn (oh, ich!), and made from reprocessed soy beans. The boxes could be printed with inspiring mottos: “Good Little Comrades Love Brussels Sprouts” and “Good Little Comrades Report Global-Warming Detractors to their Block Wardens.”

On one side of the box could show pictures of happy children being devoured by bears and alligators, with the enlightening reminder that “Good Little Comrades Always Remember That Animals Were Here First.”

And now we turn to the cultural insensitivity of Eskimo Pies.

-30-

Wednesday, August 22, 2018

An Open Letter to Really Important People / The Old Dime Box, Texas Statement - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

An Open Letter to Really Important People
The Old Dime Box, Texas Statement
A Manifesto Made Manifest in Manifesting Manifestingness

We post this serious looking document
Bloated with long vocabulary words
Sodden with weak dependent clauses
Marshaled in numbered ranks, down, down they go

To the GossipNet all serious like
And everyone has to pay attention to us
Because it’s AN OPEN LETTER, y’know -
You may sign it if you’ve got letters behind your name

Signatories:

Apostle-Disciple Magic Dawn, DD., Non-Binary, Author of Green Polar Bears I Am, Co-Equal-Director of the Anti-Oppressionist Theatre Against the Occupation, Agent of the Revolution, Auteur, Guest on The Wheel of Fortune and Parent of Two AMAZING children of indeterminate Gender with Their AWESOME and AMAZING Life-Partner Sven-Marie.

Massive Ferguson, M.Ed., Poet, Rector of Admissions, The University of Where the Old Circuit City Use to Be

Poncy Tworbst, M.A., PUBLISHED Author, Seeker, Inspirational Singer-Songwriter, PUBLISHED

Heather-Mistee La’ Thwitte-Tworbst, Ph.D., Director of Library Resources at Saint Margaret Sanger Homeschool Resource Authority Collective, Inc., Certified Ordained Consecrated Priest in The Worldwide Church of Me-ness and Pastor of the World-Famous Weddings ‘R’ Us Chapel of Rainbow Dreams in Magdalena, New Mexico

Lawrence Hall, HSG, Thinker of Thinky-Ness and, Like, Stuff, Endowed Chair he found at Goodwill, His Mark: X

(Sean Ian Johann Johnson, MBA, J.D., Chief Photocopier Operator at Donald Trump University and Fashion Editor at Gun, God, and Guts Magazine, was not able to sign today; he is sharing a cell with other White House staff and patiently awaiting The Day of Greatness.)

Tuesday, August 21, 2018

Panic and Its Attempted Vetoes - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com


Panic and Its Attempted Vetoes

There are no days free of panic attacks -
A fierce determination to recusancy
Is no defense against the men of peace
Clenching their fists and screaming out their love

There are no nights free of panic attacks -
A fierce determination to needful sleep
Is no defense against unhappy dreams
Judicial accusations of the memory

But even panic is no defense against
One’s fierce determination to write the truth

Monday, August 20, 2018

Where do I Apply for my Russian Bribes? - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Where do I Apply for my Russian Bribes?

Where, then, do I apply for bribery?
Russians are everywhere here, we are told
So why aren’t those nefarious oligarchs
Flinging dollars and dachas at poor me?

And the Chinese, poking and hacking about
(My last water bill was in Mandarin)
Have yet to pad my secret bank account
Or park a Porsche on my patio

But if they will…

I want to spy for the cool FBI
And party away with the CIA

Sunday, August 19, 2018

Snakefight - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Snakefight

Two snakes in battle on a summer day
Writhing and twisting on a sandy road
Grappling desperately like taxing authorities
Fighting over a poor worker’s paycheck

Or like fierce coffee-break theologians
In anger ripping a scripture apart
Each clutching a bloody fragment to himself
But careful not to upset the 501C

And in the end, one snake swallows the other
Keeping him closer than a beloved brother

Saturday, August 18, 2018

The Annual You-Know-What Examination - a rhyming couplet

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The Annual You-Know-What Examination

The physician is a good man, wise and fair
But, ouch! - HIS FINGER DOES NOT BELONG THERE!





(But, hey, ya gotta do it because life is good and you want to be there for all of it.)

Friday, August 17, 2018

Returning an Electronic Gadget That Wasn't at all as Advertised and Wouldn't Fit into the Assigned Shipping Box for Return - doggerel

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Returning an Electronic Gadget That Wasn’t at all as Advertised
and Wouldn’t Fit into the Assigned Shipping Box for Return

What a surprise
It sparks, it dies
Return the prize
To those false guys

It wouldn’t fit
I thought a bit
Then stepped on it
And so it fit

Thursday, August 16, 2018

Duct-Tape Automobile - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Duct-Tape Automobile

How awkward when a body part
Falls out onto the interstate
That fragment of FoMoCo art -
It spun away in a figure eight!

There is a new part now on order
For this old car; it ain’t no Lexus
It rolls along in taped disorder
And that is how we do it in Texas

God bless our state, and the strong duct tape
That holds together my Ford Escape



Please know that my wonderful Ford Escape is fifteen years old and is a strongly-built car with lots of Texas and New Mexico miles on the odometer. A bit of plastic trim fell from a window assembly a few weeks ago, and the tape is to keep rain and dirt out of the innards while a replacement is on order. A real Texan thinks of duct tape as both functional and in its own modest way aesthetically pleasing (“Aesthetically pleasing” is the English translation for the Texas vernacular, “purty.”

Wednesday, August 15, 2018

Wild Bill Hickok was Shot Here...and Here...and Here... - poem




Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com


 
Wild Bill Hickok was Shot Here…and Here…and Here…

Old Number Ten Saloon – where Bill was shot
Sitting in this old chair – or maybe not
‘Cause down the street there is another bar
Where poor Bill died; that’s two beer joints so far

And yet a third, here in South Dakota
Right over there, behind that Toyota
Another of those authentic places
Where Wild Bill died over his eights and aces

Everyone has a different tale to tell

And so

We’re not real sure where Wild Bill Hickok fell


Deadwood, South Dakota is a beautiful little town down in a gulch and featuring both kitsch and solid historical attractions, a pedestrian-friendly main street with lots of shops, cafes, B & Bs, new hotels, and, yes, several saloons claiming that Wild Bill Hickok Was Shot Here.

Tuesday, August 14, 2018

Kafka and His Giant Insect / Which Might be a Cockroach / But Maybe Not / We Could go to Das Schloss and ask Mr. K - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Kafka and His Giant Insect
Which Might Be a Cockroach
But Maybe Not
We Could go to Das Scloss and Ask Mr. K

An insect woke up one morning and realized
He had been transformed into Gregor Samsa

From a life focused on eating hair and grease
Glue, soup, bread, paper, leather
Sewerage, butter, meat (fresh and decayed)
Makeup, cookies, sugar, toothbrush bristles
Cookies, pizza, flour, tacos, apple pie
Dead bodies, feces, and his own species

He now had to deal with the confusion
The sorrow of being Gregor Samsa

Monday, August 13, 2018

A Decomposition Book for School - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

A Decomposition Book for School

Cheaply manufactured in India
Its fake marbled cover fakier than ever
But not as fakey as this assignment
“Grendl symbolizes existential…”

          Cross out cross out crossoutcrossoutcrossout

“Grendl symbolizes…” my senior year
Nobody understands why I don’t want
To go to college, why I quit the band -
Grendl and I are both exiles, okay…?

          Cross out cross out crossoutcrossoutcrossout

I love my fountain pen; its deep, dark lines

Just like me

Refuse to be MLA marginalized

“Grendl symbolizes…”

Sunday, August 12, 2018

A Votive in a Time of Disquiet - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

A Votive in a Time of Disquiet

I.

“No doubt they’ll sing in tune after the Revolution.”

-Kamarovsky, Doctor Zhivago (film)

Everyone seems to clench his fist these days
In solidarity with ephemera
While setting fire to green recycling bins
Hurling someone else’s bicycle through a window

Armed with their undergraduate degrees
The comrades liberate a coffee shop
Wifi-ing the revolution of the day
Empowerment by beating love to death

Loudsplaining authentic victimization
Posing for selfies with a stolen ‘phone

II.

Their inhumanity seemed a marvel of class-consciousness,
their barbarism a model of proletarian firmness…

-Doctor Zhivago, p. 349

Everyone seems to clutch his flag these days
In solidarity with a past that wasn’t
While setting fire to misspelled cardboard signs
Hurling someone else’s beer into a crowd

Armed with their lurid Confederate tats
The Something.Right liberate a dumpster
Bull-horning the counter-revolution
Empowerment by beating love to death

Bellowing their Reconquista of stench
Posing behind their cheap gas station shades

III.

“I used to admire your poetry...I shouldn't admire it now. I should find it absurdly personal.
 Don't you agree? Feelings, insights, affections... it's suddenly trivial now. You don't agree; 
you're wrong. The personal life is dead…”

-Strelnikov to Yuri, Doctor Zhivago (film)

Some few embrace civilization these days
In solidarity with humanity
While lighting one small candle as a votive
Whispering an Ave into the Light

Armed with wonder through pen and flute and brush
Recusants choose the liberation given
In singing of the eternal verities
Self-empowerment happily denied

With love, with poetry, music, and art
Celebrating life on this summer day

Saturday, August 11, 2018

What's Wrong with Education These Days? - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

What’s Wrong with Education These Days?

The principal in a cool cartoon tee
His fashion sneakers squeaking across the floor
Sets out candy, pizzas, and canned sodas
Arranges a door prize, and assembles the faculty

Requires them to sign in so he can check on them
Orders them to hold hands and sing the school song
Reminds them they are all one big family
As a preface to his primary agenda:

To tell them to be more professional
The principal in a cool cartoon tee


from Lady with a Dead Turtle, 2014, available from amazon.com as bits of dead trees and on the Kindle.

Friday, August 10, 2018

Dear Leader Inspires His Obedient Comrades - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Dear Leader Inspires His Obedient Comrades

Avuncular in his style, jolly and loud
An epiphany with an entourage
Of functionaries who survey the crowd
For any lack of enthusiasm

Applaud they must, wearing upon command
Cheap slogan tees averring that their school
Is like totally awesome and ‘way cool
They leap and bounce and cheer as they are told

Chanting a theme, this year’s predictable theme
Desperately cute, a motivational meme -
Oh, those childish, subservient creatures!
The worst part is that they are the
                                                                           teachers

Thursday, August 9, 2018

"Hey, Guys, Hold My Texas A & M Diploma and Watch This!" - column

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

“Hey, Guys, Hold My Texas A & M Diploma and Watch This!”

A Georgetown, Virginia branch of the D.C. Public Library has closed temporarily due to an infestation of snakes.

Well, hey, Washington, right?

The snake allusion is obvious; the surprise here is that the citizens of Georgetown occasionally read at all, taking a little literary time off from power golf, power tennis, power lunches, and power schmoozing with mysterious foreign powers.

One imagines The Honorable Maxine Waters curling up with John Milton’s Paradise Lost after a full day of inciting riots. Or maybe just curling up and hissing (Book X, line 508).

With snakes on a shelf President Clinton is not yet able to turn in Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning.

Alexandria (not Alexandra) Ocasio Hyphen Cortez is reputed to know what a book is.

President Trump checked out How to Win Friends and Influence People, and concluded that he had written better books than that.

F.B.I. agents wiretap the audio books instead of taking them home, the C.I.A. spookies investigate Goodnight, Moon (one of Prime Minister Trudeau’s favs) for coded messages from Iraq, the superannuated Secret Service frat boys study all the books about how to throw good parties, and Congress investigates the librarians, threatening them with prison if they don’t admit under oath that they have read Dostoyevsky, Solzhenitsyn, and Yevtushenko.

We continue our reptilian theme near Beaumont, Texas, where a young woman had herself photographed in her Texas A & M graduation costumery while posing with an alligator said to be fourteen feet long.

Some have suggested that A & M is at fault for not teaching students that alligators eat pets, children, and the occasional adult, including vegetarians and Aggies.

Reptiles are all fun and games until someone gets eaten, okay?

But, really, teaching children about dangerous animals should happen at home. A reality is that lots of children no longer learn ordinary human behaviors at home. Even if they have a home. The authority figure cooking meth doesn’t get around to cooking for the children. Kiddie-garten and first-grade teachers must teach many of their charges about when and where to poo-poo and wee-wee, washing one’s hands, eating with utensils, and all the other usages that help distinguish (not always successfully) humans from reptiles.

Snakes get to skip the lesson on washing hands.

Even so, the Board of This and That who constitute the governing body of Texas A & M probably never considered as a topic for fish camp the basic mummy-doesn’t-want-you-to-be-popped-into-a-pie-by-Mr.-McGregor idea that fooling around with a fourteen-foot alligator is unwise.

To paraphrase an old wheeze, the joke is now “Hey, guys, hold my Texas A & M diploma and watch this!”

-30-


You are a Poem - (well, yes, a poem...)

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

You are a Poem

You are a poem; your stanzas are your life:
A prologue written in the long ago
(with some few emendations here and there)                               (ahem!)
A closure and an afterword await

     But now about this part of your life:

The iambs of your footfalls dance in time
While
           anapests
                           leap in search
                                                   of a rhyme
Stiff-built trochees stumble clunkily (ouch)
And alexandrines mourn the sometime sorrows of age

     And when writing your poem, remember…

Your poetry of life will be truly true
If you almost never write about
                                                     you

Wednesday, August 8, 2018

I Could Not Put Down this Unputdownable Flying-off-the-Shelves Must-Read Book That Defines a Generation - poem

Lawrence Hall, HSG
mhall46184@aol.com

I Could Not Put Down this Unputdownable Flying-off-the-Shelves
Must-Read Book That Defines a Generation

I couldn’t put this must-read down, nor yet
Its many woven layers of tapestry
(Or maybe layered weavings of mystery?) -
This book seethes with passion; much blood is let

Beautifully crafted in the tradition of
A riveting re-telling all gritty
Wild, bold, and haunting, nuanced and witty
A daring, different tour-de-force of love

Lyrical, satirical, and compelling
And when the heroine’s not whispering
                                 she’s yelling

Tuesday, August 7, 2018

Claudia of Rome - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Claudia of Rome

Every daughter is born of royalty
To rule and serve in lineal descent from God
But Claudia from her island of mist
Was borne away to Rome in captive shame

With her father in chains, herself in chains
To speak for their people, to speak for peace
Before the emperor, who in hearing them
Gave freedom to himself, and a crown to her

Though hostage far away from her girlhood home
With love she captured imperial Rome

Monday, August 6, 2018

That Clockwork School! - doggerel

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

That Clockwork School!

That clockwork school! If it’s not gearing up
Then it is winding down, except in the fall
Which then is when it’s gearing up again
But not in the spring, when it is winding down

Sometimes it’s just around the corner where
Presumably it is still gearing up
But maybe winding down, somewhere in town
Waiting for the fall to come back around

Then winding down, having worn out its spring
But back in the fall, you see; that’s the thing!

Sunday, August 5, 2018

Yes, Leader Maduro, That is a Bomb - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com


The Peace of Leader Maduro

Yes, Leader Maduro, that is a bomb
And you and your Ken-doll generals flinch
And all your medals and chains of office
Rattle like the bones of the Revolution

Look at your soldiers fleeing through the streets
Yes, look - they have no wish to die for you
“Justice!” you scream, “Maximum punishment!”
“And there will be no forgiveness!”

                                                               For whom?

The people and the priests you have murdered

Will pray for you

Absolution from the lips of the dead

Saturday, August 4, 2018

The Slaughter of Holy Innocence - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The Slaughter of Holy Innocence

Were you ever in love with someone not
Listed as an approved relationship
By roaming mobs of false analogies
In either-or assumptions basely masked?

Friendship and love are regulated now
Not by a written fiat of the state
But by the decibels of imbeciles
The bellowed mandate of the club and fist

The law of love is now the law of bans -
They’ve politicized even the touching of hands


(The allusion to Saint Matthew 2 is deliberate.)

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