Southeast Texas Alerting Network Adventures in Registration - weekly column 25 September 2023

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Southeast Texas Alerting Network Adventures in Registration

 

Last week KJAS Radio published a notice that those of us already signed up for STAN, the acronym for Southeast Texas Alerting Network, will have to register again for continued service, and that those without this needful program can sign up now  [Jasper County Residents must re-register for STAN | Local News | kjas.com].

 

STAN’s mission, per Amanda Gates, is to send out emergency alerts (fires, weather, and other crises), and notifications regarding street closures, water outages, traffic issues, and other useful information.

 

This summer I was certainly grateful for the wildfire alerts, and given our area’s dangerous weather, including tornadoes and hurricanes, this is a useful service.

 

Signing up for STAN is said to take only a few minutes. This was true last year; it is not now. Not for me, anyway. STAN is operated by a body styling itself Everbridge (and what is that supposed to mean?), and Everbridge has made registering a (insert expletive of choice here).

 

First of all, Everbridge insisted that my email address, which I have used for years, is not my email address, and blocked my re-registration without any means of appeal.

 

Given that re-registration is not a possibility according to Everbridge, I decided to register as if I were a new user. This was tedious but do-able; however, Everbridge insisted that my username was already in use. I tried a different name. This time Everbridge simply said that the username was not acceptable. I then went through some 20-30 usernames without success. Name after name, dreary imaginings and re-entries worthy of Coleridge’s “Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” The username that finally worked was an allusion to Saylor’s Creek, where my great-grandfather was made a prisoner-of-war (you know, one of those people a certain former president who never made the first day of recruit training doesn’t like) in 1865.

 

After an hour or so of fiddle-faddling with Everbridge’s obscure system, I am registered. I think. We’ll see.

 

I then read some of the heavy-handed warnings: “You must comply with Everbridge’s Acceptable Use Policy,” “You will be responsible…,” and a whole catalogue of such verbiage apparently generated by someone who wanted to be a prison camp guard and couldn’t meet the standards:

 

You will not…

You may not…

You must not…

You must…

You agree immediately…

You will be responsible…

You must comply…you must comply…you must comply…

You acknowledge and agree…

You agree to…

 

There are also cautions against transmitting secret federal information. I don’t have any secret federal information and if I did I couldn’t send it via STAN; this is a passive reception scheme that does not accept messages.

 

Everbridge is also known as:

 

Critical Event Management

Safety Connection

Community Engagement

Visual Command Center

Crisis Commander (isn’t this a video game?)

CareConverge

ManageBridge

EngageBridge

HipaaBridge

SecureBridge

Interactive Visibility

Nixle

 

No wonder Everbridge can’t keep email addresses straight; they appear not to know who they are.

 

Despite the vague sound of unmarked stealth UN helicopters, participating in STAN is one of our county government’s better ideas for promoting safety, and I encourage the reader to sign up for it.

 

Besides, maybe next year someone will have some high school students design an easier-to-use interface. I’ll bet they can do it.

 

For now, begin with Everbridge.com.

 

-30-

Everyone is Now a Two-Dimensional Religious Image - doggerel

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches for the Colonial Office

 

Everyone is Now a Two-Dimensional Religious Image

 

News writers are dull, almost catatonic

Dispensing metaphors soporifically phonic

For in their world of the cliched and ironic

Every topic, every person is invariably

Iconic

A Little Kitten and a Little Girl - a sappy sentimental poem

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches for the Colonial Office

 

A Little Kitten and a Little Girl

 

A little girl sits with her mug of milk

Happy and peaceful with her breakfast toast

Her little kitten lays beside her and purrs

And takes a delicate sip for itself

 

“DID YOU LET THAT CAT DRINK FROM YOUR CUP THAT CAT HAS GERMS GO WASH YOUR HANDS GIVE ME THAT CUP I NEED TO WASH IT I DON’T KNOW WHY THAT CAT IS IN THE HOUSE CATS HAVE GERMS DIRTY CAT SNEAKY CAT THEY’RE ALWAYS UP TO SOMETHING DON’T YOU EVER LET AN ANIMAL DRINK FROM YOUR CUP THEY’RE NASTY WE DON’T LIVE LIKE THIS WITH ANIMALS IN THE HOUSE THAT’S A DISGUSTING HABIT PEOPLE WILL THINK WE’RE LOW CLASS WE WERE RAISED BETTER THAN THAT DID YOU LET THAT CAT DRINK FROM YOUR CUP THAT CAT HAS GERMS GO WASH YOUR HANDS GIVE ME THAT CUP I NEED TO WASH IT I DON’T KNOW WHY THAT CAT IS IN THE HOUSE CATS HAVE GERMS DIRTY CAT SNEAKY CAT THEY’RE ALWAYS UP TO SOMETHING DON’T YOU EVER LET AN ANIMAL DRINK FROM YOUR CUP THEY’RE NASTY WE DON’T LIVE LIKE THIS WITH ANIMALS IN THE HOUSE THAT’S A DISGUSTING HABIT PEOPLE WILL THINK WE’RE LOW CLASS WE WERE RAISED BETTER THAN THAT!!!!!!!!!”

 

A little girl sits in her backyard swing

Happy and peaceful with her little cat

Two conspirators winking at each other

Far away from their disapproving mother

A Station Stop for the Hummingbird Express - poem

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches for the Colonial Office

 

A Station Stop for the Hummingbird Express

 

Hummingbirds buzz the sugar water buffet

At this junction for the connection to Mexico

I feel I should be wearing a white apron and cap

Refills for everyone – and will that be to go?

 

No ideological baggage, no bumper stickers

Their maps all drawn for them by an invisible Hand

Their simple duties a transcendent joy

An ancient mission through divine command

 

Hummingbirds buzz the sugar water buffet

Then with a goodbye to summer they wing away

What This Country Needs is a Better Class of Criminals - weekly column, 17 September 2023

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Dispatches for the Colonial Office

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

 

What This Country Needs is a Better Class of Criminals

 

 

I don’t mind a parasite. I object to a cut-rate one.

 

-Rick in Casablanca

 

 

I was frustrated when my lawnmower wouldn’t start. I had bought a new battery and was annoyed that it wasn’t holding a charge. I dismounted, dragged up my rolling stool, and sat down to examine the battery that to my surprise wasn’t there.

 

A thief in the night had yanked the battery, leaving only the stripped ends of the leads. That was unprofessional; a good thief would have brought the proper wrench or used the one I left within an arm’s reach of the mower. Tools were available, the porch light was more than adequate – how much of the work does a homeowner have to do for the contemporary petty criminal?

 

The bungling burglar didn’t get far with the battery, however; I found it about twelve feet away from the mower. The poor sap had somehow tripped, bringing some stacked firewood down upon him, and dropping the battery while in flight. A few feet away he managed to trip again over some more firewood, which is just plain embarrassing.  As a taxpaying citizen I expect a higher class of thief. No, I don’t necessarily mean a Raffles or a John “The Cat” Robie, but maybe just a good quality journeyman crook looking to build a better career.

 

The not-a-cat burglar does get some credit for focus, though. Close by the lawnmower was a Stihl leaf blower worth far more than the lawnmower battery, as well as an old but high-quality battery charger and a small air compressor. But, no sir, the lad wanted a lawnmower battery and he avoided all distractions in going for that. We must admire his sense of mission.

 

The follow-through was inept, though, leaving the battery, the object of his endeavors, behind like that.

 

And a real professional would not have left messes – electric leads torn loose, firewood all over the porch – it’s unseemly.

 

Frankly, I’m disappointed in the overall quality of burglars and looters today. Is this the best America can do? Texans used to make off with herds of cattle and now they can’t even pinch a lawnmower battery without botching the job.

 

I blame the teachers, fluoride, George Bush, vaccines, and Jewish space lasers for the poor quality of contemporary criminals. C’mon, America; we can do better!

 

 

-30-

What This Country Needs is a Better Class of Criminals - doggerel

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

What This Country Needs is a Better Class of Criminals

 

I was frustrated that the lawn mower wouldn’t start

And checked the battery - that wasn’t there

A dull thief in darkness practicing his art

Had spirited it away – that wasn’t fair!

 

But the poor stupid burglar had no profit that night

He stumbled on the porch and dropped his loot

Cracking the battery, so he fled in fright:

It’s just too bad he didn’t fall on his snoot

 

(Sigh)

 

Aspiring young criminals, roll up your sleeves -

What this country needs are intelligent thieves

These are not the Leaves of Autumn - poem in a summer of drought

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

These are not the Leaves of Autumn

 

These are not the leaves of autumn, these husks;

They died so young, fallen from the summer-burnt oaks

Leaving the lingering limbs barren of green

A struggle of woody cells against the drought

 

They wear no celebratory colors

Nothing of red or gold to catch the sun

For they died of thirst in their lost-green youth

Never reaching the October they had earned

 

These are not the leaves of autumn, oh, no

But only shells dry-rattling in the wind

The Existential Despair in Replacing a Lawnmower Battery - doggerel

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

The Existential Despair in Replacing a Lawnmower Battery

 

My language is blue and my knuckles bleed -

I can never find the wrench I need!

A Tin of Lipton's Tea from Hong Kong in 1970 - photograph

 I bought this tin - which really is made of tin - while in R & R in Hong Kong in 1970. I still make a cuppa from these leaves every few years.

Tea for Texas - weekly column, 10 September 2023

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Tea for Texas

Major General Urquhart: "Hancock, I've got lunatics laughing at me from the woods. My original plan has been scuppered now that the jeeps haven't arrived. My communications are completely broken down. Do you really believe any of that can be helped by a cup of tea?”

Corporal Hancock: “Couldn't hurt, sir.”

-A Bridge Too Far

 

Bubba Ebarb, of happy memory, required certain specific performances for his several successful restaurants.  One of his rules was that the iced tea would never reach the old age of one hour before it was tossed and replaced with a fresh brewing of the refreshing leaf.

This is the sort of value that made him a great success. Unfortunately, such reasonable expectations appear to be rarer now.

Iced tea has been a staple since around the time of the St. Louis Exposition in 1904 (Meet Me in St. Louis) when mechanical ice-making, the existing popularity of tea, an especially hot summer, and thirsty fairgoers together made a historical shift in refreshment.

Once upon a time in Texas a glass of good, fresh iced tea was easily available at any café’ in the Lone Star Republic, but now it’s a little more difficult to find at all and is often a vintage sludge.

Last week I stopped at a Famous Name Fat Foodery in Buffalo, Texas for a refreshing mid-morning cup of the good stuff, and the muffly voice crackling through the grill said that they didn’t have any tea-tea but that their mango tea was really good.

Mango tea. 

In Buffalo, Texas.

As Macduff does not say in Macbeth, “Oh, Texas, when wilt thou find thy wholesome ways again!”

Has Texas become a colony of West Hollywood? Is Mission Espiritu Santo at Goliad now a fusion cuisine restaurant specializing in avocado toast? When Cabeza de Vaca and his companions made their epic, years-long trek across Texas did they consider the majesty of the land and its vast spaces and exclaim, “Here we will establish our fruit bars, our incense shops, our therapy spas, our vegetarian Thai takeouts, our tea shops of infused bamboo shoots!”

On down the road I found a big Famous Name Brand truck stop which featured several tanks of iced tea.  The first tank oozed out something like an oil change.  The second tank dribbled out something even darker and more viscous.

I bought a bottle of water from the cooler.

Look, I’m not a tea snob; I’m even cool with teabags (gasp!). In the winter I like a good cuppa char; just a good black tea / schwarztee, and at all times I’m up for a glass of iced tea, Texas’ national beverage. The essential factor is that the tea is fresh.

Real Texans / Texians / Tejanos / Texicans drink real tea and drink it real fresh. Bubba would expect no less. God bless fresh tea, God bless Bubba Ebarb, and God bless Texas.

-30-

 

Watch Where You Step; There Might be a Senator - poem

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

 

Watch Where You Step; There Might be a Senator

 

 

But hiss for hiss return’d with forked tongue

 

-Paradise Lost X.518

 

 

The summer heat like judgement on the earth -

It fell upon the roiling afternoon dust

Where two foul snakes in deadly combat writhed

With hiss and strike and hate-spittled fangs

 

In a world of crunchy grasshoppers and tasty frogs

Of careless bunny rabbits and baby squirrels

The snakes found only their hatred for each other

Until one serpent choked on the other, and both died

 

And there, my children, is a lesson in brief

About the government of the State of Texas

 

Will the Plowed Boys Find Love in the End? - poem (of a sort)

 

Will the Plowed Boys Find Love in the End?

 

Romantic robots could bring peace to our streets -

The Plowed Boys would have something to fondle

Other than their idle trifles and bang-bang rifles

For in the end they would have dates after all

 

And will they wear

 

Their he-man soldier suits and bug-eyed shades

Their he-man soldier toys dangling from carabiners

Their radios and whistles and lip-dangling ciggies

 

                                                while in bed?

Joining the Class Struggle - poem

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Joining the Class Struggle

 

“Yuri, what splendid words!”

 

-Anna in Doctor Zhivago

 

Lift high the red banner, comrades and comradettes!                  

Lift high the made-in-China bullhorns against the rich

Make crudely misspelt signs and block the streets

(How dare the workers work while we’re yelling at them)

 

Pull down the statue of St. Joan of Arc!

Because she was, like, you know, a Confederate general

And smash the windows of the corporate coffee shops

(Make mine a decolonized double decaf)

 

Liberate the people’s goods! To arms! To arms!

(But who will stay behind to work the farms?)

Toys at the Base of an Oak Tree - poem

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Toys at the Base of an Oak Tree

 

“We'll be Friends Forever, won't we, Pooh?” asked Piglet.
“Even longer,” Pooh answered.

- A. A. Milne

 

You find them at the base of a tree sometimes:

A pewter knight or a plastic Robin Hood

Or a marble lost in the long-ago

Turned up among the weeds by shifting roots

 

In the leafy silences of summer a little boy

Practiced the arts of magic and manliness

With Robin Hood and the pewter knight searching for a jewel

To present to their Lady Marian

 

When he was a little older the boy walked to town

To the bus station, and off to a distant war

A jewel sacrificed to the blasphemy of the State

You’ll find his name at the base of a stone

 

But the pewter knight and the plastic Robin Hood

And beautiful Lady Marian still wait for him

 

Even the Oak Trees are Dying - poem

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Even the Oak Trees are Dying

 

“Wildfire…evacuation of nearby residences under way”

 

-news bulletin

 

Poor drought-dead leaves in mockery of autumn

Wind-rustle across the lawn as the dried husks they are

Rattling like withered exoskeletons along the dust

Or The Ancient Mariner’s dead sailors upon the deck

 

The exhausted earth is hot from a summer of drought

Cicadas have no hope in their poor songs

A drifting dragonfly wobbles in its flight

And the weather reports are but cruel teasings

 

The sour smoke of a month of forest fires

Chokes even the stars, who in despair do not appear

 

Another Funeral in Margaritaville - poem

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Another Funeral in Margaritaville

 

 

Introibo ad altare Dei.

 

Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meum.

 

-Missale Romanum

 

 

Of course all our friends are dying away

Old age sneaks up on us, ghosting us in turn:

Yevgeny, Jimmy, Dusty, Judith, Rod, and we

Who blessed each other in our happy youth

 

But I tell you we have a duty to sing our songs

Our perhaps artless lines lost long ago

Except that they’re not: we gave them to God

And He joined them to Creation for all of us

 

Of course all our friends are dying away

Except that they’re not

                                        See you in Margaritaville

Shelving Children Instead of Books - poem

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Shelving Children Instead of Books

 

“…it is estimated that Germany…destroyed over 100 million books in Europe.”

 

-Molly Guptill Manning, When Books Went to War, xv

 

In Texas

 

We ban children’s books

We don’t ban guns;

And thus we discard

Our daughters and sons

 

HISD to eliminate librarians, turn some libraries into discipline centers at 28 campuses (click2houston.com)

A Cat is Stillness Becoming Motion - poem

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

A Cat is Stillness in Motion

 

For Tuxedo-Cat

Who Simply Moved in One Day

 

There is no stillness like a cat

To the laws of physics a stillness unknown

When all is still he is stiller still

Even stiller than a stick or stone

 

There is no motion like a cat

A silent slink upon delicate paws

A smoke-like current now still again

To eye a chameleon

and sharpen his claws

The Gift of a Fountain Pen - poem

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

The Gift of a Fountain Pen

 

For Max

 

A fountain pen is an instrument of civilization

Its flow of ink explores the mysteries

Of all the sciences, the mind, the heart

Sorting out the good, the beautiful, the true

 

A fountain pen is an instrument of civilization

Through creativity, with thought and craft

Marking the line between good order and ferality

Limning the eternal romance of Creation

 

A fountain pen is an instrument of civilization –

(It’s also pretty good for shopping lists)

Did You Grow Up in a Palace Too? - poem

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Did You Grow Up in a Palace Too?

 

In Memory of the Palace Theatre

 

If you were fortunate you grew up in a palace

A Technicolor palace where Robin Hood

Saved England for only twenty-five cents

And the royal feast was popcorn and RC Cola

 

If you were fortunate you grew up in a palace

Which was so big that the Comanche Nation

Could encircle both a fort and a wagon train

And a candy bar was chuck-wagon stew

 

If you were fortunate you grew up in a palace

And softly, sweetly found another’s hand

As the cowboys and Indians rode away in peace -

There was a newer magic for you to discover

 

If you were fortunate you grew up in a palace

In the summertime of your happy youth

They Make Patriotism a Dirty Word - poem

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

They Make Patriotism a Dirty Word

 

“…Devil with Devil damn’d / Firm concord holds…”

 

-Paradise Lost II, 496-497

 

How did they make patriotism a dirty word?

A conjuring not of loyalty or love

But rather foul images of bloated men

In bug-eyed shades, knee pants, and slogan tees

 

Cradling their guns in flabby tatted arms

 

Why did they make patriotism a dirty word?

No consideration of what is best for the nation

But rather foul images of treacherous men

In tailored suits and subtle imported ties

 

Cradling their contempt in Pandaemonian cant

 

The Q, the X, mechanical law degrees –

Devil with devil damn’d firm concord holds

 

Cradling their proud disobedience before God

Riding to the Sound of the Guns: Fighting Fires in East Texas - weekly column, 26 August 2023

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Riding to the Sound of the Guns

 

In hot, burnt, smoky East Texas this summer we are again and again reminded that in hard times there are men and women who ride to the sound of the guns and then there are guys who slouch on the couch with their he-man video games.

 

In Texas most firefighters are unpaid volunteers, a rare contradiction to the axiom that you get what you pay for. Volunteer firefighters don’t get paid nothin’, but their names are written large on the scroll of Texas heroes.

 

Professional firefighters in the cities and industries often retire to the country where they immediately sign on as volunteers. Oooh-rah!

 

Texas is always hot, but this summer has been gaspingly hot, Rime of the Ancient Mariner hot, with its “hot and copper sky,” 100+ degrees “day after day.” Simply to be outside in this heat can be dangerous, to work outside more dangerous. A firefighter’s bunker gear, also known as turnout gear, can add 30-40% to his or her body weight and God alone knows how much extra heat.

 

And then there is The Fire. The Fire – hot as three (Newarks), blowing, twisting, running, sneaking, exploding, and wildly unpredictable. A fire is not a sentient being, but given the conditions of drought, wind, and fuel can present as a malevolent monster who wants to destroy and devour anyone who presumes to deny it mastery over the lives and works of people.

 

In the sky, covering and hovering, are the crews of the various types of water bombers. Being in the sky sounds like a better deal, and perhaps at times it is, but note those aircraft: the jets are old civilian aircraft re-fitted for purposes never intended by the manufacturers. The crew must fly those machines within mere feet of the treetops to drop their loads of water or fire-retardant chemicals. If anything goes wrong – a bolt that was not secured properly, a wing or panel which after years of service finally gives way to metal fatigue, an engine that chokes up for only a second - there is no chance for recovery, no chance of life for the crew, only death. Take a look also at the helicopters and crop-dusters modified for fighting fires, and how vulnerable they are.

 

Other support includes firefighters from all over Texas, power crews working downed lines through burning woods, and the several state and local police authorities guarding roads all the way through the crisis, and seeing to the safe evacuations of the people and the protection of their homes.

 

When a mission is over, the sweaty, dusty, ash-stained, exhausted fire crews in all the disciplines then return their equally work-stained machines to the barn for hours of service, repair, washing, and detailing. The crews might not get any sleep, they might not even finish washing up their machines, their gear, or themselves before the sound of the cannons through squawking boxes and old-timey sirens calls them out to the scenes of another disaster.

 

There are guys who know Call of Duty on little plastic boxes that light up and make noises, and then there are real men and women who know the true call of duty.

 

There is a difference. God forgive us if we forget those who keep us safe.

 

-30-

 

August is Unusually Hot - Someone Must be Punished for It - weekly column, 20 August 2023

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

August is Unusually Hot – Someone Must be Punished for It

 

The gentleness of heaven is on the Sea:

Listen! The mighty Being is awake

And doth with his eternal motion make

A sound like thunder – everlastingly.

 

-Wordsworth, “It is a beauteous Evening, calm, and free”

 

Having barely graduated from high school (I think the quarter-credit for driver’s education put me over the top) I am certainly no climatologist, meteorologist, or vulgar Swedish child, but I am not persuaded that the concept of man-made climate change obtains.

 

Certainly the climate itself changes. Visitors to America’s high desert mountains often find fossils of sea-creatures from the long-ago when much of the western states were the bottom of the sea. There were land bridges between Asia and the Americas and between Europe and Britain which disappeared beneath rising oceans (gasp!) in times when human technology was pretty much limited to people throwing rocks at each other.

 

The Roman colonization of the then-warmer Britain included instituting the cultivation of grapevines for making wine, a practice which continued until the global cooling of the Little Ice Age of the 15^th-18^th centuries froze the vines out of sustainability in the island. The economic activities of Celts, Romans, Danes, Geats, Angles, Saxons, Frisians, or Gauls had no influence on the ever-changing weather.

 

Thus it is illogical and even presumptuous to conclude that someone driving to work in a vehicle powered by an internal-combustion is capable of unnaturally altering the climate of the planet.

 

We cannot even predict the weather accurately, much less control it.

 

This is a season of unusual but not unprecedented heat, drought, flooding, tropical storms, and, along the Mexico-USA border, an earthquake to accompany the flooding. To blame any of these aspects of weather and climate on any individual or group is a burn-the-witch mentality unworthy of adults who can read, write, do sums, and tie their shoelaces.

 

Personally, I blame all this rough weather on fluoride, cod liver oil, and Catholic space lasers but, hey, that’s just me.

 

Weather happens without regard for our activities or techno-superstitions.

 

At least that’s what The Voices keep telling me.

 

-30-

August is a Yellow Flame - poem

 

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

 

August is a Yellow Flame

 

 

“That August was like a yellow flame”

 

-Anna Ahkmatova, 1917 / Anno Domini MCMXXI / III. The Voice of Memory

 

 

This August is indeed like a yellow flame

Death writhes among brown-burnt withering leaves

The grass is as sere as Macbeth’s acrid soul

And garden hoses drip in futility

 

The sun-bleached visage of Ozymandias

Might frown upon this blighted desert wrack

For not unlike the Ancient Mariner’s ghostly crew

The usages of summer drop and decay

 

But look...

 

But look above the last barren clouds in the west -

A tiny sliver of the promising moon

The Bronze Serpent - poem

 

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

The Bronze Serpent

 

Moses established a serpent within the camp

A fiery brazen serpent upon a pole

And all who looked upon it were thereby cured

Cured of their judgments slithering through the dust

Phillis Wheatley: A Sweet, Strong Voice - weekly column 13 August 2023

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Phillis Wheatley: A Sweet, Strong Voice

 

A friend mentioned that he had graduated from Phillis Wheatley High School in Houston, which prompted me to re-read some of Wheatley’s poetry.

 

Wheatley is an interesting writer of much historical significance: she was an African, a British subject in bondage, an American revolutionary activist in bondage, and then an American, granted manumission at last not by the laws of any nation but of the later good will of those who had presumed to own fellow humans. She is possibly the first American woman poet whose work was published, though in England.

 

Because of her frail health and to seek publication for her book, Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral, the Wheatleys sent her to England where, indeed, her book was published and she became a celebrity.

 

She corresponded with and visited George Washington, Thomas Paine, the Lord Mayor of London, the Countess of Huntingdon, British and revolutionary army and navy officers, and other notables both in the colonies and in England. Wheatley wrote to the King and was to have been presented to him, but for reasons unknown returned or was returned to the colonies before this could happen. She learned to read in English, Greek, and Latin, was thoroughly versed in the Bible and in Greek and Roman mythology, and was often discreetly subversive in her poetry and in her letters in appealing for the end of slavery:

 

May George belov’d of all the nations round

Live and by earths and heavens blessings crownd

May heaven protect and Guard him from on high

And at his presence every evil fly

Thus every clime with equal gladness See

When kings to Smile it sets their subjects Free

 

-from “To the King’s Most Excellent Majesty on his Repealing the American   Stamp Act,” 1768

 

Wheatley’s poetry is much influenced by Alexander Pope and other Augustan / Georgian poets, and her highly skilled and carefully structured verse, common to the 18^th century, can be something of a challenge for those us raised in a time when careless, unstructured, self-pitying, I, I, I, me, me, me free verse passes for poetry.

 

After the revolution her English support languished and although she assembled work for her second book these poems were not published in her short lifetime. Because she wrote so many poems and letters to her many friends and correspondents, fresh discoveries of her works continue.

 

The rest of Phillis Wheatley’s short life was tragic. She made a bad marriage to an idler, her three children died young, she was reduced to serving as a kitchen maid in a boarding house to support her family, and died in poverty around the age of 31 in 1784.

 

Was Phillis Wheatley an African poet? English? American?

 

She was all three, reconciling multiple cultures in her sweet but strong voice.

 

-30-

 

One Judge, Two Sheriff's Deputies, and Five Police Officers Take on a 98-Year-Old Woman - poem

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

One Judge, Two Sheriff’s Deputies, and Five Police Officers

Take on a 98-Year-Old Woman

 

“Try that in a small town”

 

The 11^th of August was neither the beginning nor the end

Of sheltering the Constitution from thugs

Some in judicial robes, some in dark uniforms

When Joan Meyer stood

between them and us

 

A newsroom pillaged by judicial fiat

Private homes looted by armed bully-boys

Ordered by a heartless magistrate

When Joan Meyer stood

between them and us

 

When Joan Meyer died

between them and us

 

Raid on Kansas newspaper is an intolerable overreach by police | Editorial (yahoo.com)

What Did Jesus Look Like? - poem

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

What Did Jesus Look Like?

 

What did Jesus look like when He was on earth?

He looks just like the boy or man you’ll meet next

 

What did Mary look like when she was on earth?

She looks just like the girl or woman you’ll meet next

Wordle for Klingons - doggerel

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Wordle for Klingons

 

Let the captain win now; he is one of your betters -

Revenge is a dish best served with five letters

The Fuel Pump Screen Queen - doggerel

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

The Fuel Pump Screen Queen

 

She’s fresh and lovely on the television screen

Promoting a recipe for a sugar-free treat

And fashion tips for being In The Scene -

Her face on the fuel pump is ever so sweet

 

She looks so summery in her fashion tee

As gasoline vapors waft through the air

She whispers a makeup hint only to me

And the best techniques for brushing my hair

 

She speaks to me so charming and nicely

That I forget the fuel dials spinning so pricely

Gearing Up for School Which is Just Around the Corner - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Gearing Up for School Which is Just Around the Corner

 

School is forever gearing up or winding down

And if school is not around the corner

Then summer takes that very same turn instead

With back-to-school sales beginning in June

 

Children wheedle their moms for the coolest sneaks

And shopping carts are heavy with pens in packs

Yellow pencils, notebooks, scissors, and glue

Construction paper, adhesive tape, tissues

 

Lunchboxes, paper sacks, term calendars -

While in a lonely room

A pathetic little man polishes his Glock

Unidentified Flying Obfuscations - poem

 

Unidentified Flying Obfuscations

 

Our Texas government plans to censor our books

(But look at the bright shiny UFOs)

Our newspapers are falling like autumn leaves

(But look at the bright shiny UFOs)

 

Our border is guarded by barbed wire and floaties

(But look at the bright shiny UFOs)

Our TV channels tell us what to think

(But look at the bright shiny UFOs)

 

Our senators are beyond their sell-by dates

(But look at the bright shiny UFOs)

Our representatives are puerile potty-mouths

(But look at the bright shiny UFOs)

 

Our children are shot dead in our schools and streets

          (But Congress holds hearings on UFOs)

Our Congress - Lost in Space: weekly column 30 July 2023

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Our Congress – Lost in Space

 

Our United States Congress, apparently having little to do, has been holding hearings (or hearing holdings) on UAPs (unidentified anomalous phenomena), which used to be known as UFOs (Unidentified Flying Objects). Although they’re not the same thing they are they same thing [What Is a UAP? Explaining the UFO Hearings in Congress. (businessinsider.com)].

 

Former Air Force major David Grusch is now a whistleblower (with a real Sergeant Preston of the Yukon whistle?) who has whistleblown to Congress that the U. S. government has for decades been collecting and reverse-engineering data from crashed spacecraft but covering it all up. He also alleges that the Vatican in collusion with Mussolini and the United States government has been hiding evidence of spaceships and the body parts of spacemen for some ninety years [Ex-Intel Officer Who Says US Has Proof of Aliens Made Wild Claims Before (businessinsider.com)].

 

The major has no proof of any of this, but he says he has talked with people who have seen the “non-human biologics” (dead spacemen) and parts salvaged from spaceships.

 

The galloping major did not mention any Lizard People.

 

Possibly Congress will next form a committee to investigate the rumor that if you read Little House on the Prairie backward you will hear a satanic message from The Mamas and the Papas. And then there’s the pizza parlor in D.C. that receives secret shortwave messages from the Mole People in their tunnels beneath Oak Island. The pepperoni are then positioned in a code that only the Illuminaughty can understand. I’m risking my life in telling you this, but watch the pepperoni. The fate of Western Civilization depends upon it! Watch the pepperoni!

 

This nation boasts both The United States Space Command [the united states space command - Search (bing.com)] and The United States Space Force [the united states space force - Search (bing.com)], both with uniforms and marching songs and anthems and badges, but probably the spaciest of all are some of the far, far out honorable ladies and honorable gentlemen of Congress.

 

-30-

 

 

Two Sovereign Remedies for Depression - poem

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Two Sovereign Remedies for Depression

 

Reading a few pages of Wodehouse at bedtime

Is like walking behind a dachshund at any time

 

Happiness

In Nature We are Only a Menu Item - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

In Nature We are Only a Menu Item

 

Purporting to love nature is a commonplace

This does not mean that nature loves us back

We often look for nature’s smiling face

But nature looks for us as a tasty snack

 

The alligator is defended for being here first

The gentle boar is a creature of God

Anopheles wants only to quench its thirst

The innocent shark hungers only for cod

 

Communing with nature cannot be beaten –

Up until the moment when you are eaten!

 

A Japanese Army Cap - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

 

A Japanese Army Cap

 "A fool lies here who tried to hustle the East"

-Kipling

Long, long ago in a land far away

I met some children playing on a river bank

One little boy wore a Japanese Army cap

Faded and old – I wondered who wore it first?

 

I tried to buy it from him - an MPC dollar?

No.

Five dollars?

No.

Ten dollars?

Laughter and another no.

Twenty good American MPC dollars?

No.

 

We continued our patrol up to Cambodia

And back again

I did not leave my bones in Viet-Nam

Nor even my cap  

                              (I was a fool all the same)

Jane Birkin's Smile - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Jane Birkin’s Smile

 

Her eyes were everything when she looked at us

Teasingly, from beneath a wide-brimmed hat

In that long-ago summer world when we

Assumed for ourselves eternal youth

 

Her lips were everything when she smiled at us

Mischievously, from among the surprised decades

Of this cold winter world that crept upon us

Her insouciance defying the pains of age

 

If we misplaced our youth, our hopes, our dreams

That was all right

We found them again in her saucy grin

Goofus and Gallant Revisited - doggerel 10 July 2023

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

 

Goofus and Gallant Revisited

 

Thanks to The Atlantic Monthly

 

I never paid attention to Goofus and Gallant

Because I sensed that I was being preached at

Only later in life do I appreciate their talent

Much better than the cat who sat on a mat

A Japanese Army Cap - weekly column 9 July 2023

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

A Japanese Army Cap

 

“A fool lies here who tried to hustle the East.”

 

-Kipling

 

Long, long ago in a land far, far away I met a little boy who was wearing a Japanese army cap. Our boats were upriver along the Cambodian border on routine patrol and to land Sgt. Thuey and me in a little village for an hour or two of propaganda and medical care.

 

Among the children I saw that little boy proudly wearing an old army cap left from the Japanese occupation of French Indo-China. It was a practical cap made of cotton, with a neck flap as further protection from the sun and mosquitoes.

 

I offered the kid an American dollar for that little bit of history, but he grinned and shook his head.

 

I offered him five dollars, but again he grinned and shook his head.

 

Finally I offered him twenty dollars for the cap, and it was still no deal. The cap was important to the little fellow, and I imagine there was a family story about it worth more than money from yet another transient foreign power.

 

Numerous small states were absorbed into the French empire in the 19^th century and ruled as French Indo-China until 1954 [What Was French Indochina? (thoughtco.com)]. Japan occupied the area during the Second World War II and, like France, exploited the land and its people for its natural resources, food production, and manufacturing capacity.

 

The situation during the war was always complicated, and grew worse at the end, with some Japanese soldiers joining the Viet-Minh and others working with the British Army (mostly Indian) in Saigon, numerous nationalist groups, Free French, Vichy French, die-hard imperial Japanese, Chinese, Hoa Hao, Cao Dai, and some Americans, most everyone fighting everyone else. On one occasion American planes shot down three British bombers, claiming to have mistaken them for Japanese. Every power group made bad decisions, and thousands, mostly Vietnamese civilians, died in the fighting, from massacres and mass executions by Japanese, French, and Communist authorities, and from starvation.

 

Communist China invaded Viet-Nam in 1979 and was quickly defeated with great loss of men and weapons. I imagine that somewhere around Cao Bang in the north a little kid is wearing a Chinese army cap and telling stories about how his grandfather took it from a dead or captured soldier.

 

Which leads us back to the kid wearing a Japanese army cap in 1970, and the question of whatever happened to the young Japanese soldier, probably little more than a kid himself, who was issued that cap as part of his tropical service kit for duty in Indo-China. Was he killed in the war, or did he finally get home to his mom and dad?

 

I don’t think I lost a cap, but maybe I did, and some little kid even now is wearing it while playing with the other kids, telling them how his grandfather snatched it from a running dog imperialist lackey.

 

-30-

Keyboard Combatants - poem, 7 July 2023

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Keyboard Combatants

 

“H*** hath no fury like a non-combatant”

 

-anonymous; dates as early as the American Civil War

 

Pitching war metaphors toward a people

Who don’t understand metaphors or war

Does not promote prudent self-government

Or peace

                 Only bullhorns and misspelt signs