a;th4fiothei545’ - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

a;th4fiothei545’

 

S

                   sT

 

orhpenm

 

n

e

e

c

y                                                                                      a;th4fiothei545’

 

meaningyhreoimviyrwoerhjmierpowhmteiwohtrccwor’jwexkrper;wkcy’pvky’pteykv’retyvtr;eykw;kwy’erw c’ljrxwdhxucjf4t5ingj0tr9jvh8gcbiudwunio4jot4wernfcnipdwo’4cntgi?????????

 

Poetryecahe5io;w yhvj’6re6jueru v6

Shapes234rgv ,frpvw,ujt3r[v

Chaos-09iuyhgfcdx

Into23wertgyhjk,./wertghjk,l.oikjhgvcxyhblkjhgfdsa

Meaning6trdsxz9ijhbv,mnhgfdew.,kjhytrnbgfdewcxsaq

 

Poetry forms erfghygnmgponiytpm==[‘;/.pl[[[

 

Poetry forms chaos wedfvbrtghjm,yypoiuytrewsdfghjkl;.,mjhgfdxs

 

Poetry forms chaos into 1qaz2wsx3edc4rfv5tgb6yhn7ujm8ik,9ol.0p;/

 

A poem formsdwf4eyudby8gkjouiyugoimioip,o[p]\

 

0oikjn98iujhbgv8uygvc7ytgfcx6trfdxz5redsz4esaz3wa1qwsdxcvfde33rfgbbgtr5tyhnmnjhyt5tyhjm,mjujk,kiuiklo90opoiuyhgfdvfrty6yujytgbfghjhgbcoffee

 

 

Poet and poem form chaos into meaning

From Vespers to Compline This October Night - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

From Vespers to Compline this October Night

 

How peaceful it is to sit outside

In the cooling dusk as the stars appear

In the healing dusk as the busy-ness fades

Through unspoken Paters and Aves

 

How peaceful it is to sit outside

In the Vespers night of crickets’ hymns

In the Compline night of one last prayer

Whispered up to God through the dome of Heaven

 

How peaceful it is to sit outside

And be still

Money in a Tin Can Buried in the Back Yard - poem and a photograph of a cloth bank sign secured with string

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Money in a Tin Can Buried in the Back Yard

 

Early this morning to the bank’s drive-through

Which, after the lobby model, was closed

There was no sign about when it would open

Only news that the bank had been sold and bought

 

So what is my bank going to be named nest week?

 

Velcro Sign State Bank

The Bank of What’s Happening Now

The Whatever We’re Named This Week Bank

Fill-in-the-Blank Bank

Guess Who We Are Bank

Mystery Bank

Random String of Consonants Bank

A Big Bank that Devours Other Banks Bank

Closed

 

More and more often banks are locked and barred -

Less useful than a tin can buried in the yard

Note:

12 October 2021. I took this MePhone snapshot today. The cloth sign is held in place not with Velcro but with string.

What my Face Mask Signifies - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

What my Face Mask Signifies

 

A reflection on an excellent essay by Rebecca Tuhus-Dubrow

 

 

My face mask signifies nothing at all

It is only a matter of good hygiene

Like washing my hands and brushing my teeth

And eating a nutritious balanced diet

 

My mask is not an ideology

No more than my eyeglasses, hairbrush, or shoes

It is not a statement; it is paper on a string -

I simply want all of us to be safe and well

 

If you must find significance to construe -

Construe that my mask is to honor you

 

The American Scholar: What Masks Signify - <a href='https://theamericanscholar.org/author/rebecca-tuhus-dubrow/'>Rebecca Tuhus-Dubrow</a>

 

COVID death toll higher this year than last - New York Daily News (nydailynews.com)

 

How You Read All These Books? - couplet about that tiresome old question

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Have You Read All These Books?

 

“Have you read all these books?”

 

“No, nor have I seen every dawn.”

The Weekly Transport of Discarded Hopes - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

The Weekly Transport of Discarded Hopes

 

“They didn’t let me finish!”

 

-attributed to Isaac Babel upon his arrest

 

Bumping the weekly trash along the lane

Along the lane and through the colding dusk

A sack of faith appeals and banana peels

And coffee filters with no grounds for hope

 

Bumping the weekly trash along the lane

Out-of-date beans and last month’s magazines

Used printer ribbons, with words left to die

And crumpled notes for projects never begun

 

Arrested, jailed within a plastic bin

Awaiting a lorry and some big, strong men

Beowulf and the Danish Passport Officer - pastiche

 (As written the caesurae in each line are physically divided; electronic transmission might scramble them.)

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Beowulf and the Danish Passport Officer

 

From a recently discovered manuscript

 

The clapped-out Boeing                    wheezed to the gate

The ground crew jumped                   name-tags rattling

And swiftly moored                            the shining ocean-bird

 

Behind his plastic shield                   a Danish official watched

The travelers approach                      their passports raised

He stood peeking down                     at the naughty selfie

His girlfriend sent                              to his bold smart-phone

Shaking his rubber stamp                 he spoke:

 

“What is                                            the purpose of your visit?       

Business, or pleasure?                      Hwaet! I’ve stood

At this same gate                               longer than you know

Keeping our gift shops free                from British footer hooligans

No commoner carries                         such fine matching luggage

Unless his Rolex                                and his boyish good looks

Are lies                                              You! Tell me your name

And your home address                     and your email!

The quicker the better                       I’m off-duty in ten minutes.”

 

Beowulf answered him                      Unlocking his smart-phone:

 

“We are the Geats                              the mighty, mighty Geats!

Men who follow Malmo FF                 Malmo FF the great!

And we have come seeking                Parken Stadium

Greatest of all stadia                         Its shining seats polished

By cheering generations                    of fat-full footer fans

We have come to cheer                      Malmo FF

While they whup up on                     Dansk Boldspil Union

Instruct us, watchman                      Where is the stadium

But first, where is the beer?”

 

                                                          The worthy officer

Answered him boldly:

 

                                                          “A true fan knows

The difference between                      fighting on the field

And puking in the stands                  and keeps that knowledge clear

In his beery brain                              I believe your babbling

Go forward, credit cards and all        on into Denmark

Spend your money!                           Our exchange rate is generous!

And then go home bearing our love   while we bear your money.”

 

(Stamp, stamp, stamp)                      “Tram stop to the left

Taxis to the right”

 

(Scholars everywhere will regret that here the burnt and torn manuscript breaks off.)

And the Death Before Dishonor Confederate Flaming Skull of Death Motorcyclist Cigarette Lighter - weekly column 3 October 2021

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

And the Death Before Dishonor Confederate Flaming Skull of Death Motorcyclist Cigarette Lighter

 

At a gas station beside a small homeless encampment and an overpass I paused in my adventures for gas, coffee, and a break from the road.

 

The windows weren’t barred, which is always reassuring.

 

Gas stations sell gas, of course, as well as beer, sodas, snacks, and sometimes brass knuckles and big ol’ knives.

 

Yes, in a lovely display case there was a festive selection of brass knuckles and large knives, just the sort of things a traveling Bible salesman might want to pick up in case he accidentally left some of his weaponry at home.

 

One set of brass knuckles featured the letters “B,” “O,” “S,” and another “S” on each of the four primary presentation knuckles.

 

Advertising the fact or presumption that one is the BOSS is perhaps a psychological comfort to the operator, but in a dust-up one does not imagine that the recipient of the blow has time to read the legend or, if he (or she; I must remember all the pronouns) does have time to read it or to meditate upon the significance.

 

After all, if the bearer of the BOSS knucks is indeed the boss, shouldn’t he (or she) stand upon his (or her) authority without resorting to bashing someone?

 

Another set of metallic knuckles appeared to be made of stainless steel, and the legend thereupon was “KING,” the three consonants and one vowel again distributed appropriately upon the salient features of this engine of control.

 

So, then, does a king wear stainless steel knuckles that advertise his royal status? Indeed, does a king need to wear stainless steel knuckles at all? He has an army to wreak violence upon his enemies, and some shiny medals to impress the ladies.

 

There were also large knives for sale, one of them featuring a naked lady. I don’t know why. The knife was large but seemed inadequate for skinning a deer or splitting kindling. Maybe it was a weird Alfred Hitchcock thing.

 

I was going to take a discreet picture of the arrangement of knuckles, knives, Death Before Dishonor Confederate Flaming Skull of Death Motorcyclist cigarette lighters, and other Ya Say Ya Want a Revolution tchotchkes but the clerk was looking at me as if I need to buy some of the scary stuff or move along, so I moved along.

 

A gentleman always avoids distressing a lady, especially one whose stock in trade includes brass knuckles and large knives.

 

-30-

Neither a King nor a Boss - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Neither a King nor a Boss

 

A gas station close by the overpass

A display case of shiny knives and knucks

One of the knives features a naked lady

Some of the knucks are labeled “KING” and “BOSS”

 

But would the object of a metallic punch

Have time to read either the “KING” or “BOSS”

Before he fell among his blood and pain?

A legless man in a wheelchair rolls by

 

To his blue tarp and sleeping bag close by

The gas station close by the overpass

Th Positiv Capability of th L tt r “ ” - poem

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Th  Positiv  Capability of th  L tt r “ ”

 

Littl  can b  writt n without an “ ”

That sur  foundation of s nt nc s and lin s

Th  most us ful vow l you  v r did s 

Th most b autiful j w l our languag  min s

 

L t us imagin  what a v rbal gap

A loss of this  xc ll nt l tt r would m an

Most consonants would fall into a trap

If th  b autiful “ ” w r  l ft uns  n

 

This little  xp rim nt will h lp us s  :

Littl  can b  writt n without an “ ”

 

 

(The title is a play on Keats’ concept of negative capability – or p rhaps I should say, a play on K ats’ conc pt of n gativ capability.)

Censorship by the Proletariat - doggerel

 

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Censorship by the Proletariat

 

There is a topic in the news today

Most worthy of a throw-away line

But in our cultural lockdown there is no way

To share a joke, however benign

Trousers, Gentlemen, Trousers! - doggerel

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Trousers, Gentlemen, Trousers!

 

“There are moments, Jeeves, when one asks oneself, 'Do trousers matter?'"

"The mood will pass, sir.”

― P.G. Wodehouse, The Code of the Woosters

 

Had you visited the post office today

You might have heard an elderly man say

(After opening his newspaper, by the way)

 

“Trousers, gentlemen, trousers”

 

For there in black and white, on the front page

Was pictured each and every schoolboard sage

Attired in shorts, in deference to the age

 

“Trousers, gentlemen, trousers”

 

While one appreciates our volunteers

Who serve our schools for free (let’s give them cheers)

The vision of old men’s legs must lead to jeers

 

Their veined and wrinkled knees – is this a tease?

“Trousers, gentlemen, trousers – please!”

OMG! It's the Most Agonizing Awful Pain Ever!!!!! - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

OMG! It’s the Most Agonizing Awful Pain Ever!!!!!!!!!

 

(Have you got an aspirin?)

 

Unless it involves writhing on the floor

(Or another appropriate surface)

Feeding the ducks, explosions behind the eyes

Flailing at the end of a cosmic centrifuge

 

Shrieking in pain hearing a butterfly

Floating around some twenty miles away

Grasping at bottles of futile agony pills

And begging for a merciful end to life

 

Unless it’s all of these, and sometimes more -

 

It’s not a migraine

The Children's Back Yard Museum of Art - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

The Children's Back Yard Museum of Art

 

Children are the truest arbiters of art

Finding beauty in the unlikeliest things:

A bottle cap, a rusted auto part

Metal washers, broken glass, cigar rings

 

A discarded knife with a broken blade

One dime-store earring with one rhinestone

A greenish bit of plastic – can it be jade?

And a real-life, genuine dinosaur bone!

 

Art nicely displayed along the fence row -

Adults think it just junk, but what do they know?

Every Day is Poetry Day, But Sometimes... - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Every Day is Poetry Day, But Sometimes…

 

I dunno; is life getting in the way?

Some days the gods, the fates, the little elves

Are fiercely determined to part you from your words

That you must not encounter books or thoughts

 

(Even the little notebook in your pocket)

 

But only the vacuum cleaner, the crescent wrench

The washing machine, the cows, the dogs, the lawn

The daily round of crises, duties, and chores -

And maybe only a few lines read at lunch

 

(Because you always have a book at hand)

 

A few lines scribbled at the end of the day

Well, they will have to do – whaddaya say?

 

(Busting a sweat makes you a better writer)

Treadmills, Exercise, Open Cars, Champagne, and Cigars - weekly column, 26 September 2021

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Treadmills, Exercise, Open Cars, Champagne, and Cigars

 

The panther-like litheness of my youth (cough) long ago expanded into the, oh, prosperous look of Chaucer’s merchant, and so I have gotten into the excellent but Calvinistic habit of well, treading along a treadmill every day. That’s what you do on treadmills; you tread. The treadmill upon which I tread is inside in the air-conditioning and under a ceiling fan, so there is little chance of me being run over by some of the race cars here along Beer Can Road and County Dump Extension.

 

Some people find exercise invigorating. I find it tedious.

 

My old…um…legacy treadmill was pretty flashy in its time, with red crystal lights telling me what speed I have chosen, how far I’ve wheezed…um, walked…how many calories I’ve burned, and how long I’ve been a good lad each session.

 

Tedious.

 

Television ads now show us show modern, high-tuned machines that are so ‘way cool that they are not even called treadmills. Treadmill – so declasse’. Sniff. They are given brand names that are just noise-labels, like some cars, and feature computerized Orwellian telescreens with moving pictures of different roads you can pretend to run on and with some really buff athletes yelling cliches at you:

 

“C’MON; YOU CAN DO IT! YOU’VE GOT THIS! JUST A LITTLE MORE! KEEP GOING! PUSH YOURSELF HARDER! DARE TO BE GREAT! YOU’RE RUNNING TO THE FUTURE!”

 

And blah, blah, blah.

 

Nevertheless, she persisted with cliches on the sides of made-in-China coffee cups.

 

If you’re going to exercise, do you really need or want someone yelling bogus recorded slogans and abuse at you?

 

Someone who likes being yelled at while running might want join the Army, Marines, or Navy. I was in the Navy and occasionally we did time with the Marines, much to the embarrassment of the Marines, so there was twice the verbal abuse while exercising. 

 

If my mama could have heard some of the vulgar things the mean old CPO and the mean old sergeant yelled at us she would have had some choice words of her own to say to them, and they would have felt pretty darned silly, yessir.

 

I have set before my, oh, heritage treadmill a television set. While treading the road of life I watch DVDs of The Bob Newhart Show. There isn’t much yelling, and although Bob and Emily occasionally jog or play a little tennis, that’s about it.

 

In Chicago today, of course, Bob would get LOTS more exercise in dodging the gunfire. Let’s call it nation-building.

 

In a scene from Chariots of Fire the candidates for the Olympics jog down a country road as their friends in the pace car smoke cigars and drink champagne while urging them on.

 

Now that’s the kind of exercise I can go for.  No, no, not the running, the riding around in an open car smoking cigars and drinking champagne.

 

-30-

 

 

I Don't Miss Working on the Farm

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

I Don’t Miss Working on the Farm

 

The hay balers are out early in the fields

Headlights outshining late September stars

The din of diesel engines shaking the world

I don’t miss working on the farm at all

 

The operator smoking a cigarette

While his sunburnt old hands wrestle the machine

His khakis and chambray shirt already wet

I don’t miss working on the farm at all

 

Yep, laboring in the fields from can ‘til can’t -

I don’t miss working on the farm at all

Is William Shatner Going to Deliver my Overdue Book from Amazon? - poem (of a sort)

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Is William Shatner Going to Deliver my Overdue Book from Amazon?

 

-William Shatner is reportedly going to space in Jeff Bezos’ civilian space rocket | The Independent

 

Shipped with USPS Now expected 

September 24 - September 25

We’re very sorry your delivery

is late. Most late packages arrive in a day.

If you have not received your package by 

September 25, you can come back here

the next day for a refund or replacement.

Tracking ID: 9341989671004370746008

Wednesday, September 22 2:37 AM

Package left an Amazon facility.

Humble, TEXAS US 12:58 AM

Package left the carrier facility.

Humble, TX US Tuesday, September 21

11:30 AM Package arrived

at an Amazon facility. Humble, TEXAS US

Carrier picked up the package.

Times are shown in the local timezone.

A Too-Long and Too-Complex Password - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Enter a Password

 

Your password must consist of at least nine

letters and three numbers three of the letters

must be capitalized and two must be

underlined however while one of the

capital letters may be underlined

the other underlining or underlinings

must be small letters but none of the numbers

is to be underlined you must include

at least one specialty key but no more

than four and the password must not be entered

under a full moon or within three days

of Michaelmas either way we’re sorry

your time has expired please exit this window

and then re-submit but not the same password

you entered before

An Hour with Dachshunds and Keats - poems

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

An Hour with Dachshunds and Keats

 

The first day of autumn – surprisingly cool

In this almost tropical latitude

So after a day of working outside

I sat with Keats before a brushy fire

 

As is my custom I read his “Ode to Autumn”

With a tumbler of – lemonade – to hand

While the little fire sang its own kind of song

And the dachshunds snuffled among the leaves

 

The first day of autumn – surprisingly cool

And in her rising the Evening Star blesses us

Lawrence's Apple Watch is Fully Charged - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

“Lawrence’s Apple Watch is Fully Charged”

 

Oh, sure, the MePhone is pleased to say that now

But long before the day spins down the watch

Percentages add up to little and so

I must find the magnetic sticky thing

 

The charger and the watch embrace with passion

You can almost see the electricity

That sparks their one-ness and their holy bond

Leaving my wrist empty and timeless for a time

 

“Lawrence’s Apple Watch is fully charged”

But reluctant to leave its charger for long

My Garage Sale One-Dollar Mister Spock Clock - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

My Garage Sale One-Dollar Mister Spock Clock

 

All stern he is, in science department blue

Behind the clear face of an old-fashioned clock

An hour hand, a minute hand, a sweep hand too

Orbiting around our wise Mister Spock

 

Behind his back a motor, made in Taiwan

Powered by a double-A Duracell

Counts the minutes and hours as they drag on

(There is no dilithium fuel cell)

 

Spock scans for me the starndate, no fuss at all

Always at his post on my office wall

On Teaching Jean Anouilh's BECKET to High School Seniors - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

On Teaching Jean Anouilh’s Becket to High School Seniors

 

Beginning with the film

 

1^st student young person on the roll sheet: “Is that th' pope?”
2^nd student young person on the roll sheet: “I’d like to shoot that old pope.”

 

We have a lot of work ahead of us

Love Against Chaos - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Love Against Chaos

 

Chaos - when a child doesn’t have a bed for sleep

Good meals for nourishment, peace every day

Books of her very own to read and keep

Parents and friends, a few toys for play -

 

But when you make a child safe and warm for the night

And give her breakfast at the family table

Daily lessons for instruction and delight

A few easy chores, as far as she is able

 

And all in a home ruled with blessings and love

You give that child a happy life

                             And you give Chaos a shove

To Oaf Qweepers and Such - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

To Oaf Qweepers and Such

 

In your made-in-China cheap camouflage

A forty-four strapped to each forty-six waist

You fast-food waddle and wheeze along the streets

Waving your Pepe and Confederate flags

 

Playing at movie soldiers yet again

With other aging oafs in beards and tats

And yelping at people who work for a living

While you parasites just stink up the place

 

The rest of us are trying to build a nation

So

Get out of the way

Go home

And fondle your director’s cut of Patton

The Death of Our Old Hippie Truck Driver - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

The Death of Our Old Hippie Truck Driver

 

For Brian, of Happy Memory

 

For every star that falls to earth a new one glows.
For every dream that fades away a new one grows.

 

-Rod McKuen

 

Suddenly there was cancer eating away

At what was left of his star and his dreams

That second star to the right was suddenly closer

And we can’t know what that far shore is like

 

But he had often seen the rainbow’s end

Shining across the windshield of his rig

Over his mountains and his magic lands

Interstates according to Peter Max

 

For years he rolled to the beat of ‘68 -

No more runs, now; his logbook’s up to date

Edgar Allan Poe Takes a Selfie and I Take an Antihistamine - errant nonsense

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Edgar Allan Poe Takes a Selfie and I Take an Antihistamine

 

Quoth the critic:

                             No one’s ravin’ y’know

Something about a bird – maybe a crow?

Lenore married a physicist on the go

Plutonium shore, not Plutonian (oh!)

 

Quoth the critic:

                              No more her beau

She kept the cage, but gave the bird to Poe

Anyway, the scientist’s name is Moe

She says his nuclear fission makes her glow

 

Quoth the critic:

                             Let’s end this show

(Antihistamines – I shoulda said no)

(‘Choo!)

An Address to the Several Caesars and their Generals - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

For the Good of the Republic

 

To the Caesars and their Generals

(But not to the Senate; they have made themselves irrelevant)

 

Illustris:

 

You have medals and money and country estates

Book deals and bank accounts and pleasure gardens

You can retire in soft luxury now -

Your military contractors have seen to that

 

The Rubicon is ruby with your soldiers’ blood

And the Tiber is stopped with the loyal dead

Who fell upon your sword-sharp signatures -

And now you conspire against each other

 

You have done enough; go home to your musicians

Your receptions, your hunting parties, your…wives

You could pray for the dead

But you won’t

 

Still,

 

If you love your nation you will not meet

At the Milvian Bridge

You are a Solitaire - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

You are a Solitaire

 

A generation cannot choose to be lost

Even though many might give up on life

Sulk in self-pity in a crowded space

As if no one ever suffered before

 

But trust yourself to make a stronger choice

Refuse to be defined except by you

Consider the teachings of the wise, not the loud

And build your life by the standards you set

 

For after all, you are not a generation -

You are your own creative, industrious self

Paying the Electric Bill to a Tattooed Arm - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Paying the Electric Bill to a Tattooed Arm

 

In the August-hot, exhaust-fumed drive-through

Summer-sun glare against the window glass

Armored against robbers and customers

Who might want to steal electricity in person

 

Through the glass one can see a slender arm

And a shift in the light shows it to be

All splotchy in decaying reds, greens, and blues

Seemingly covered in a foul tropical blight

 

The window slides open to a beautiful smile

The corpse-like arm pushes out

          God

                   Beauty

                                 A receipt

Chicago, a German U-Boat, and a Cab Driver with a Secret Sorrow - weekly column, 12 September 2021

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Chicago, a German U-Boat, and a Cab Driver with a Secret Sorrow

 

Many years ago I had occasion to take a taxi in Chicago.

 

I’m still doing therapy.

 

I had arrived by train (“Grandpa, what’s a train?”) and had a six-hour wait for the next, so I took a taxi from Union Station to the Museum of Science and Industry for a celebration of Young Sheldon-ness.

 

The temperature that day was 106, but that was before climate change was invented so Chicago might be cooler now.

 

Union Station was not air-conditioned.

 

Chicago was not air-conditioned.

 

The cab was not air-conditioned.

 

The vinyl back seat was all greasy and yucky as if it had recently been used for carrying corpses down to the river.

 

The driver was all greasy and yucky too, and really big, so I kept the conversation to general topics and he kept it to an occasional grunt.  He seemed to be carrying a secret sorrow and maybe weaponry.

 

At one point there was a traffic jam so he whipped his cab onto the sidewalk for a block or so, scattering pedestrians. He appeared not to be in a sporting mood so the walkers became leapers, and energetic ones at that.

 

A few blocks further on we were stopped at a traffic light when he and the equally large driver in the cab next to us began exchanging verbal unpleasantries questioning each other’s genetic coding, modes of life, and value systems, not unlike primeval carnivores sizing each other up for lunch.

 

At one point my driver pulled off his shirt – he was not pretty – preparatory to doing battle. So did the other driver. Not pretty, no, no.

 

Chicago, city of the big shoulders. Big waistlines. Big fists.

 

Happily, at this moment the light changed and every driver began honking and, um, vocalizing their impatience. I discovered that this is a Chicago tradition: whenever the traffic light turns green everyone within a quarter-mile radius begins honking the horn, bellowing impatiently, and making any pedestrians around play dodge-human. Both the big men driving the taxies magically appealed to each other’s better natures and I was carried in safety to my destination.

 

You never see any of this on The Bob Newhart Show.

 

The Museum of Science and Industry – provided you can get there alive – is fascinating. One of the favorite exhibits was the computer display where you can walk through the remains of a second world-war British computer. Beyond the huge steel frame and what looked like chain drives there is little left.

 

Especially fascinating was a working replica of Blaise Pascal’s 17^th century calculating machine, often considered the world’s first such gadget although it is possible that the Greeks and Romans managed similar devices. No apps for games, though.

 

How the Pascaline Works - YouTube

 

The claustrophobia-inducing German u-boat is also fascinating. Someone cut some hatches on the sides of the hulls so you can sort-of walk through it. I don’t remember that I was able to stand up fully at any point. I do remember the pretty blue-and-white-checked sheets and an occasional wooden bulkhead panel. Sleep was a matter of a rotating hot-bunk system and everyone lived and worked and often died in a milieu of heat and racket and machinery and torpedoes and valves and gauges. In the summer heat the temperature inside the hull was over 110, which, the docent advised us, was about the typical inside temperature when the boat was at sea.

 

The deck gun had been removed and placed inside where children played on it and pointed and trained the gun all around.

 

I understand that in Chicago children still play with guns.

 

The unarmed taxi drivers are scary enough.

 

-30-

 

The Last Time I Saw Dan - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

The Last Time I saw Dan

 

It’s only a Denny’s, right? Over on Garth Road

Just off the interstate.  Breakfast with Dan

Years ago now, but the table was still there

Where we drank coffee and I mostly listened

 

Oh, his body was frail, had been for years

But his mind, oh, that mind, physician and pilot

Philosopher, writer, scientist, raconteur

His thoughts were always far beyond the stars

 

I thought of him all through my breakfast special

And when I left, patted the vinyl bench

                                               where he had lived

Camellia Sinensis Dancing Striptease - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Camellia Sinensis Dancing Striptease

 

Anyone who bangs on about the nuances

And the complex properties of tea

Loose leaves, filtered water, thermometers

How a slurp is superior to a sip

 

The low-Prole vulgarity of teabags

Assessing the full body of the tea

Then teasing out the flavour of the tea

(Camellia Sinensis dancing a striptease?)

 

Is a barbarian.

                         Just pour me out

A good cuppa char from the old Brown Betty

Saint Augustine's Stolen Apples, My Dead 'Possum - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Saint Augustine’s Stolen Apples, My Dead ‘Possum

 

Saint Augustine reflected on the sins of his youth

The stolen apples especially bothered him

In his life-long penance and his quest for truth

That memory, somehow, was especially grim

 

As for me I remember a long-ago night

When I flung a dead ‘possum at Miss Cates’ door

I know that such a thing just isn’t right

But she was mean and old (maybe twenty-four)

 

Saint Augustine’s sins hung about him like weights

And I –

I don’t feel bad about tormenting Miss Cates!

 

 

(My friend Gordon and I found the ‘possum as ripe roadkill, and the deed quickly followed the inspiration. I did the tossing because Gordon was the getaway driver. Miss Cates was a brand-new teacher and probably quite nice. I do know that we were little jerks and that she deserved better. Gordon won the Silver Star in Viet-Nam, was a good husband and a beloved stepfather, and died in early middle age.)

Searching September for You - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Searching September for You

 

Everyone writes poems about September

That month which serves as a hinge to each year

Tired summer collapsing into cool autumn

A new term and new terms on the quarter-day

 

I remember walking in the fields with you

And holding hands among the stubbled crops

While you sang to me and our changing world -

You were the joy of golden Michaelmas-time

 

And though all those Septembers have flown away

Whenever I pass a field

                                        I look for you

General Robert E. Lee Stands Down - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

General Robert E. Lee Stands Down

 

Richmond, Virginia

8 September 2021

 

Today his statue will be lifted down

And broken up to be museumed somewhere

Beyond the roar of cannon and musketry

Beyond the hiss of tear gas and abuse

 

The most sentimental mythologies

Might be the worst: moonlight and magnolias

And sweet old songs softening and perfuming

The memories of bloody chains and whips

 

Let us hope that the plinth is left intact -

For a new statue, a universal pact

If This Were Kabul We’d Call It Nation Building - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

If This Were Kabul We’d Call It Nation Building

 

At Least 6 Killed, 56 Wounded In Chicago Labor Day Weekend Gun Violence

 

-CBS 2 Chicago

 

Maybe one of the civilized nations

Will send us aid: food packages, nylons

Chocolate for the children, used clothing

Cigarettes for the old men, can openers

 

Maybe one of the civilized nations

Will send their young soldiers to guard our streets

And missionaries to teach us the Bible

And volunteer nurses to teach us hygiene

 

Maybe one of the civilized nations

Will pity us, and make us a protectorate

 

 

(From a reminder by Anthony Germain)