Tuesday, March 16, 2021

Grandpa and the Kid - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Grandpa and the Kid

 

Grandpa gives his boy a toy truck

Or better yet a clanking army tank

Or maybe a plastic shovel and pail

Or a real Roy Rogers cowboy hat

 

And the little boy’s hovering mother clucks:

“Now what do you say to Grandpa? Tell me!

Say to Grandpa “Thank you.” We say “Thank you!”

No, don’t just run away; say “Thank you!”

 

[Extended Form for Certain Feasts and Seasons:

 

“Now what do you say to Grandpa? Tell me! Say to Grandpa “Thank you.” We say “Thank you!” No, don’t just run away; say “Thank you!” “Now what do you say to Grandpa? Tell me! Say to Grandpa “Thank you.” We say “Thank you!” No, don’t just run away; say “Thank you!” “Now what do you say to Grandpa? Tell me! Say to Grandpa “Thank you.” We say “Thank you!” No, don’t just run away; say “Thank you!” “Now what do you say to Grandpa? Tell me! Say to Grandpa “Thank you.” We say “Thank you!” No, don’t just run away; say “Thank you!” Amen.]

 

And Grandpa smiles and lights his favorite pipe

(His daughter rolls her disapproving eyes)

She sees tonight’s bath in the sand and grass

But Grandpa sees beyond this time and place

 

His boy builds a road, a fort, a castle, a corral

And Grandpa thanks God for his little pal

Monday, March 15, 2021

Robin Hood and Jacques Derrida - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Robin Hood and Jacques Derrida

 

As the first stars came out above the leaves

Of Merry Sherwood, the lads in peaceful repose

Put away their after-supper mending of gear

And idled over their ale of October brewing

 

Then Robin Hood spoke to Allan-a-Dale:

 

Don’t sing to us of Neo-Post-Colonial White Supremacist Patriarchal People-of-Color Matriarchal LGBTQTY Non-Binary Feminist Chomskian Existentialist (existentialist – how quaint) Hegelian Post-Structuralist Logocentric Sausurian Psychoanalytical Post-Modern Marxist Jungian New Critical Cognitive Scientific Neo-Anarchic Canon-Repudiationist Neo-Informalist Catarrhic De-Constructionism.

 

Sing to us

                                                       a story.

Sunday, March 14, 2021

His Name was Mudd - weekly column

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

His Name was Mudd

 

First, an important scientific, cultural, and civic note: the first hummingbirds have returned and more are arriving. After their incredible flight across the Gulf from Mexico and because of the scarcity of flowers after the ice and snow they need our help. Feeders up!

 

And now: once upon a time there were television reporters who respected the truth and the viewer. A young reader may shake his or her head in disbelief, but it’s true.

 

Last week Roger Mudd, of happy memory, died at 93. The reader can find his biography on the InterGossip, and the young among us can marvel that once upon a time reporting the national news was a highly ethical vocation.

 

Indeed, there are many reasons why the viewership of evening news on the formerly big three networks has decayed, including the reality that no thoughtful young man or woman will waste time on shrill, biased, and ill-mannered poseurs projecting the emotional fashions and groupthink of their eastern undergraduate days. Participants in our national conversation want news professionals who will report the news as best they can without prejudice, ideology, snarks, and incessant self-reference.

 

Early television newsies were old-school, shoe-leather street reporters, some of whom had also been combat reporters. Their editors wanted the news yesterday, of course, with an eye on the hovering deadlines, but they also wanted it right, and so did the reporters themselves. The wrath of the green eyeshade gods would fall upon a reporter who faked a story or sources, or who let his or her personal biases skew the narrative.

 

Among the best of that generation was the professional, thoughtful, dignified, and wryly humorous Roger Mudd.  For Mr. Mudd the news was about the facts as could best be determined, and about the reader and viewer, not about himself.

 

Possibly it was his failure in 1979 to coddle a party-anointed candidate with fulsome praise, and to carry and pet him through the interview with only poofy questions that cost him his well-earned promotion at Famous Name Brand network.

 

Instead of recognizing Mr. Mudd’s excellence the network jumped up to the anchor desk a Fisher-Price Play Reporter who was obsessed with projecting himself instead of getting the facts. His antics and errors and biases, poorly anchored, scuttled the network’s reputation. Trenchcoat-man was also the first to pose all look-at-me look-at-me look-at-me how-brave-I-am outside in the wind and rain during hurricanes.  This stunt became a fashion which seems not to have a needed end.

 

One never wishes anyone harm, but surely it would do no harm if some of the weather reporter-poseurs were hurricane-skidded a block or so on their a(postrophe)s for not having enough sense to come in out of the rain.

 

Roger Mudd never patronized us by indulging in low-prole trick-pone stuff for ratings. He didn’t have to, and he wouldn’t have done so in any event. In his own dignity he respected ours.

 

“Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and make perpetual Light to shine upon him.”

 

-30-

Socrates on the Courthouse Lawn in Liberty, Texas - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Socrates on the Courthouse Lawn in Liberty, Texas

 

“Strong minds discuss ideas, average minds discuss events, weak minds discuss people.”

 

-attributed to Socrates, but no one knows

 

Imagine if you will old Socrates

On an old wooden bench on the courthouse lawn

Playing checkers with all the other old men

On an old picnic table throughout the day

 

He lifts his old straw hat in the leafy shade

With his old bandana he wipes his old bald head

And sagely asks the old questions of us

And through his dialectic dismantles old cant

 

And that must be why, as the ages pass

They’ve made for him a monument here in the grass

 

 

(While passing through Liberty, Texas I saw on the courthouse lawn a marble slab engraved only with “Socrates”.)

 

Liberty County Courthouse - TexasCourtHouses.com

Liberty, Texas, Bed & Breakfast Hotels (usatoday.com)

Socrates (Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy)

Saturday, March 13, 2021

Penguin-Random House Sends me a Survey...poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Penguin-Random House Sends me a Survey

and Then Rules Me Unqualified to Respond


Survey Completed - Thank You / We're sorry.

You do not meet the qualifications

for this survey. We sincerely thank you

and appreciate your time and participation

 

You will be redirected in 3 seconds;

please click here to continue now.

Thursday, March 11, 2021

An Unskilled Rotor-Tiller Tiller of the Soil - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

An Unskilled Rotor-Tiller Tiller of the Soil

 

Plough Monday was by-passed some weeks ago

The Virus of Many Names kept me abed

And then the snow and ice kept me inside

And then – indolence, indolence, okay?

 

But today, oh, today!

 

The morning was fresh and cool and damp and still

I wheeled the tiller into the garden patch

Fresh gasoline, then primed the little bulb

And turned the red plastic lever just so

 

And pulled the cord

And pulled the cord

And pulled the cord

And said bad words

And pulled the cord

And pulled the cord

And pulled the cord

And snarled bad words

And pulled the cord –

 

Pow!

 

For smoke and fire

And noise – hooray!

Then forward the tines

 

The tines at first bounced off the new green grass

I pulled the smoke and noise machine back, back

And held the smoke and noise machine in place

And wrestled it, pinning it to the earth until

 

It bit into the grass, the bright spring grass

And hurled it back, and then some earth, and more

And still more earth, sweet earth, the nourishing earth

Flung up and out and back again, and down

 

And there the earth must rest for a few weeks

Then to be turned again, sweet and warm

To receive the ready seeds of happy new life

And join in the miracle of Creation

 

And in the summer when the soft breezes blow

Zinnias and sunflowers and wild marigolds

Will lift their heads and sing hymns to the sun

And bees and hummingbirds hum the “Amen”

 

And in those days I will speak kind words

To them all, and study rotor-tillers no more

Cavafy's Slight Angle to the Universe - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Cavafy’s Slight Angle to the Universe

 

“…a Greek gentleman in a straw hat, standing absolutely motionless

 at a slight angle to the universe.”

 

-C. S. Forster re C. P. Cavafy, quoted by Daniel Mendelsohn in

C. P. Cavafy: Poems, Everyman’s Library Pocket Poets

 

Maybe Cavafy stands at an angle to the world

The universe presumably built aright

In order serviceable, as Milton says,

All of creation as a liturgy

 

We all stand at an angle to the world

Which wobbles in its orbit more than it ought

We altar servers tripping more than we ought

When we forget the angle of Consecration

 

Oh, yes, Cavafy stands at an angle to the world

And he is right to do so –

                                         and so are we

Wednesday, March 10, 2021

Being an Eloi - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Being an Eloi is Okay,

But Make Sure the Smoke Alarms Have Fresh Batteries

 

Some poets are Eloi, deconstructing this

And disconnecting that in weak free verse

Between the reiki and the pilates

Trying to find an existential voice

 

And other poets are grim Morlocks, almost,

Through muscling chaos into meaning and light

Between the night shift and the morning cup

Trying to build a voice that speaks with strength

 

To shape lack of meaning into meaning

That is neither this nor that, but itself

Tuesday, March 9, 2021

Try to Look Like a Young Republican - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Try to Look Like a Young Republican

 

Whenever a student told me of his night in jail

And that he had to go to court next week

I always suggested that he wear his church suit

Or at least a new white shirt and a tie

 

“Try to look like a young Republican,”

Was my advice

                                       But I got over that

Monday, March 8, 2021

The Bishop Speaks of Lent as Basic Training - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

The Bishop Speaks of Lent as Basic Training

 

“Rise and shine and greet the new day, **** ****s!”

“Roll your socks to look like little p*****s!”

“Byda leff, byda leff, byda leff right leff…!”

“Shoulder-fired, gas-operated, semi-automatic…!”

 

“My gramma was slow but she was old!”

“SIR! I am a cockroach, SIR! Cockroach, SIR!”

“Don’t let your piece fall to the ***-**** deck!”

“Get up! You ain’t got permission to faint today!”

 

“You call this clean!? My ****’s cleaner than that!”

“You don’t **** until I tell you to ****!”

“Step over that *** ***** son-of-a-*****;

I didn’t give no one permission to die!”

 

And the ancient liturgical El chant:

 

“This is my rifle; this is my gun!

This is for fighting; this is for fun!”

 

His Grace speaks of Lent as recruit training -

Maybe, with a nice white wine and the dover sole

If not the soul,

He thought that up in his first-class from Rome

Sunday, March 7, 2021

The Grinches Who Steal Childhood - weekly column

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

The Grinches Who Steal Childhood

 

He recoiled from the group-think of many of his fellow writers. “Don’t yell at me,” he said to his peers at one public meeting, where he was heckled for asserting that writers should not be given orders. “But if you must yell, at least don’t do it in unison.”

 

-Pasternak, quoted by Finn and Couvee’ in The Zhivago Affair

 

I have never read anything by Dr. Seuss. The covers look stoopid (as in “stoopid,” not merely “stupid”). And, yes, I will judge a book by its stoopid cover. I don’t care if Horton Hears the World Health Organization or if the Grinch steals Arbor Day; the covers look stoopid. So there.

 

But then, I’ve always thought that the best reading lesson is predicated on a child, a fishing pole, a pond, and an old copy of Howard Pyle’s Robin Hood on a quiet summer afternoon before it’s time to get the cows up for the evening milking.

 

Still, a great many parents whom I know to be good, kind, loving, thoughtful, intelligent, and discerning read Dr. Seuss’ books to their children and the kidlets seem to enjoy the books and have not been persuaded to become ax murderers, arsonists, terrorists, or motivational speakers.

 

And yet the Miz Grundys of the world are becoming shriller in finding evil – perhaps they are only reacting to the evil within their own cold, shriveled hearts and ossified brains – in the most innocent and most needful of childhood joys, good books. From a casual perusal of the newspapers, the InterGossip, and television anyone could list of his or her (not “their;” one man or woman cannot be “their”) own childhood books now faulted or even unavailable for not being comradely enough.

 

Technically this is not censorship, which is practiced by governments. Our national government, grounded in the First Amendment, has almost – almost – always protected our freedom to read the books we want.

 

When on an outing to Barnes & Noble a parent chooses a book for his (the pronoun is gender-neutral) children instead of another book, he is not censoring; he is making wise parental decisions as to what books will be appropriate for his children in their formative years.

 

If, however, any government entity were to forbid the publication of, say, Robin Hood, Little House on the Prairie, The Once and Future King, or Hank the Cowdog, or, more sneakily, bully the publishers into surreptitiously changing bits of the text, that would be censorship.

 

That would be illegal.

 

That would be uncivilized.

 

That would be un-American.

 

Alas for freedom, a functional censorship can be exercised by a mob, even by a mob of the purportedly educated. One infers that most of the censorious are not educated at all, but merely credentialed. There is a difference.

 

Publishers don’t appear to show much courage in the matter, so we will have to. No, no, don’t form mobs and yell at people and burn books – that’s what the credentialed do – simply make good books a part of your budget for your children, and do some comparisons to see if the writer’s original wording has been changed for recent editions.

 

As for those awkward or clumsy or maybe just plain wrong stereotypes or assumptions that date from the past, then this is when the parent enlightens the child with solid teaching about the fallibility of all people in all times.

 

Martin Luther King was not the first to remind us that the arc of history points toward the truth, but his witness enhances the lesson. We do not teach our children about the concepts of the good, the true, and the beautiful (attributed to Plato, but, again, he was not the first) by tossing books into the flames of the Orwellian Memory Hole.

 

Just think of what some future Miz Grundy will find wrong, bad, evil, and un-comradely in the book you're writing for your children.

 

Finally, for the sake of your child’s proper upbringing, don’t forget the fishing pole, the pond, and the quiet summer afternoon.

 

 

Here is a brief list of easily available books about propaganda and censorship:

 

Fahrenheit 401, novel, Ray Bradbury

 

The Book Thief, novel, Markus Zusak

 

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society, novel, Mary Ann Shaffer

          and Annie Barrows

 

The Zhivago Affair: The Kremlin, the CIA, and the Battle Over a Forbidden Book,

           non-fiction, Peter Finn and Petra Couvee’

 

Cold Warriors: Writers Who Waged the Literary Cold War, non-fiction,

          Duncan White

 

The Politically Incorrect Guide to English and American Literature, non-fiction,

           Elizabeth Kantor

 

When Books Went to War: The Stories That Helped Us Win World War II,

          non-fiction, Molly Guptill Manning

 

 

-30-

 

When We Played Chase with Wind Devils - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

When We Played Chase with Dust Devils

 

Long, long ago dust devils spun across

Our childhood playground where the school used to be

And we played chase with them across the sand

As they whipped up dry earth and long-dead leaves

 

They were a little scary in their speed

The way they funneled and circled around us

Malignant faces that appeared for moments

And disappeared again – surely only dust?

 

I didn’t think they meant us any harm

But looking back just now - I’m not so sure

Saturday, March 6, 2021

A Cold Call from the Hearing-Aid Place - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

A Cold Call from the Hearing-Aid Place

 

A cold call from the hearing-aid place

I heard the young nice lady perfectly

Friday, March 5, 2021

Building a Fence and Smoking Cigarettes - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Building a Fence and Smoking Cigarettes

 

I passed two men who were building a fence

Cigarettes on their lips, work-stained old hats

Spirit level, carpenter square, calculations

The morning frost hard-worked into honest sweat

 

I passed two men who were building a fence

Its posts and rails strong-muscled into place

And hammered against the autumn hurricanes

With nails of steel, extruded steel, bright steel

 

I passed two men who were building a fence

With hands and tools and strength and uncommon sense

Thursday, March 4, 2021

What Face Mask is Appropriate for an Evening Wedding? - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

What Face Mask is Appropriate for an Evening Wedding?

 

Color-coordinating your face mask

Matching it to the tie, belt, socks, or shoes

Is now a fashion challenge in taste, a task

Good hygiene in bright reds or subdued blues

 

Is this mask for the bride’s side, or the groom’s

And is the reception a barbecue

Or dancing through a mansion’s stately rooms

A truly masked ball with a harbor view

 

The only real problem in fitting a mask –

Does it make my face look wide? That’s all I ask!

Wednesday, March 3, 2021

Imagining Maurice Chevalier as a Farmer - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

A Flaneur in Old Khakis

 

A rustic dilettante, all ready to flirt

In his old khakis and a chambray shirt

Old boots, old gloves, a mattock or rake to wield

A boulevardier of row crops in the field

 

He tips his old straw hat to the morning sun

Considers the corn silks’ latest fashion for fun

Discusses pitch and tone with a passing breeze

And notes the colours in the apple trees

 

The latest songs and jokes he very well knows

And shares the latest gossip with clever crows

This rare sophisticate whose sidewalk cafes’

Are nature’s dreamy scenes along nature’s ways

Tuesday, March 2, 2021

I Will Never Take Instruction from a Consonant - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

I Will Never Take Instruction from a Consonant

 

Whenever I’m down, and feeling a little blue

I wonder whatever it is I can do

What traditional learning I can pursue

To recover the happiness I once knew

 

I shun the transient, the ever-new

The latest fashions the unlettered construe

For I will follow Wisdom, just and true

Wherever She leads me, my whole life through

 

I will never take instruction from a consonant

And I know, wise friend, that neither will you

Monday, March 1, 2021

Citizen Potato Head is a Class Enemy - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Citizen Potato Head is a Class Enemy

 

“A mister no more: Mr. Potato Head goes gender neutral”

 

-Mr. Potato Head receives gender neutral name, drops title (usatoday.com)

 

“Mr.” indeed! No, no, Citizen Potato Head!

Bourgeois titles are forbidden by law

As are toys lacking in social realism

Clearly you are no good Comrade of ours

 

Lower your eyes in shame, Citizen Potato Head!

Your periderm, your lenticels, your pith

Your reactionary apical buds and lenticles

Your counter-revolutionary vascular ring

 

Your heteronormative attitude -

All condemn you – and there can be no a-peel!

Sunday, February 28, 2021

is Mr. Potato Head a War Criminal? - weekly column

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Is Mr. Potato Head a War Criminal?

 

Possibly because of the quarantine and a popular film (with the obligatory spunky teen girl beating stuffy males at their own game), chess enjoys a wave of popularity just now. Chess is one of the oldest games in the world, and while its moves are simple and a game may begin within minutes of hearing of chess for the first time, a player’s development in understanding the layered and spiraling complexities is infinite in its possibilities. This is why both Young Sheldons and fuzzy-study-istas learn from it. Chess enriches and sharpens the mind without identification with any one culture, religion, language, or ideology.

 

Even as prisoners in a gulag who are deprived of all resources will scratch scripture verses on cell walls the night before they meet eternity before a firing squad, they will also draw a grid on a floor or table and identify random bits of rubbish as kings and queens and other figures for an intellectual game that with a casual sweep of the hand can be returned to the debris from whence it came if the okhrannik comes snooping by.

 

Thus, chess is a game which promotes the intelligence of the individual while requiring some degree of cooperation. Cults and gangs, however, don’t tolerate individuals living their own lives and thinking for themselves. They require not cooperation but obedience. Self-absorbed subcultures that find menace in a Barbie doll or oppression in Goodnight, Moon (The Secret Message of "Goodnight Moon": Oppression of Children | Independent Women's Forum (iwf.org)) will disapprove of chess just as soon as they are told that it exists.

 

First of all, there are the king and queen. If that’s not heteronormative oppression, then what is? We continue with the bishop, who centers on Christianity, and then the knight, who normalizes the secular hierarchy of male-dominated power. The origin of the rook is debated, but of course as a castle or tower joins with the knight as a symbol of the nobility oppressing the proletariat, and, like, stuff. The sides, regardless of color, are identified as black and white, so to Miz Grundy division is built in.

 

The queen is the most powerful piece, which is an argument for feminism, but, hey, white always begins first, so the racism is obviously there.

 

Themed chessboards often present the chessmen – eek! – chesspersons as presidents, generals, soldiers, and other famous characters. There is even a Gone with the Wind chessboard, and we darned sure know who the queen is on that one.

 

Even so, the figure of the king, even if he (eek, again) is General Patton or Fidel Castro, is still referred to as the king. One can imagine the ideological schizophrenia when a chess player under Stalin or Hitler referred to a piece as a king or queen or bishop.

 

We can’t imagine, however, that chess will escape the suspicious eye of the censor who takes orders from a consonant. The sort of decayed mentality that finds sexism in Mr. Potato Head and racism in Dr. Seuss is capable of grave offenses against the sacredness of the individual and of civilization itself.

 

We could ask Mr. Potato Head about that.

 

-30-

 

A Cup of Tea in the Hand, a Pointless Neologism on the Lips - doggerel

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

A Cup of Tea in the Hand,

A Pointless Neologism on the Lips

 

“Tea is one of the mainstays of civilisation”

 

-George Orwell, “A Nice Cup of Tea,” 1946

 

In the afternoon (and you can look this uppa)

I don’t want a teafluencer; I want a cuppa

Saturday, February 27, 2021

Poets Seldom Order Missile Attacks - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Poets Seldom Order Missile Attacks

 

“Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world”

 

–Shelley, “A Defense of Poetry,” 1821

 

In truth

 

Poets are the acknowledged legislators

          of nothing

                             Let us thank God that it is so

 

Poets can be tiresome in their own ways

Among other shortcomings scribbling free verse

Without any consideration for meter

And failing to understand the rhythm of iambs

 

Poets can be tiresome in their own ways

Hogging for grants and television time

Some writing more for politics than for truth

Obsessing on the I instead of All

 

Poets can be tiresome in their own ways

But they seldom order missile attacks

 

Poets are the acknowledged legislators

          of nothing

                             Let us thank God that it is so

Friday, February 26, 2021

Are You a Brand? - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Are You a Brand?

 

I’m not a brand either; I enjoy no fame

No lines of this or that stamped with my name

A doghouse is the only thing I’ve designed

And the dogs weren’t much interested in it

 

The morning sun rises without my brand

And when wild clouds I didn’t design roll in

I don’t receive a percentage as raindrops fall

And own no copyright in the dreary day

 

I’m not a brand; the stars are cool with that

And Father Zosima tells us that truth is enough

Thursday, February 25, 2021

Welcome to Stoplight, Texas - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Welcome to Stoplight, Texas

 

Shopping * Fine Dining * Antiques * Friendly Folks

Annual Ye Olden Days Friendly Frontier Cowboy Festival

Visit the Friendly World-Famous Parking Meter Museum

We’re Your Friendly Hometown Family of New Friends

 

Closed No Restrooms Restricted Hours Dining Room

Closed Lobby Closed Road Closed Drive-Thru Only

Line Forms Here One at a Time Cash Only

Road Closed No Restrooms Restricted Hours

 

Dining Room Closed Lobby Closed Road Closed Drive-

Thru Only Line Forms Here One at a Time

Cash Only Closed No Restrooms Restricted Hours

Dining Room Closed Lobby Closed Road Closed

 

Cash Only Closed No Restrooms Restricted

Hours Dining Room Closed Lobby Closed, Closed, Closed

 

Y’ALL COME BACK SOON!

Wednesday, February 24, 2021

Chlorine Smith-L’Francoise d’Bayonne et Valle San Fernando Announces Her New Line of Sustainable and Rechargeable Skin Care Products - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Chlorine Smith-L’Francoise d’Bayonne et Valle San Fernando

 Announces Her New Line

of Sustainable and Rechargeable Skin Care Products

 

Along with my line of renewable tees

Hand-stitched in certified green factories

And my ecologically-sound handbags

(If you have to ask, you can’t afford one)

 

I announce today my sustainable line

          (ssssssssssssssssssssustainable)

Of skin care products made from the anal glands

Of the gently harvested influencers

Who panned my twooter site and my last film

 

(No, I don’t want to hear about the children’s

Bleeding little hands; I pay them enough)

Tuesday, February 23, 2021

Teeth are Curious Constructions - doggerel

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Teeth are Curious Constructions

 

Molars for grinding

Bicuspids behinding

Incisors for wheat

Canines for meat

And for all your teeth

Above or beneath

Keep them neat

For kisses sweet!

Monday, February 22, 2021

When You are Chosen as Poet Laureate - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

When You are Chosen as Poet Laureate

 

Do you suppose someday you’ll see your name

In the content pages of an Oxford book

An Oxford book of verse for this or that

Among the greats (who will want your autograph)

 

Do you suppose someday you’ll see your name

Across the top of Amazon.com

The poet of the week, the month, the year

Or, Heaven knows, the poet of the century

 

But if not, write anyway - you’ll hear your name

Whispered among the pages of Paradise

Sunday, February 21, 2021

Transacting Genres - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Transacting Genres

 

A plucky heroine library spy

Paris during the German occupation

Who falls in love with a mysterious soul

In search of life’s meaning that winter in Madrid

 

An empowering iconic game-changer

Must-read that weaves a trail-blazing tapestry

As passion explodes across the pages

In a forbidden path of something or other

 

And like reviewers, while all of Europe is ablaze

She sells shop-soiled literary cliches

Saturday, February 20, 2021

The Retiring of Old Snow - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

The Retiring of Old Snow

 

Clinging to blue shadows and shades and trees

Stained ice and sleet and snow from days ago

Silently steams away as vapour, as mist

Beneath today’s yellow and slanting sun

 

On Monday eve the skies were low and grey

And Tuesday morn soft flakes began to float

And then the rattle of indelicate sleet

Sent every creature to its appointed burrow

 

And now the little that’s left hides from the breeze

Clinging to blue shadows and shades and trees

Friday, February 19, 2021

Death Takes a Holiday in Cancun - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Death Takes a Holiday in Cancun

 

In warm and sunny Cancun today

The senator’s children play on the beach

In frozen and powerless Texas

The children of the poor die in the cold

 

In frozen and powerless Texas today

The senator’s staff all coven together

To tack together excuses and visuals

The children of the poor die in the cold

 

Today the senator’s words are loud and bold

And still

The children of the poor die in the cold

Thursday, February 18, 2021

Ice Wednesday - weekly column

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Ice Wednesday

 

Ash Wednesday presented itself as Ice Wednesday, which was Lenten in its own way.

 

The daughter-person evacuated her far-away home for a few days because the whimsical power supplier in The Big City where she lives is definitely not Jasper-Newton Electric Co-Operative. Her cliff-dwelling was cold, with promises of more cold to come. Her childhood home offered a dependable electrical supplier, a generator, a fireplace, and a nice supply of oak from Jake and Julie’s American Firewood.

 

We lost power to our country estate here along Beer Can Road and County Dump Extension for seven hours not because of institutional malfeasance or misfeasance or any other sort of feasance, but only because the ice took down power lines and trees which then took down more power lines.

 

Losing electricity for a few hours beneath ice, sleet, and snow is a matter of gratitude because it was for only a few hours, not for a week. JNEC linemen were out in the icy wind both day and night mending things while we sat by the fireplace.

 

Yep, that calls for gratitude, not attitude.

 

One of the nicer gadgets for helping out during hurricanes and ice storms is a portable power pack, which is a big, rechargeable battery or a series of batteries in a sturdy plastic container. There are many kinds and different prices, and a variety of features. Mine has jumper cables, an air pump for tires, a 110-volt outlet for very limited use, lighter-sockets for older accessories, and a little outlet for powering and charging a MePhone or computer. It usually rides in the back of my car.

 

The daughter-person has a much lighter power pack which features battery cables, an air-pump, and several MePhone / computer outlets. It was nice not having to ration the charge on a MePhone.

 

We also have a number of cheap battery lanterns all over the house. They have those efficient new golly-gee-whiz bulbs which do a pretty good job of lighting an area using little energy but whose piercing little blue lights make reading difficult.

 

Last year I bought a new portable generator (which is OUTSIDE) to replace the old Hurricane Rita one, and it is a marvel – more fuel-efficient than the old one, more breakers if you try to power too many coffee makers or refrigerators or microwaves or window air-conditioners at one time (I haven’t yet), and with (TA-DA!) a push-button start. The generator (OUTSIDE) proved itself after Hurricane Laura, and again in the ice age we used it in turn on the refrigerator, the microwave, and the coffee maker.

 

Anything with an exhaust or which uses flames must be OUTSIDE.

 

Because the generator is OUTSIDE I have to run a long, heavy-duty cord. Plugging together those light-load household extension cords is dangerous. The heavy-duty cables I have for the generator have little lights in the ends so that you know for the sake of safety that the cord is “live” and, as a convenience, you know where the ends are.

 

While Elsa and Anna were visiting I dug out the little folding Sterno stove I bought in 1968. I was one of ninety Navy Corpsman being trained by the Marines in their Field Medical Service School.

 

Sergeant Schneider called us rude names. If my mother could have heard the insensitive language he used she would have had something to say to him about it. So there.

 

Anyway, we young heroes (That’s what Sergeant Schneider called us, but he didn’t mean it) had occasion to spend rainy days and rainy nights in the cold and wind and mud of February along the coast (“Sunny California,” my apostrophe) and in the hills, and although the Marine cooks did a good job while chillin’ outside with us (eggs and bacon floating in rainwater in your mess tin, yum), the little stove was useful when time permitted (it seldom did) while sheltering out of the wind behind a tent or vehicle to heat up some soup or instant coffee.

 

Sergeant Schneider always seemed comfortable in the wild weather, though – I suppose not even the elements would dare annoy a Marine Corps sergeant.

 

The daughter-person took charge of the little stove and enjoyed the novelty of cooking (OUTSIDE – Sterno must be used OUTSIDE) some Ramen on the back porch.

 

Sergeant Schneider would approve.

 

As of this scribbling the power is on, I have coiled the power cords and covered the generator (which is OUTSIDE), have stored away the Sterno stove, and am simply enjoying the warmth.

 

Thanks again, JNEC; you’re the best.

 

-30-

 

Ice Wednesday - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Ice Wednesday 2021

 

Many crosses of ice but no ashes

Trees sagging from the icicles dragging

Little birds desperate for last summer’s seeds

The ice ground whitening, whitening, disappearing

 

The power flickers and flickers and fails

And the day is one of lanterns and firewood

Everyone wrapped up in blankets and thoughts

Reading books in glaring blue battery-light

 

The roads are closed, and we are exiled home

Our Lenten ashes are in having no ashes

 

 

“…last summer’s seeds” – I grow sunflowers and in the autumn save the seeds in that famous cool, dry place in paper or cloth, and in addition to commercial chicken scratch feed them to the birds and squirrels throughout the winter.