Tuesday, November 16, 2021

Ten Knots along a Cord - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Ten Knots along a Cord

 

A trewe swinkere and a good was he,

            Lyvynge in pees and parfit charitee

 

-Chaucer’s Prologue

 

See the plowman walking home from the fields

He plods along with the pace of centuries

There is no haste, for time hardly exists

Only the seasons, rolling like cosmic tides

 

And in his hand, ten knots along a cord

To count each Ave as it passes his lips

And through his heart and hopes and gratitude

His soul secure along the links of being

 

See the plowman dreaming home from the fields

His feet upon the earth, his head among the stars

Monday, November 15, 2021

It's Not Really an Assault Rifle 'Cause It's only Semi-Automatic - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

It’s Not Really an Assault Rifle ‘Cause It’s only Semi-Automatic

 

Once upon a time there was a stupid boy

He was seventeen. Someone gave him a gun

His mumsy drove him to another state

So he could hunt other people with his gun

 

See the boy hunt. Hunt, hunt, hunt

 

And he did. Be very quiet. He’s hunting Commies

But bullies wanted to take away his gun

And the boy was sad. So he shot the meanies

Bang, bang, bang. Take that, you rascally Liberals

 

Empowered, empowered, empowered

 

He had to go to court. He began to cry

Because they took away his big bang-bang

 

And his mumsy cried.

                                       But the dead can’t cry





Smith & Wesson™ – Empowering Americans since 1852©

Sunday, November 14, 2021

Wood Stoves and Thinking About Stuff - weekly column, 14 November 2021

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Wood Stoves and Thinking About Stuff

 

Every winter our old cast-iron wood heater was useful both as a source of heat and of conversation. During the long freeze of last winter, after we missed our flight to Cancun, the wood-burner was a necessity. After the worst of the cold passed the good old Birmingham heater, after some sixty years of service to several families, failed. A leg (the stove’s leg, not mine) crumbled, which led to a cascade effect, more pieces of iron falling to the brick base.

 

I bought a new stove, a small one I could afford, and friends Gary and Mickey worked a few hours heaving the old one out and the new one in. The most interesting part was fitting the stove pipe. Anyone who works with sheet metal and can keep his language clean is a champion.

 

The guys dollied the old heater to a concrete slab out back to replace the cheap chimenea that lasted something less than sixty years. 

 

Later I installed a remaining stove pipe segment to the Birmingham to help the draft and to keep more of the smoke up and away while sitting outside. Joining this one section to the heater required precision adjustments and careful fitting, which I skillfully and methodically accomplished by beating the (snot) out of it with a fence post. 

 

There was no one around to hear me speak…plainly…to it.

 

Friend Jake at American Firewood advised me where I could find a small grate, and on a cold evening I lit the new stove’s first fire in accordance with the instruction. The coating needs three different burnings for bonding with the iron, and I’m following that carefully. I also checked the fittings for smoke-leaks, and all is well. The new heater features a tight glass door and a clever new way of fluing the air, which results in a very efficient small fire that lasts for hours and whose heat lasts even longer. Nice.

 

Birmingham Stove and Range Company was in business from 1902 until 1903, and made lots of different cook stoves, wood heaters, and cast-iron cookware. One source (Birmingham Stove Company - Easy Access To Information Company (ninan.org)) says they invented the corn-shaped cornbread skillet. Birmingham Stove and Range did not have the cachet of, say, Vermont Castings™, but their products were less expensive and so more common in homes and railway stations and businesses all over America.

 

A properly installed wood heater is a good thing. It provides auxiliary heat and, in case of a power failure, it would make your house safely warm. You really do need to know something about the different kinds of wood and how they are dried and stored, and basic physics for lighting a fire safely. Beyond that, a wood heater does not require programming, cannot be hacked, and does not send you annoying messages about new software.

 

A wood heater smells of wood, one nature’s many types of incense, and the flames give you a center for thinking about stuff while sitting before it with a cup of coffee as the early winter night falls.

 

-30-

Okay, So It's the End of the World - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Okay, So It’s the End of the World

 

“What do ties matter, Jeeves, at a time like this?”

“There is no time, sir, at which ties do not matter.”

 

-P. G. Wodehouse

 

Okay, so what if this is the end of our world

Windblown sands where Ozymandias once ruled

Or dying like Charn in The Magician’s Nephew

Pale and sere under a fading red sun

 

Let us not meet it pajama’d on a couch

Videogaming upon a telescreen

And suddenly marveling that the power has failed

As a moving hand writes across the skies

 

If the world is going to end today

Let us dress properly for the occasion

Saturday, November 13, 2021

DeafCon 1 - nonsense

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

DeafCon 1

 

She said existential

I thought she said transcendental

She said she didn’t like her dentist anyway

Friday, November 12, 2021

An Executioner Feels Bad - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

An Executioner Feels Bad

 

One of the state’s executioners

Is feeling bad about what he does

He’s speaking out about PTSD

Sleeplessness and thoughts of suicide

 

Speaking out

 

Lethal drugs, poison gas, maybe firing squads

Hands as skillful as those of an abortionist

“None of us wanted to do it,” he says

But he does it. A ticket to promotion

 

Don’t do drugs, kids

 

The chief executioner gets to be a Commander

He doesn’t tell his children about his work

 

It’s for the children

Wednesday, November 10, 2021

Afghanistan, Graveyard of 19-year-olds - poem for Remembrance Day / Veterans' Day, first published in 2012 in THE ROAD TO MAGDALENA

Lawrence Hall

mhall46184@aol.com


Afghanistan,

Graveyard of 19-Year-Olds

 

Ghosts shriek in the wind from the Hindu Kush

Falling upon the lowlands in despair

Of any reality beyond death

In the blood-sodden sands where sinks all good

 

Walls, monuments, souls, hopes – all blow away

In the wreckage of long-fallen empires

Their detritus trod upon by tired men

Whose graves will be the howling dust of time

 

And yet the empire masters will return

And leave fresh offerings, remnants of the young:

A British Enfield, a Moghul’s lost shoe,

A cell phone silent beside the Great Khan’s skull

 

2012, The Road to Magdalena

Maslow's Hierarchy of Nerds - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Maslow’s Hierarchy of Nerds

 

Okay, I’m the nerd, not part of the hierarchy

But you are core of my hierarchy of needs

Where do I place you on the pyramid?

But I don’t place you at all – you are

 

You are a hierarchy of, well, you:

‘Way up around self-actualization

And definitely among belonging and love

And the base, and the peak, and the center -

 

You are my hierarchy of truth

You are my pyramid of love

Tuesday, November 9, 2021

I Dry My Armpits for No Man - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

I Dry My Armpits for No Man

 

They gather in their thousands, the obedient, the passive

To stand submissively before their master

And wave their arms in orgasmic submission

To leather and braids and electronic erections

 

They gather in their thousands, the obedient, the passive

Marked with the Sign of the Capitalist Credit Card

Eager to buy their overlord’s livery

To yield themselves to his contempt for them

 

They gather in their thousands, the obedient, the passive -

And cease to be

Monday, November 8, 2021

Boat! - rhyming couplet

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Boat!

 

“The fares are fixed, sir.”

 

-Boatman to St. Thomas More in A Man for All Seasons

 

If I don’t give the Boatman Charon a tip

Do I get out of going on that final trip?

Oh, Yeah, Kids These Days - weekly column 11.7.2021

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Oh, Yeah, Kids These Days

 

We can be reasonably sure that in 1939 parents in Canada and England and the rest of the Empire and the Dominions dismissed their teenaged children as lazy good-for-nothings without values or ambition. Kids these days, eh?

 

Similarly, we can be reasonably sure that in 1941 American parents wrote off their young’uns with much the same words. Kids these days, eh?

 

And that’s okay; those who survived the war dismissed their own children as idlers and slackers (which in my case was accurate). Kids these days, eh?

 

Last week a couple of sixteen-year-olds in Iowa were arrested for murdering a middle-aged woman, and the reactions on the InterGossip were both immediate and predictable, variations on the old “kids these days, eh?”

 

First of all, the thoughtful citizen will bear in mind the wisdom and logic in the Constitution – the two boys have been arrested, but an arrest is only a formal accusation, not a conviction. By the Grace of God, the InterGossip is not God, nor is it a court; it is mostly a bunch of grouchy old people yammering.

 

And second, even if these two boys committed the murder, they define nothing but their own errant behavior. They definitely do not define a generation because, Tom Brokaw notwithstanding, a generation cannot be defined. It can be stereotyped, but not defined.  As Margaret More asks in A Man for All Seasons, “What’s the man?” And we can add, “What’s the woman?”

 

Let us consider thirteen young Americans who are far more representative of the rising generation, thirteen young Americans who were killed last summer while serving humanity in helping refugees escape from Taliban-controlled Afghanistan.

 

We have all seen the photograph of Marine Corps Sergeant Nicole Gee cradling an infant amid the chaos at the airport in Kabul when everything fell apart.  The picture is not a government propaganda photograph; if it were it would be of better quality. This is just a snapshot one of her fellow Marines forwarded to her.  She sent it by email to her parents with the words, “I love my job!”

 

“I love my job.”

 

Those may have been the last words this United States Marine - with her hair tied back in a ponytail - said to her mom and dad.

 

She was only 23. Some of her fellow Marines were only 20. Kids these days, eh?

 

They might have been on the same bus route with our kids.

 

On the 26th of August Sergeant Gee and the others who were killed with her almost surely did not think of themselves as great Americans; they were too busy BEING great Americans. They would have thought of themselves as only doing their jobs in the heat and dust and violence of Afghanistan, helping civilians escape being murdered by the Taliban.

 

That’s what almost all young people would do. No one should dismiss any generation with cheap and shabby stereotypes. Your teenager and the goofy kid next door and the pimply oaf who can’t get your hamburger order right would risk their lives – and someday may well have to do so - to carry a baby amid the screams and terror and dust and heat to safety and then return to the perimeter for another child or young mother or old man or anyone who needed their help.

 

That’s what these thirteen young people did.

 

The oldest by far was Marine Corps Staff Sgt. Darin T. Hoover, 31, of Salt Lake City, Utah.  31 might seem old, but, yeah, he was young.

 

Marine Corps Sgt. Johanny Rosariopichardo, another woman Marine, 25, of Lawrence, Massachusetts

 

Marine Corps Sgt. Nicole L. Gee, 23, of Sacramento, California

 

Marine Corps Cpl. Hunter Lopez, 22, of Indio, California

 

Marine Corps Cpl. Daegan W. Page, 23, of Omaha, Nebraska

 

Marine Corps Cpl. Humberto A. Sanchez, 22, of Logansport, Indiana

 

Marine Corps Lance Cpl. David L. Espinoza, 20, of Rio Bravo, Texas

 

Marine Corps Lance Cpl. Jared M. Schmitz, 20, of St. Charles, Missouri

 

Marine Corps Lance Cpl. Rylee J. McCollum, 20, of Jackson, Wyoming

 

Marine Corps Lance Cpl. Dylan R. Merola, 20, of Rancho Cucamonga, California

 

Marine Corps Lance Cpl. Kareem M. Nikoui, 20, of Norco, California

 

Navy Hospitalman Maxton W. Soviak, 22, of Berlin Heights, Ohio

 

Army Staff Sgt. Ryan C. Knauss, 23, of Corryton, Tennessee.

 

Now there is a generation. They were killed in a scene of horror by a mad bomber who chose hate instead of love. His hate killed those 13 young Americans and wounded some 30 others who were saving lives, and killed and wounded possibly 200 or more Afghans.

 

One unhappy young man chose hate.  That poor (wretch) doesn’t define (poop).

 

But our young people chose love, the love Jesus spoke of when he said, “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.”

 

And these young Americans gave up their lives for people they didn’t even know.

 

No greater love indeed.

 

We have spoken of these 13, but let us remember this: every young American in Kabul that day was saving lives – they were helping terrified people get to the airplanes, helping them to safety.

 

That is also the story of just about every American soldier, sailor, airman, Marine, or Coast Guard who ever served.

 

We absurd old people were once young – maybe when dinosaurs roamed the earth – and we know that every veteran and almost every American at some time has given up some of his own poor rations to help feed children, given up some of his time and sleep and effort in helping those who are hungry or displaced.

 

But that’s every generation’s story, to serve humanity. The exceptions are irrelevant. Dang it, we’re good, and we don’t allow idiots to define us.

 

In some way, in some place, in some time – as a soldier, a police officer, a volunteer firefighter, a paramedic, or as a good American civilian who stands tall when needed and helps the community in some way, all of us serve humanity. We may not be called to carry a child to safety from Kabul Airport or from a wrecked car or from a burning building, but we will surely be called to help feed children or teach children in Sunday School or kick in a little something for the Kirbyville Christian Outreach food pantry or help out with the elementary school’s reading program.

 

There’s an old Army National Guard recruiting slogan that says:

 

It wasn’t always easy

It wasn’t always fair

But when freedom called we answered

We were there

 

That’s who you are, and that’s who the kids are. Don’t dismiss them. Don't stereotype them. Don't underestimate them.

 

-30-

 

Sunday, November 7, 2021

Pontius Pilate and His Dog - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Pontius Pilate and His Dog

 

When a man’s worked all day in signing off

On having any number of his fellow men

Imprisoned, flogged, branded, imprisoned, or chained

He’s happy to come home to his good ol’ dog

 

The master whistles, his happy dog barks

Man and beast in happy concord meet

Playfully tussling in their mutual love

While the servants cringe and cower in fear

 

What difference if a man executes his brother

As long as he and his dog have each other?

 


The curious idea of Pontius Pilate having a dog to love is in Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita, p. 311 in the Penguin edition. The paragraph is almost as touching as Senator Vest’s courtroom speech, “Tribute to the Dog.”

Saturday, November 6, 2021

WHITE BREAD! I NEED SOME WHITE BREAD OVER HERE! - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

WHITE BREAD! I NEED SOME WHITE BREAD OVER HERE!

 

Pancake House on Crack Street II

With a Chorus of One Cook in Need of Some White Bread

 

A cold and dreary morning along Easy Street

The comforts of coffee and cholesterol

The senior special two fresh eggs your way

Farm fresh bacon or sausages your way

 

I NEED SOME WHITE BREAD OVER HERE! WHITE BREAD!

 

Down-home hash brown potatoes your way

Whole wheat toast with farm fresh butter your way

Fresh brewed Colombian coffee your way

“I’ll be with you in a minute, honey, okay?”

 

OVER HERE! I NEED SOME WHITE BREAD OVER HERE!

 

There aren’t any newspapers anymore

“In a minute!” So I studied my MePhone

 

WHITE BREAD! I NEED SOME WHITE BREAD OVER HERE!

 

I don’t think the cook was yelling about me

I don’t know, of course

 

The beggar at the door shivered quietly

Friday, November 5, 2021

Highway 96 - Dead Dogs and Shredded Tires - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Highway 96 – Dead Dogs and Shredded Tires

 

U.S. 96 is paved from north Texas to the Gulf

With fragments of dead dogs and re-capped tires

We love to let our doggies run wild and free

And save ourselves some money with unsafe tires

 

“That’s a big 10-4, good buddy!”

 

U. S. 96 is paved with articles of faith

For in spite of all the evidence we believe

WE BELIEVE! CAN I HAVE AN “AMEN!”

That a paint stripe will keep cars from hitting each other

 

“I’m gonna take me a selfie!”

 

Corpses of rotting dogs and shredded tires -

But the dead humans are scraped up and hauled away

 

“Can you hear me now?”

Wednesday, November 3, 2021

Guilted to the Cemetery Next to the Sewage Plant - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Guilted to the Cemetery Next to the Sewage Plant

 

The dead with charity enclosed in clay

 

-Henry V IV.viii.121

 

I did not want to go to the cemetery today

And do things with Hobby Lobby flowers

Made in China plastic $8.95

And floral foam in chemical green blocks

 

The streets of my youth are rubble and weeds

The woods of my youth are now trailer parks

The church of my youth is a hollerin’ place

For even they have lost all dignity

 

The soft wind sighs over our people’s graves

The stench from the sewage plant sweeps in waves

Election Day in Texas: Proposition 3 - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Election Day in Texas: Proposition 3

 

Pastor’s gotta have his collection coming in

No matter how many of the faithful must die

Vaccination-free for Jesus and America

It’s God’s will (so no one cares when the orphans cry)

Tuesday, November 2, 2021

Putting All the Hearts Back Together - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Putting All the Hearts Back Together

 

A child who takes a clock apart to see

Just how it works can easily be forgiven

 

Someone who takes a heart apart to see

Just how that works is justly unforgiven

Monday, November 1, 2021

The Culture Wars We've Been Hearing About - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

The Culture Wars We’ve Been Hearing About

 

Corporal Keats flung himself into the trench

“It’s no good,” he gasped, lighting a cigarette

“The Free Versifiers have ta’en our outposts

We spiked our sonnets but our blank verse is lost”

 

“And there’s an end on’t,” cried Corporal Johnson

“You will hear thunder,” sighed Corporal Ahkmatova

“Maybe we took the wrong road,” said Corporal Frost

“Where is Yevtushenkko?” asked Corporal Tsvetaeva

 

“Back in Moscow, awarding himself the George Cross

And promoting himself to field marshal”

Sunday, October 31, 2021

Human Intelligence, Human Ethics (not the catchiest of titles, eh?) - weekly column 31 October 2021

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Human Intelligence, Human Ethics

 

From a long-ago Christmas I still have a trio of Radio Shack instruments in an attractive 1980s plastic case: a battery-powered clock, a thermometer, and a hygrometer. A barometer would have been a good fourth, but I already had one.

 

The Radio Shack gizmos are so old that they were made in a free nation, Taiwan. My metal and glass barometer is an antique: it was made in the U.S.A.

 

Such things have been around for hundreds of years, and no well-appointed home or office was without them. With them a thoughtful individual, keeping a record and working out calculations with a pencil and a calendar from the funeral home or the feed store, could reach reasonable conclusions in anticipating weather conditions for the next few days. In determining weather conditions for agriculture, construction, railways, road conditions, hunting, and other purposes these simple machines and the complex human brain were essential

 

For years radio and television meteorologists still employed such devices as well as on-the-ground observations sent to them via radio or telephone. Now, whenever the electronic hijackers permit, weather casters have access to all this information and more via computers.

 

But the electronics are unreliable.

 

When you look at the thermometer on your porch you are reading the numbers on that thermometer, not a message telling you what the numbers are said to be on some other thermometer in the area. Your thermometer might or might not in itself be reliable, and it might or might not be positioned properly, but it is in your line of sight.

 

If the weather services are hacked, if the power fails, if that far-away thermometer is down, you can still observe your thermometer.

 

The same obtains with your mechanical clock, your hygrometer, and your barometer. There are no third parties between you and them – no computers, no satellite signals, no radio waves, no electrical lines, no hackers.

 

Most of us, including your ‘umble scrivener, access weather information via the television, radio, the Orwellian telescreen that looks like a small version of the mysterious slab in 2001: A Space Odyssey, and, increasingly, our nifty little Dick Tracy watches.

 

The problem is that we access weather reports and other sorts of information only with the permission of people who don’t like us.

 

I type this on a little machine bearing a fine old American name but which was made in a slave-labor camp. So was my clever fruit-named watch, my desk lamp, the glowing electronic components which send and receive all the household messages, the de-humidifier glowing prettily in a corner of the room, and most everything else of recent vintage.

 

Chairman Xi, the Big Rocket Man, can shut it down in an instant. So can a sixteen-year-old.

 

Chanting “Back. To. Basics.” is as reactionary a ballcap slogan as “Learn. To. Code.” but between those two rigid positions there is a logical alternative: learn and practice the basics (no one ever hacked a steam locomotive, a slide rule, or a tube radio) and extend them into the limitless possibilities of research and development IN THIS COUNTRY.

 

Until we make that happen, we are a third-world country dependent on the whims of other nations. And that sixteen-year-old.

 

-30-

Visiting a Friend in his Hospital Room - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Visiting a Friend in his Hospital Room

 

For Tod

 

So there you were with a tube in your arm

And a crossword puzzle and pen in your hands

And a lovely view of a sunlit roof

With windblown debris whipping between the vents

 

An assembly of physicians in conclave met

At the foot of your bed to discuss your future

One of them but a face on a telescreen -

One thinks of The Head in That Hideous Strength

 

I think of you comfortably back home tonight

An ikon (and a brandy) on the table beside you

Saturday, October 30, 2021

The Pancake House on Easy Street - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

The Pancake House on Easy Street

 

Late afternoon, we’re headed outta town

Long drive ahead, needing a cargo of

Cholesterol and caffeine for the road

And just now almost any old place will do

 

Some discreet exchanges in the parking lot

Hunched shoulders, cigarettes, suspicious stares

Wind blowing paper cups and ‘tater-chip bags

Across the weedy decay of civilization

 

But it’s warm inside and the coffee’s good

The waitress shows us a picture of her child

Friday, October 29, 2021

Algorithm, Algorithm, Algorithm, Bah, Bah, Bah - rhyming doggerel

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Algorithm, Algorithm, Algorithm, Bah, Bah, Bah

 

Parroting a trendy word is not art

So let’s stop babbling about “algorithm”

Lest we drop our readers into the lowest part

Of their 24-hour circadian rhythm  

Thursday, October 28, 2021

A Moment Between Worlds - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

A Moment Between Worlds

 

When I step outside to visit the stars

To gaze upon Venus and Jupiter

Who ask no questions, who make no demands

I hope to celebrate the universe in some small way

 

But maybe not

 

Coyote-wolf-dog thingies keen in the woods

And autumn cold comes creeping across the fields

There is no Grendel out there in the mist

That is, I don’t think there is, but maybe…

 

But maybe what?

 

They remind me that I am but a visitor

And that it’s time for me to go inside

Wednesday, October 27, 2021

Poor Quality Control in the Manufacture of Days - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Poor Quality Control in the Manufacture of Days

 

This was another poor-quality day:

The leaves were good enough, as was the sun

But the temperature-control was out of whack

And the humidity was again all wrong

 

I’m calling a staff meeting in this matter

To ask why the hummingbirds left early

(I’m sure we’d all like to winter in Mexico)

And if the squirrels will report on time tomorrow

 

I’m not going Pollyanna with this report -

Work in the department has fallen short

Tuesday, October 26, 2021

Father Ron Croaks - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Father Ron Croaks

 

We have heard the Mass sung in beautiful Latin

We have heard the Mass sung in dull vernacular

We have heard the Mass spoken (duller still)

And now today we have heard the Mass croaked

 

Here be allergens

Monday, October 25, 2021

Schrodinger's Bullet - poem

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Schrodinger’s Bullet

 

Is there a bullet in the cylinder?

The armorer thinks not

The assistant director thinks not

The actor thinks not

 

The dead…will know


Sunday, October 24, 2021

The Duchess of California and Schrodinger's Bullet - weekly column, 24 October 2021

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

The Duchess of California and Schrodinger’s Bullet

 

“There is no such thing as an unloaded weapon.”

 

-generations of parents, drill instructors, weapons instructors, range safety officers, company commanders, company sergeants, chief petty officers, armorers, hunting guides, hunters, competition shooters, and law officers

 

Following recent events in New Mexico we are all eager to hear the Duchess of California give us a stern lecture on gun control and, doubtless, global warming.

 

We are not likely to hear Her Grace mention the fact that gentlemen should not shoot ladies. But perhaps a decaying society that has concluded that murdering babies is now a social obligation will not see it that way.

 

Still, in most jurisdictions even in these regressive times, when a gentleman kills a lady with a firearm the gentleman makes at least a brief acquaintance with whatever prize awaits him on the other side of the door of a holding cell.

 

But apparently in New Mexico, the Land of Enchantment, if the gentleman in question is special enough, a warm hug makes everything okay.

 

You and I weren’t there for the shooting, gentle reader, but a number of other people were, and as of now, assuming (always a questionable thing to do) that all of these people are correct and that the national news reports got it right (stop laughing), then at least three people handled the fatal revolver before the killing of an innocent woman and the wounding of an innocent man:

 

1. The armorer, who set out the revolver on a table or tray along with several other weapons (what was this – a salad bar of death?)

 

2. The assistant director, who removed the revolver from the table or tray and then gave it to:

 

3. The actor

 

The actor then discharged the weapon, killing one person and wounding another.

 

If – one must always say “if” – all of this is factual, then at least three people handled the same weapon in turn and all three assumed (there’s that assuming thing again) that the weapon was not loaded.

 

And some say that Americans are not a people of faith.

 

At least three people played a game of Schrodinger’s Bullet with the revolver.

 

Schrodinger’s Bullet, analogous to Schrodinger’s Cat, is a mental exercise in which a number of people think about whether a bullet is in a revolver’s cylinder, but no one bothers to open the cylinder to see if in fact there is a bullet.

 

As your ol’ daddy taught you, over and over, there is a bullet. Even if you take the bullet out of the weapon, it’s still in the weapon. The bullet is always there. If the wisest, smartest, most thoughtful, most loving, most trustworthy man or woman you ever met tells you there isn’t a bullet, in this matter he’s wrong. The bullet is always there.

 

-30-

"Parole," He Replied, "I'm Afraid of Parole." - poem

 Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com


“Parole,” He Replied, “I’m Afraid of Parole.”

 

What are you most afraid of?

 

“Parole,” he said, and the others agreed

“I don’t like it in here; I don’t have any choices

But no one expects anything much of me

I can’t make any choices, so I can’t fail

 

“But out there – there – I have to make choices

I have to live up to my kid’s expectations

I have to live like a man, show some initiative

Get up and go to work without being told

 

“Most of all, I’m afraid of letting my kid down

I might fail him, like I did before

 

And that’s the scariest thing of all”

Saturday, October 23, 2021

Ode on a Flintstones Tumbler - doggerel

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Ode on a Flintstones Tumbler

 

John Keats helped with this but refused to take any credit. He must be modest

 

Thou still unmoving car of wood and stone

Forever carrying the Flintstones and the Rubbles

Off to the movies – Rock Hudson to be shown?

And a childhood half-hour of comic troubles

 

Heard yabba-dabbas are sweet, but those unheard

We’ll have to speak ourselves over milk and cereal

Wilma, of course, always has the last word

But we’ll contribute to the writers’ material

 

Fred’s feet are truth, not beauty, - but off they go

Taking us with them – so on with the show!

Friday, October 22, 2021

Generation Whatever - poem

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Generation Whatever

 

I will not be pushed, filed, stamped, indexed, briefed, debriefed, or numbered. 

My life is my own.

 

-Patrick McGoohan in The Prisoner

 

Be not defined by dates and stereotypes

The endless clutter of cliches and cant

Generating generic generations

Of worthless weasel words of wanton waste

 

WHO are you?

Who ARE you?

Who are YOU?

 

That’s usually no one’s concern but yours

(The cop writing you a ticket gets to ask)

 

 

 

Thanks to Patty M at patty m - Hello Poetry  for lending me the consonant “W.”


Thursday, October 21, 2021

Where Danger Lurks - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Where Danger Lurks

 

You must be careful about your surroundings

Not overly tense but ready for anything

Balanced on your feet, looking around

Paying attention to everyone’s hands and eyes

 

Always ready for an unexpected punch

Some long-ago resentment coming to boil

Or a random stranger who doesn’t like your face

Your voice, your shoes, your shirt, your tie, your coat

 

In a fetid cesspool of drama and divorce –

I allude to a Christian funeral, of course

Wednesday, October 20, 2021

A Cloud of Unknowing for Ordinary Time - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

A Cloud of Unknowing in Ordinary Time

 

Sometimes life doesn’t make any sense

You’d think that hurting like an adolescent

Would end with adolescence

But it doesn’t

 

Maybe we can find some good in the hurt

That when we hurt we’re carrying someone else’s hurt

It sounds awfully thin

Maybe it’s enough

Tuesday, October 19, 2021

Parish Consolidations and Rumors of Parish Consolidations - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Parish Consolidations and Rumors of Parish Consolidations

 

I'm a beast, I am, and a Badger what's more. We don't change.

We hold on. I say great good will come of it.”

 

-Trufflehunter in C. S. Lewis’ Prince Caspian

 

I don’t suppose Saint Peter sent surveys

Or that Saint Paul politely polled the people

But that’s how bishops do such things these days

With an access code on the InterThing

 

502 Bad Gateway

 

Rumor Control and Gossip Central say

That our parish is for the chopping block

     (maybe re-purposed as a shopping block)

Worse things have happened; we’ve been pilgrims before

So as the Lord leads us, we will follow Him

 

Again

 

The Altar, Sacrifice, and Word are Truth

And where we are sent to serve, there we will serve

Monday, October 18, 2021

The Tiger Cages of Ben Luc - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

The Tiger Cages of Ben Luc

 

In which there were no tigers, only boys

Locked in barbed-wire cages in the tropical sun

Teenagers in their country’s uniform

Unable even to stretch or stand or move

 

Punished for some minor infraction or other

Locked in barbed wire cages in the tropical sun

We were forbidden to talk to them, or even look

They waited in silence, they waited, and they thought

 

Locked in barbed-wire cages in the tropical sun -

And those poor lads are why the Communists won

Sunday, October 17, 2021

THE POETS OF RAPALLO - a Review

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

The Poets of Rapallo, a Review

 

The Poets of Rapallo, Lauren Arrington, Oxford University Press is a brilliant first draft; one looks forward to reading the completed work.

 

As it is, Dr. Arrington has accomplished brilliant research on the poets -  Yeats, Bunting, Pound, Aldington, MacGreevy, Zukofsky - and their acquaintances who happened to be in the Italian resort town Rapallo (they were not a coterie) in the 1920s and 1930s. The notes alone run to 54 pages of too-small type, and the bibliography to 8.

 

Unhappily, the text appears to have been rushed, possibly by an impatient publisher, and along with numerous small mistakes there are some serious failures in stereotyping, hasty generalizations predicated on little evidence, and a few condemnations more redolent of Dostoyevsky’s Grand Inquisitor than a scholar.

 

One of the best things about The Poets of Rapallo is the exposition explaining why a great many intellectuals were attracted to Italian Fascism as it was idealistically presented through propaganda early on and not as the moral and ethical disaster it soon proved to be.

 

Mussolini cleverly promoted his program as primarily cultural, a reach-back to the artistic and architectural unities of an imagined ancient Rome restored and enhanced with modern science and technology. He promoted the arts for his own purposes, of course, but deceptively. In almost any context the construction of schools, libraries, museums, theatres, and cinema studios would be perceived as a good, and absent any close examination accepted by everyone. But in Mussolini’s scheme these cultural artifacts, like Lady Macbeth’s “innocent flower,” concealed the lurking serpent: wars of conquest, poison gas, bombings of undefended cities, death camps, institutionalized racism, mass murders, and other enormities.

 

The Fascist sympathies of W. B. Yeats and other influencers (as we would say now) in the Irish Republic, including Eamon de Valera, are certainly revelatory. That the new nation came close to goose-stepping through The Celtic Twilight might help explain Ireland’s curious neutrality during the Second World War.

 

Professor Arrington explains all this very well, and initially is professionally objective. Most of the Rapallo set were not long in learning what Fascism was really about and quickly distanced themselves from it in some embarrassment.  Some were later even more of an embarrassment in their denials and deflections; few seemed to have been able to admit that, yes, they were suckered, as we all have been from time to time

 

But with the exception of the unrepentant and odious Pound, who was himself a metaphorical serpent to his death, Professor Arrington seems to lose her objectivity with the others.

 

And why Pound?

 

As with Beckett’s Waiting for Godot, it is difficult to take seriously someone who considers Pound’s pretentious, pompous, show-off word-soup Cantos to be literature. Pound is now famous only for being famous, and while Arrington appears to forgive Pound for his adamant and malevolent anti-Semitism and his pathetic subservience to Mussolini, in the end she is ruthless toward anyone else who, under Pound’s influence, in his or her naivete even once told an inappropriate joke, appreciated Graeco-Roman architecture, or perhaps saw Mussolini at a distance. This is inexplicable in a text that is otherwise professional and compassionate in avoiding what C. S. Lewis identifies as chronological snobbery.

 

One also wishes the author had discussed Pound’s post-war appeal as a fashionable prisoner adored or at least pitied by a new generation (Elizabeth Bishop, how could you?).

 

The book ends abruptly, as if the author were interrupted by a demand by the printers for it now, and so, yes, one hopes for a complete work to follow.

 

The Poets of Rapallo is not served well by the Oxford University Press, who appear to have been more interested in cutting costs than in presenting a work of scholarship to the world. The print is far too small, the garish spine lettering is more suited to a sale-table murder mystery, and the retro-1930s holiday cover would be fine for an Agatha Christie yarn but not for a book of literary scholarship.

 

A question outside the scope of this book but more important is this: why, in a free nation, do so many people feel the desperate need almost to worship a leader? Yes, of course we have presidents and chiefs of police (some of whom love sport shiny admiral’s stars on their collars, and what’s that about?) and bosses and so on, and we depend upon their wise leadership. But why do people wear pictures of some Dear Leader or other on their clothing and chant his name?

 

I think the president or the famous movie star should wear YOUR name on his shirt and pay YOU for the privilege.

 

-30-

Church of Our Lady of the Perpetual Garbage Sale - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Our Lady of the Perpetual Garbage Sale

 

It’s for the youth

 

Our parish hall is now a re-sale shop

All full of junk that never goes away

Boxes of videotapes and castoff slop

And smelly clothes that have had their day

 

It’s for the youth

 

The Mass no longer ends with “Ite, missa est

But rather, “After Mass would some of the men…”

Shift the same old debris without let or rest

Sisyphean labors for original sin

 

It’s for the youth

 

Fellowship after Mass is tired and pale -

The one eternal is the garbage sale

 

But it’s for the youth

Saturday, October 16, 2021

They Say Young Men Have No Ambition These Days - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

They Say Young Men Have No Ambition These Days

 

The poetry section is the most remote:

The floor where the staff sneak away for lunch

Or lovers rendezvous for lovers’ arguments

A few eccentrics who want to read poetry

 

A young man sees it as his corner office

Reposing in a chair, feet up on the glass

Wielding two ‘phones, negotiating sex

And drugs, and his efficient deliveries

 

A pimp among the poets, playing the world -

Who says young men have no ambition these days?

Friday, October 15, 2021

A Disembodied Hand Doomscrolling on the Wall of Tia Maria’s Barbecue - rhyming doggerel

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

A Disembodied Hand Doomscrolling on the Wall of Tia Maria’s Barbecue

 

- not Daniel 5

 

Tiffany was treatin’ the girls to barbecue

The merry ol’ girls from her bowling league

(Their bold team colors dazzled in pink and blue)

She had made herself captain through cruel intrigue

 

When suddenly a disembodied hand

Appeared with a smartphone by the restroom door

And keyed strange lines that in flickerings scanned:

“You’ll be sacked this evening - your team’s 0 to 4”

 

That very night Tiffany’s custom ball was taken

And she cried in her trailer, her heart a-breakin’


Wednesday, October 13, 2021

Seven Haiku for the Pleiades

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Seven Haiku for the Pleiades

 

The seventh poem – think of the Subaru badge – is not seen. That thoughtful poem is the one you will write.

 

 

1.  Two Goddesses and a God Come to Visit

 

All in the same sky:

Luna, Venus, Jupiter

While the soft winds sigh

 

 

2.  Barefoot in the Stilly Dawn

 

Barefoot in the grass

Eyes to the east, the stilly dawn

The stars have withdrawn

 

.

3.  Dachshunds on Their Dawn Patrol

 

Every dachshund thinks

That she is a timber wolf -

Perhaps it is so

 

 

4.  Summer Lingers

 

Yes, summer lingers

Crickets sing throughout the night

Their October hymns

 

 

5.  A Prison Visit

 

The horizon has no meaning

If the prisoners look up -

Concertina wire

 


6.  The Prayers of Planets and Stars

 

The planets and stars

Need not our prayers; they never sinned -

Do they pray for us?