Lawrence Hall, HSG
18 October 2023 - When Missiles Fall Upon Our Vanities
When missiles fall upon our vanities
And children die among our smoking ruins
Will we dare plead our weak excuses to God:
“This isn’t what we meant…”
Wednesday, October 18, 2023
18 October 2023 - When Missiles Fall Upon Our Vanities
Tuesday, October 17, 2023
If Children Ask for Bread Will We Give Them a Statement? - a sentence which is not a poem at all
Lawrence
Hall, HSG
Dispatches for the Colonial Office
If Children Ask
for Bread Will We Give Them a Statement?
“The Roman Catholic–Orthodox Joint International
Commission for Theological Dialogue produced a statement this past June on
the vexed issue of papal primacy and the timely topic of synodality.”
Well of course they did.
A Deer and I Surprised Each Other - doggerel
Lawrence
Hall, HSG
Dispatches for the Colonial Office
A Deer and I Surprised
Each Other
Silence
We paused
We looked
She leaped
I said
Goodbye
But she
Was gone
And I
Was left
There all
Alone
Monday, October 16, 2023
People are Dying by the Thousands - Let's All Go Buy Slogan Tees - poem
Lawrence
Hall, HSG
Dispatches for the Colonial Office
People are Dying by
the Thousands – Let’s All Go Buy Slogan Tees
XL, L, M, S, and
Petite
Guaranteed
Ethically-Sourced Materials
Domestic
carnage now filled all the year
With
Feast-days; the old Man from the chimney nook,
The
Maiden from the bosom of her Love,
The
Mother from the Cradle of her Babe,
The
Warrior from the Field – all perish’d, all
Wordsworth, The Prelude, 1805-1806, Book X,
356-360
We busy ourselves in our accustomed ways:
Dishes to wash, the still-green lawn to be mowed
The vacuum cleaner to annoy the household pup
A book, a chair, a reverie, a glass of tea
But then
The evening news is a call to our conscience
With offerings in two senses only
Tastefully muted sounds and filtered visuals
Across a couch with a motorized recline mode
Dead bodies fuzzed out on the evening news
And peace-loving intellectuals chanting
“Gas the Jews!”
Will There be Coffee after the Crucifixion? - poem
Lawrence
Hall, HSG
Dispatches for the Colonial Office
Will There be Coffee
after the Crucifixion?
Everything’s
going to be discovered
And
understood in the course of time,
Only
we have to go on thinking
-Yevtushenko, “Zima Junction”
Not all are crucified, but all are wounded
We bring our gifts to the Altar; they fall apart
In secretly clinging to them for ourselves
Our claims to be defined by an era
But rotting corpses in a tangled wood
The celebrant elevates the Host
We lift unfocused eyes in grave pretense
Inattentive at the Wedding of worlds
The Mass is the central Act in Creation -
Not all are crucified, but all are wounded
Sunday, October 15, 2023
A Tale of Herschkowitz - a brief narrative
Lawrence Hall, HSG
A Tale of Herschkowitz
602nd
Tank Destroyer Battalion
My father, who was a master sergeant in the Second World
War, told this story of one of his armored car’s crew, Herschkowitz. Towards
the end of the war, probably in the area of Zwickau, Herschkowitz was flirting
with some pretty German girls. This was probably one of the sanest moments in
Europe in 1945.
Later my father said, “Herschkowitz, I didn’t know you
spoke German.”
Herschkowitz replied, “I don’t, sergeant, but I know
Yiddish and we all understood each other pretty well.”
Thus endeth the lesson.
-30-
Saturday, October 14, 2023
(Untitled / flashback to Viet-Nam / not for publication)
93. 14 October 2023, Saturday in Ordinary Time
Lawrence
Hall, HSG
Dispatches for the Colonial Office
Flashback (not for
publication)
Domestic
carnage now filled all the year
With
Feast-days; the old Man from the chimney nook,
The
Maiden from the bosom of her Love,
The
Mother from the Cradle of her Babe,
The
Warrior from the Field – all perish’d, all
Wordsworth, The Prelude, 1805-1806, Book X,
356-360
We busy ourselves in our accustomed ways:
Dishes to wash, the still-green lawn to be mowed
The vacuum cleaner to annoy the household pup
A book, a chair, a reverie, a glass of tea
But then
The evening news is the call of our conscience
The evening news is a long-ago call-back
With offerings in two senses only
Tastefully muted sounds and filtered visuals
Not
The concussions, the stench, the stickiness
of blood, the dust on our lips, the screams we deny, the tears we swallow the
impossible pulse that makes breathing gasping hyperventilating fragments
stinging the skin concussions concussions concussions make them stop make it
all stop running running running over there drag him to the ditch hurry hurry
hurry you can treat him there he’s dead his eyes are open to the gravel go back
again hurry hurry hurry breathe breathe breathe
Why is this happening again why is this happening again
Stop
That child is dead
Stop it
What’s that? A dead soldier. He is so small
Stop it
So many bodies, shrunken into their clothes
A still-clawed arm sticking out from a bundle
Dead bodies fuzzed out on the evening news
Non-combatant commandos channeling their views
And darling little undergrads shrieking, “Death to the Jews”
Friday, October 13, 2023
My Concealed-Carry Jewish Space Laser (Shhhhhhhhhhh...!) - doggerel
Lawrence
Hall, HSG
Dispatches for the Colonial Office
My Concealed-Carry
Jewish Space Laser
In my state you can carry a switch-blade knife
And shoot an AR with 30-round magazines
Or a .50-calibre Barrett for vaporizing a life
Tote brass-knuckles in your camouflaged jeans
In my state
Few methods of murder are regulated
But if you read Anne Frank you could be investigated
Three Cigarette Lighters - poem
Lawrence
Hall, HSG
Dispatches for the Colonial Office
Three Cigarette
Lighters
And in what landscape of disaster
Has
your unhappy spirit lost its road?
-Thomas Merton, “For my Brother”
I was strolling along for my digestion and health
Inspecting the refreshing October winds
Counting the summer-tired leaves floating to earth
And noting the brightness of autumn’s yellow flowers
Off in the weeds a cigarette lighter presented itself
It didn’t work. A second cigarette lighter did
A useful souvenir of my evening walk
And then a third – three cheap lighters, all in a row
A cocaine trail of disposable dreams
Disposable lighters, disposable lives
Wednesday, October 11, 2023
"Choose You This Day Whom You Will Serve"
Lawrence
Hall, HSG
Dispatches for the Colonial Office
“Choose You This Day
Whom You Will Serve”
“…for whom war was a fresh terror and the corpses of real people…”
-Matti
Friedman, Who by Fire: Leonard Cohen in the Sinai
A little child ripped from her dead mother’s arms
Is not a
petition for border adjustments
A grandfather murdered while waiting for the bus
Is not a
parliamentary point of order
Teenagers stripped, raped, beaten, tortured, and shot
Are not cool chants
in a university quad
A rotting fragment of a beheaded baby
Is not someone’s
tee-shirt slogan
An elderly woman still marked from Buchenwald
Is a child of
God, not a bargaining chip
No deflections
No whatabouts
No evasions
No excuses
No
Choose you this day whom you will serve.
Sunday, October 8, 2023
7 October 2023 - Anger and Futility
7 October 2023
Must Anne Frank be murdered again and again? I cannot write
anything meaningful today; I can only sputter in anger and futility.
“A voice was heard in Ramah, lamentation, weeping, and great
mourning, Rachel weeping for her children, refusing to be comforted, because
they are no more.”
St. Matthew 2:18
Saturday, October 7, 2023
Southern Belle Antiques 'N' Stuff - a little East Texas Gothic for Ya
Lawrence
Hall, HSG
Dispatches for the Colonial Office
Southern Belle Antiques
‘N’ Stuff
(Slow sibilant bathroom-slipper-shuffle)
“Oh, don’t close the door, honey, oh no
If the door is closed no one will know I’m open
English Romantics? Here’s an Edgar Allan Poe
I read lots of books myself; do you like westerns?”
(Dark narrow paths tunnel through dark moldy heaps)
“I paid fifty dollars for that bolt cutter
It’s almost new; I bought it for my daddy
My brother locked him out of his own house
You can have it for twenty; I live upstairs”
(The shambling slippers follow me to the door)
“It’s a shame that girls don’t play with dolls anymore
Come back anytime; I’m mostly open”
The Synon on Synodality and, Like, Stuff - poem
Lawrence
Hall, HSG
Dispatches for the Colonial Office
The Synod on Synodality
“There are to be forty interlocking committees sitting
every day…”
-C. S. Lewis, That Hideous Strength, p. 36
One reads the words of the committees:
The grammar of synodality our
times the time journeying together breaking molds inclusion experts
facilitators process delegation the people totality sense of the faithful organize
discussion opening remarks challenges continental stage novelties dynamic legitimize
interrelation common discernment modules instrumentum laboris synthesis
report road map response paradigm preparation planning natural vision human
planning expectations narrative of radical change shifting models of synodality
conciliarity emblematic expression methodology dubia divine discourse adjudicate
delineating areas of consensus specific situational analyses media framing
reinterpreting confidentiality requirements module serenity of the discernment
in common implementation phase inclusive ecclesial process participatory ways
of exercising responsibility social dialogue regenerating relationships initiate
the processes practicing synodality a double dynamic of conversion articulations
of synodality ten thematic nuclei to be explored synodal dialogue the potential
of synodal engagement national synthesis document consultative sessions what it
means to be church social media template an operative notion national synthesis
of the people of God contextualize diocesan phase of the synodal process enduring
wounds needs-friendly steps for discerning ongoing formation for mission…
Brushing aside this choking fog of words
The reader ceases to read, for he sees
A silent, sandal-shod saint in a raggedy cloak
Having fed the chickens now telling his beads
A Carrier of Bodies - poem
Lawrence
Hall, HSG
Dispatches for the Colonial Office
A Carrier of Bodies
My stretcher is one scarlet stain
-Robert W. Service, “The Stretcher Bearer”
In illo tempore:
I don’t know
that anyone shouted, “Corpsman up!”
Like in the movies;
I was already up
There, where smoking
metal scraps stopped in some kid’s flesh
Red fragments of flesh screaming in the sun
Later:
Carrying
bodies of literature was impossible
But I tried;
Wordsworth and Keats during the day
Holes in the patient
and in sterile drapes
Red fragments
of flesh in the E. R. at night
Now:
In the
evenings I carry Wordsworth outside
And my older
self, to a chair at dusk
Southern Belle Antiques 'N' Stuff - poem, a little East Texas Gothic
Lawrence
Hall, HSG
Southern Belle Antiques
‘N’ Stuff
(Slow sibilant bathroom-slipper-shuffle)
“Oh, don’t close the door, honey, oh no
If the door is closed no one will know I’m open
English Romantics? Here’s an Edgar Allan Poe
I read lots of books myself; do you like westerns?”
(Dark narrow paths tunnel through dark moldy heaps)
“I paid fifty dollars for that bolt cutter
It’s almost new; I bought it for my daddy
My brother locked him out of his own house
You can have it for twenty; I live upstairs”
(The shambling slippers follow me to the door)
“It’s a shame that girls don’t play with dolls anymore
Come back anytime; I’m mostly open”
Sunday, October 1, 2023
Nazi Canada? weekly column 10.1.2023
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Nazi Canada?
Nazi Canada? Of course not.
Canadian P.M. Justin Trudeau is not a Nazi. He presents himself
as a vulgar, privileged jerk but he is not a Nazi.
His groveling apology last week for the purported Nazi
insensitivity of other Canadians thus seems inexplicable.
Recently the Speaker (now former Speaker) of Parliament, Anthony
Rota, had occasion to welcome Volodymyr Zelensky, the president of Ukraine. The Speaker
got it into his head that he would add to the occasion by inviting for one of
those now tiresome shout-outs a Canadian citizen, 98-year-old Yaroslav Hunka,
who was born in Ukraine and fought against the Russian Communists in the Second
World War.
A problem is that when Stalin, Hitler’s ally against the
Western democracies, was betrayed by his old comrade he turned to the Western
nations for help. Thus, the perverse Stalin was a Nazi ally when that was useful
for him and a Western ally when that was useful for him. In 1945 he turned back
again against the Western nations who had saved the Soviet Union. But the
unhappy fact remains that Communist Russia was our (admittedly treacherous)
ally for a time. Further, Mr. Hunka fought against Communists but with a Nazi
unit.
The Speaker of the Canadian Parliament presumably has a
well-paid staff to assist him in learning about such matters, but in the event Mr.
Rota naively invited a poor old man with a dodgy background to be presented in
Parliament without doing a routine background check.
This is embarrassing and should never have happened. However,
it reflects a moment of carelessness, not Nazi sympathies in Canada. One might find a few village-idiot “stormtroopers”
waddling around and shouting in the streets, but they reflect only stupid
choices by stupid individuals. They are not Canada. Canadians sing that they
are “the true north strong and free.” They mean it.
This reality means nothing to those unhappy people always
finding in others guilt that does not obtain except perhaps in the accusers
themselves. Note Susanna in the Book of Daniel and later in the Gospel of St.
John the woman purportedly caught in adultery.
An apology is appropriate, but only for carelessness in
background checks.
The accusation given is that Canada is sodden with a poor
history of accommodating Nazism.
Apparently few if any have chosen to defend Canada with
the facts:
When Nazi Germany invaded Poland, Canada was one of the
first nations to declare war. At that time Canada had a standing army of 4,500
men and some 50,000 reservists, no modern equipment, only 20 combat aircraft,
and a navy of 6 destroyers. [http://www.warmuseum.ca/cwm/exhibitions/chrono/1931goes_to_e.html].
From 1939 – 1945 approximately 1.1 million Canadian men
and women, out of a total of 10 million citizens, joined the services and fought
Nazism and Japanese imperialism. This does not include the Canadians who served
with the United Kingdom, other Commonwealth nations, and the United States.
According to Library and Archives Canada [Service Files of the Second World War - War Dead, 1939-1947
- Library and Archives Canada (bac-lac.gc.ca)], 24,525 Canadian
soldiers, 17,397 RCAF airman, and
2,168 RCN sailors were killed in action. These numbers do not include civilians
and Canada’s Merchant Marine, nor do they include those wounded in body and
soul.
Newfoundland, not then part of Canada, lost approximately
1,000 men and women in the several services, including those of Canada, the
United Kingdom, and the United State [Newfoundland
in World War II | World War II Database (ww2db.com)].
Over 50,000 Canadians and Newfoundlanders died fighting
Nazism - and yet Mr. Trudeau ignores them while apologizing for Canada’s
purported Nazi sympathies.
One 98-year-old former Nazi was erroneously given a
shout-out in Parliament, and now the Canadian government is collectively calling
for smelling salts. In all of this
self-abasement and drama no one seems to remember all the Canadian and
Newfoundland soldiers, sailors, airmen, coast guardsmen, Marines, and merchant
seamen who were killed in action against young, tough Nazis Newark-bent on
global domination.
In 1914 Lawrence Binyon, a British poet, wrote a poem, “For
the Fallen,” some of whose lines are to be found on British, Canadian,
Newfoundland, and even American memorials, and quoted every Armistice Day / Remembrance
Day / Veterans’ Day as a tribute to those who died fighting tyranny:
They shall grow not old, as we
that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
But in the last few weeks Mr. Trudeau and the Canadian Parliament
seem to have forgotten them after all.
-30-
Are You an Old Soul? - poem
Lawrence
Hall, HSG
Dispatches for the Colonial Office
Are You an Old Soul?
“…but lay thy sword aside
And lean upon a peasant’s
staff”
-Wordsworth
We have it on the highest Authority
That we are souls on lengthy pilgrimage
But I don’t
know if we are old or not
And did you
bring along something to read?
Sometimes we
march in step along the route
At other
times we seem to fly in pairs
Or sometimes trudge
a lonely path in the night
And hear the
music of a thousand spheres
Sometimes I’m
old, but then you smile just so
And I am
young – there’s magic in your soul
Saturday, September 30, 2023
30 September 2023 - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
30 September 2023
“Make
it so, Number One”
-Star
Trek: The New Generation (often)
Up at 0630 with coffee and Tuxedo-Cat
In the west-fading light of the still-full moon
To watch and hear and feel and touch and taste
The waning of night, the beginning of day
The air was cool, the grass was damp, the birds –
The birds were LOUD, fussing from tree to tree
An old lawn chair, layers of paint over rust
Was our captaincy over possibilities
“Is all well, Number One?” I asked the cat
He blinked his eyes that the world was ready to sail
Friday, September 29, 2023
Stay Close to the Telephone - poem
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Dispatches
for the Colonial Office
Stay Close to the
Telephone
“Stay close to the telephone,” they used to say
Stay close to that Western Electric on the desk or wall
Since news of great importance might come your way
A message from the shop or some emergency call
“Stay close to the telephone” – you couldn’t go out
Without breaking contact in an hour of need
You could only wait in place in fear and doubt
For an order at last to move with speed
“Stay close to the telephone?” It had no reach
But a modern ‘phone drains you like a bloody leech
Wednesday, September 27, 2023
A Little Green Lizard and Her Leap of Faith - poem
82. 27 September 2023, Wednesday in Ordinary Time
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Dispatches
for the Colonial Office
A Little Green Lizard
and Her Leap of Faith
She was the tiniest lizard you ever saw
Less than a feather on the back of my hand
Less than an inch but perfect, without a flaw
Perfect in function and form, as God had planned
I held my hand still to keep her safe
From accident or fall, or misjudged leap
But she knew her strengths, this reptilian waif
And launched to the leaves in a dramatic sweep
I wanted to warn her if she’d stayed for a chat:
“O mind where you leap – watch out for the cat!”
Tuesday, September 26, 2023
Rain and Gasoline - poem
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Dispatches
for the Colonial Office
Rain and Gasoline
Do you like the rain? Or do you think about it much?
-Rod McKuen
Shoppers rattle their trolleys to their cars
An unexpected September thunderstorm
Splashes rain on the six-months-hot parking lot
Raising steam and hopes – will autumn ever come?
Thunderings rattle the ground and the air
From the service station up the concrete slope
Gasoline and diesel join the rivulets
In making iridescent the sloshing streams
Sale papers and cigarette ends float free
But only to the drains, not to the sea
Monday, September 25, 2023
Southeast Texas Alerting Network Adventures in Registration - weekly column 25 September 2023
Lawrence Hall, HSG
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-
Saturday, September 23, 2023
Everyone is Now a Two-Dimensional Religious Image - doggerel
Lawrence Hall, HSG
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
Friday, September 22, 2023
A Little Kitten and a Little Girl - a sappy sentimental poem
Lawrence Hall, HSG
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
Tuesday, September 19, 2023
A Station Stop for the Hummingbird Express - poem
Lawrence Hall, HSG
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
Sunday, September 17, 2023
What This Country Needs is a Better Class of Criminals - weekly column, 17 September 2023
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Dispatches for the Colonial Office
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-
Saturday, September 16, 2023
What This Country Needs is a Better Class of Criminals - doggerel
Lawrence Hall, HSG
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
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
Tuesday, September 12, 2023
The Existential Despair in Replacing a Lawnmower Battery - doggerel
Lawrence Hall, HSG
The Existential Despair in Replacing a Lawnmower Battery
My language is blue and my knuckles bleed -
I can never find the wrench I need!
Monday, September 11, 2023
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
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-
Thursday, September 7, 2023
Watch Where You Step; There Might be a Senator - poem
Lawrence Hall, HSG
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
Wednesday, September 6, 2023
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?
Tuesday, September 5, 2023
Joining the Class Struggle - poem
Lawrence Hall, HSG
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?)
Monday, September 4, 2023
Toys at the Base of an Oak Tree - poem
Lawrence Hall, HSG
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
Sunday, September 3, 2023
Even the Oak Trees are Dying - poem
Lawrence Hall, HSG
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
Saturday, September 2, 2023
Another Funeral in Margaritaville - poem
Lawrence Hall, HSG
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
Friday, September 1, 2023
Shelving Children Instead of Books - poem
Lawrence Hall, HSG
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
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