Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
A little exposition: In The Brothers Karamazov Ivan is an agnostic who cannot reconcile faith and his Euclidian mind. My thesis (last line) is that everyone and everything, understood by us or not, is in unity with God.
Still, about those fire ants…
Contra Ivan Karamazov
Though some maintain that parallels don’t meet
And three-point-something is the sum of pi
And whether X is found; no one knows why
(Was it lost, perhaps wandering in the street?)
Curious matters all Euclidian
Even for the bold mathematician
Are as obdurate as obsidian
Each an illogical proposition
To the rationalist impossible, and yet -
Parallel lines are at the Altar met
Sunday, April 19, 2015
The Wandering Gentile
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Wandering Gentile1
For Tod on his 75th birthday
How odd to be Bilbo at Rivendell
Or Jack and Warnie in the Little End room
Finishing up that book you meant to write
From the long ago, but not knowing the subject
Until this now, when sunset-softened light
Makes clearer the Words on the eternal page
More morning than ever any morning was
Sunlight and moonlight on the pilgrim road
Until you realize, with a gentle laugh:
How odd ever to have been here at all
1An allusion by Rabbi Shulman in the last episode of Northern Exposure
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Wandering Gentile1
For Tod on his 75th birthday
How odd to be Bilbo at Rivendell
Or Jack and Warnie in the Little End room
Finishing up that book you meant to write
From the long ago, but not knowing the subject
Until this now, when sunset-softened light
Makes clearer the Words on the eternal page
More morning than ever any morning was
Sunlight and moonlight on the pilgrim road
Until you realize, with a gentle laugh:
How odd ever to have been here at all
1An allusion by Rabbi Shulman in the last episode of Northern Exposure
Searching for God and a Lost Shoe
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Searching For God and a Lost Shoe
For a university student
The morning sails through your window as light
Dark blue when winter rests upon the world
All green and golden in the happy spring
But welcome every day, in every way
The silence is soon broken by the noise:
A rattling faucet, a rattling roommate,
The merry chaos not yet organized
Into the poetry of this day in God
So sing while searching for that other shoe:
The morning shares with you its hymn of joy
Mhall46184@aol.com
Searching For God and a Lost Shoe
For a university student
The morning sails through your window as light
Dark blue when winter rests upon the world
All green and golden in the happy spring
But welcome every day, in every way
The silence is soon broken by the noise:
A rattling faucet, a rattling roommate,
The merry chaos not yet organized
Into the poetry of this day in God
So sing while searching for that other shoe:
The morning shares with you its hymn of joy
Mr. Dogg and the Copp
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Mr. Dogg and the Cop
Several weeks ago a Texas state trooper took an off-duty gig on his own time, providing security for a concert in the capital of our fair state. Afterward, one of the musicians asked the security guard to pose with him for a snapshot.
The photograph shows two middle-age men, one in a DPS uniform and another, balding and wearing eyeglasses, who looks much like a middle-school math teacher. This second man is Snoop Dogg (possibly not the name on his birth certificate), said to be a famous musician.
Some busy individual at the Department of Public Safety was not happy with this harmless photograph because Mr. Dogg is a convicted drug offender. Apparently Texas DPS troopers are not supposed to associate with convicted drug offenders. One supposes that if Rush Limbaugh, also a convicted drug offender, had been in the photograph along with Mr. Dogg the DPS would have been, like Marty the Martian, very, very angry.
As it is, an official with the Texas Department of Public Safety gave the DPS trooper a reprimand (in DPS-speak, “a one-time coaching opportunity”) for associating with Mr. Dogg. A DPS trooper may protect Mr. Dogg from harm but must not be seen to do so.
If a Texas DPS trooper helps provide security for a Wagner concert directed by James Levine, should the trooper run a computer check on Mr. Levine’s background? How about the trumpet section? And are drummers ever to be trusted?
And then, hey, about Richard Wagner – he didn’t pay his debts, he participated in revolutionary activities, his music instigated riots, and he was anti-Semitic. Would a DPS trooper who was seen at a concert featuring the music of such a disreputable character be given a “one-time coaching opportunity?”
A Texas state trooper cannot possibly know the criminal histories of everyone with whom he (the pronoun is gender-neutral) comes into contact, nor should he: firefighters, medics, reporters, tow-truck drivers, the shop assistant who sells him a new bullet, and, of course, the waitress at the doughnut shop.
Maybe some in DPS administration ought to leave their Austin offices on occasion and take a night shift on the streets in order to remind themselves where they started.
The trooper was not taking bribes.
The trooper was not being racist.
The trooper was not sexually harassing anyone.
The trooper was not smuggling drugs.
The trooper was not trafficking in human beings.
The trooper was not nekkid.
The trooper was not using his badge and his office for official oppression.
The trooper was not whooping it up with the Secret Service, the Drug Enforcement agency, and some, oh, fun dates.
The trooper was not doing any of these things. What got him into trouble was appearing in a snapshot by the request of an American citizen who, whatever his past, was not under indictment and who was going peaceably about his lawful daily business.
As for a “one-time coaching opportunity,” the only coaching that the trooper seems to require would be for a weight-loss regimen. To re-phrase an old gag, maybe Mr. Dogg stays so skinny by running laps around his favorite Texas DPS trooper.
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
Mr. Dogg and the Cop
Several weeks ago a Texas state trooper took an off-duty gig on his own time, providing security for a concert in the capital of our fair state. Afterward, one of the musicians asked the security guard to pose with him for a snapshot.
The photograph shows two middle-age men, one in a DPS uniform and another, balding and wearing eyeglasses, who looks much like a middle-school math teacher. This second man is Snoop Dogg (possibly not the name on his birth certificate), said to be a famous musician.
Some busy individual at the Department of Public Safety was not happy with this harmless photograph because Mr. Dogg is a convicted drug offender. Apparently Texas DPS troopers are not supposed to associate with convicted drug offenders. One supposes that if Rush Limbaugh, also a convicted drug offender, had been in the photograph along with Mr. Dogg the DPS would have been, like Marty the Martian, very, very angry.
As it is, an official with the Texas Department of Public Safety gave the DPS trooper a reprimand (in DPS-speak, “a one-time coaching opportunity”) for associating with Mr. Dogg. A DPS trooper may protect Mr. Dogg from harm but must not be seen to do so.
If a Texas DPS trooper helps provide security for a Wagner concert directed by James Levine, should the trooper run a computer check on Mr. Levine’s background? How about the trumpet section? And are drummers ever to be trusted?
And then, hey, about Richard Wagner – he didn’t pay his debts, he participated in revolutionary activities, his music instigated riots, and he was anti-Semitic. Would a DPS trooper who was seen at a concert featuring the music of such a disreputable character be given a “one-time coaching opportunity?”
A Texas state trooper cannot possibly know the criminal histories of everyone with whom he (the pronoun is gender-neutral) comes into contact, nor should he: firefighters, medics, reporters, tow-truck drivers, the shop assistant who sells him a new bullet, and, of course, the waitress at the doughnut shop.
Maybe some in DPS administration ought to leave their Austin offices on occasion and take a night shift on the streets in order to remind themselves where they started.
The trooper was not taking bribes.
The trooper was not being racist.
The trooper was not sexually harassing anyone.
The trooper was not smuggling drugs.
The trooper was not trafficking in human beings.
The trooper was not nekkid.
The trooper was not using his badge and his office for official oppression.
The trooper was not whooping it up with the Secret Service, the Drug Enforcement agency, and some, oh, fun dates.
The trooper was not doing any of these things. What got him into trouble was appearing in a snapshot by the request of an American citizen who, whatever his past, was not under indictment and who was going peaceably about his lawful daily business.
As for a “one-time coaching opportunity,” the only coaching that the trooper seems to require would be for a weight-loss regimen. To re-phrase an old gag, maybe Mr. Dogg stays so skinny by running laps around his favorite Texas DPS trooper.
-30-
The Back Yard Hardware Store
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.om
The Back Yard Hardware Store
Several years ago Butch and Debbie Pachall sold me a nifty metal detector which has proven to be great fun. I don’t use it often enough to sort out the subtleties of sound like Debbie can, but I have never switched it on without finding something of interest. Since assisting in archaeology sites in California in my youth I’m easily interested in anything old, and a brass hinge or a long-lost knife are for me good finds. Debbie, however, has practiced the arcane (to me) art of interpreting beeps and the computer images so assiduously that she can identify most objects before taking out the trowel: “That’s a penny…another penny…ring tab…a piece of pipe…a quarter…”
Recently I learned to practice another form of metal detecting, with a big, heavy magnet from the hardware store. Several summers ago I had the lads make some modifications around Chateau D’Aula, and upon completion of the strengthening of fortifications I used a big magnet to pick up the unseen nails, screws, and other bits of metal before the lawnmower did.
In the event, the magnet is almost as much fun as the electronic metal detector. Most of the nails and screws I find are re-usable, as are many of the hinges and bolts. In Ye Olden Days, these objects really were manufactured better than they are now. Nails, screws, and bolts were made in the USA of extruded steel; what is sold now is often the unhappy result of odd scraps of pot metal melted down and cast in molds in China.
Using recycled ironmongery for my own back yard projects is thrifty in itself, and even after years of lying in the ground the American nail is often more durable than the Chinese one.
There was a dairy farm and another house on this site long ago, and in addition to ferric objects the ground often covers other modest treasures. Where there are nails and screws, there are often bottles (usually in fragments), coins, brass objects, ceramic doorknobs, game pieces of glass or lead, switch plates, expended bullets, axe heads, tractor parts, a sturdy length of chain, a canning lid made in Canada, marbles, and other oddments.
I haven’t yet found Jean Lafitte’s treasure, but I’m looking. Beep-beep-beep…bonk – maybe that’s it…
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.om
The Back Yard Hardware Store
Several years ago Butch and Debbie Pachall sold me a nifty metal detector which has proven to be great fun. I don’t use it often enough to sort out the subtleties of sound like Debbie can, but I have never switched it on without finding something of interest. Since assisting in archaeology sites in California in my youth I’m easily interested in anything old, and a brass hinge or a long-lost knife are for me good finds. Debbie, however, has practiced the arcane (to me) art of interpreting beeps and the computer images so assiduously that she can identify most objects before taking out the trowel: “That’s a penny…another penny…ring tab…a piece of pipe…a quarter…”
Recently I learned to practice another form of metal detecting, with a big, heavy magnet from the hardware store. Several summers ago I had the lads make some modifications around Chateau D’Aula, and upon completion of the strengthening of fortifications I used a big magnet to pick up the unseen nails, screws, and other bits of metal before the lawnmower did.
In the event, the magnet is almost as much fun as the electronic metal detector. Most of the nails and screws I find are re-usable, as are many of the hinges and bolts. In Ye Olden Days, these objects really were manufactured better than they are now. Nails, screws, and bolts were made in the USA of extruded steel; what is sold now is often the unhappy result of odd scraps of pot metal melted down and cast in molds in China.
Using recycled ironmongery for my own back yard projects is thrifty in itself, and even after years of lying in the ground the American nail is often more durable than the Chinese one.
There was a dairy farm and another house on this site long ago, and in addition to ferric objects the ground often covers other modest treasures. Where there are nails and screws, there are often bottles (usually in fragments), coins, brass objects, ceramic doorknobs, game pieces of glass or lead, switch plates, expended bullets, axe heads, tractor parts, a sturdy length of chain, a canning lid made in Canada, marbles, and other oddments.
I haven’t yet found Jean Lafitte’s treasure, but I’m looking. Beep-beep-beep…bonk – maybe that’s it…
-30-
Let's End a Conversation
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Let’s End a Conversation
An all-purpose campaign speech for candidates of all parties:
My immigrant Native-American parents came to this great country with only a few dollars and a dream of beginning a conversation in order that no child should be left freedom of choice behind the American dream while we still have a lot to do time for a change and a new beginning with real leadership to win the war on drugs and break the gridlock in Washington because I’ve met with real Americans just like you in the heartland where dreams live in a good ol’ down-home pickup truck defending freedom around the globe as leader of the free world building a bridge to the 22nd century by reaching across the aisle by running a positive campaign unlike the Fascist scum running against me and empowering people to put children first because at the kitchen table the other night my six-year-old reminded me of the hunger in Martha’s Vineyard and together we can build a future that will once again make America great by turning the key that unlocks the focus on the issues not partisan politics by growing the economy across party lines and celebrating diversity because no dream is beyond our reach through fresh new real leadership as I sit with my head bowed in church I know the middle class deserve a tax break in order to grow the small businesses that are the engine of our campaign and America with affordable birth control for seniors that change the tone in Washington and along the highways and byways of this great land of one people united in fresh approaches and a common set of common ideas where the real credit belongs to the American people whose heritage of winning the hearts and minds of the people will empower the stake on which rests our children’s bright future because together, united as one, we will build a future in order to get America working again and keep America great in the forefront of technological innovation that will see our dreams to the stars and beyond joining with you little people who join with me in shared sacrifice in a conversation around a table in a roadside diner where the true heart of America beats with the rhythm of the lottery-ticket machine as I order a plain, honest cuppa joe while wearing my plain good-ol’-workin’-folks blue jeans because deep inside my soul I’m just as common as you are in these tough economic times because I know what it’s like to get my hands dirty in the clean, honest soil of real America planting corn, and, like, stuff and although I live in a modest apartment in Manhattan my true heart is in the deep, rich soil of Kansas…oh…this is Iowa…where real Americans wear made-in-China baseball caps and worry about the multi-cultural weather and fertilizer, and, like, stuff, because deep down inside I’m just one of you people with my Bible and a dream that all can be one united in the diversity of the American dream for a greater tomorrow because the past is behind us, the present is now, and the future lies ahead because your children are going to die for one side one week and the next side the next week in undeclared wars while my children attend Columbia Law School…wait…did I really let that slip…?
May the deity or the19th century philosophical principle of your choice bless and / or enlighten this great country. Thank you, and good night.
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
Let’s End a Conversation
An all-purpose campaign speech for candidates of all parties:
My immigrant Native-American parents came to this great country with only a few dollars and a dream of beginning a conversation in order that no child should be left freedom of choice behind the American dream while we still have a lot to do time for a change and a new beginning with real leadership to win the war on drugs and break the gridlock in Washington because I’ve met with real Americans just like you in the heartland where dreams live in a good ol’ down-home pickup truck defending freedom around the globe as leader of the free world building a bridge to the 22nd century by reaching across the aisle by running a positive campaign unlike the Fascist scum running against me and empowering people to put children first because at the kitchen table the other night my six-year-old reminded me of the hunger in Martha’s Vineyard and together we can build a future that will once again make America great by turning the key that unlocks the focus on the issues not partisan politics by growing the economy across party lines and celebrating diversity because no dream is beyond our reach through fresh new real leadership as I sit with my head bowed in church I know the middle class deserve a tax break in order to grow the small businesses that are the engine of our campaign and America with affordable birth control for seniors that change the tone in Washington and along the highways and byways of this great land of one people united in fresh approaches and a common set of common ideas where the real credit belongs to the American people whose heritage of winning the hearts and minds of the people will empower the stake on which rests our children’s bright future because together, united as one, we will build a future in order to get America working again and keep America great in the forefront of technological innovation that will see our dreams to the stars and beyond joining with you little people who join with me in shared sacrifice in a conversation around a table in a roadside diner where the true heart of America beats with the rhythm of the lottery-ticket machine as I order a plain, honest cuppa joe while wearing my plain good-ol’-workin’-folks blue jeans because deep inside my soul I’m just as common as you are in these tough economic times because I know what it’s like to get my hands dirty in the clean, honest soil of real America planting corn, and, like, stuff and although I live in a modest apartment in Manhattan my true heart is in the deep, rich soil of Kansas…oh…this is Iowa…where real Americans wear made-in-China baseball caps and worry about the multi-cultural weather and fertilizer, and, like, stuff, because deep down inside I’m just one of you people with my Bible and a dream that all can be one united in the diversity of the American dream for a greater tomorrow because the past is behind us, the present is now, and the future lies ahead because your children are going to die for one side one week and the next side the next week in undeclared wars while my children attend Columbia Law School…wait…did I really let that slip…?
May the deity or the19th century philosophical principle of your choice bless and / or enlighten this great country. Thank you, and good night.
-30-
Saturday, April 11, 2015
Snake, Interrupted
Snake, Interruptedruptedruptedrupted - A Song of Spring
Our merry springtime is a glorious feast
Of joyful sights and scents and happy sounds,
Of breezes turning warmly from the east
Of bustling bees winging their flowery rounds
Above, around, and through a world of green
In dreams of life that move the seasons along
Where each day’s sunrise halos a Creation scene
And every blossom is its own soft song
But the sweetest sound echoing through the glades
Is a snake being shredded by the lawnmower’s blades
Sunday, March 29, 2015
The University as a Free-Fire Zone
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
The University as a Free-Fire Zone
The Texas legislature has considered the problem of violence in universities, and proposes to make everything all better by allowing students to carry weapons on campus (http://dfw.cbslocal.com/2015/03/18/texas-senate-approves-concealed-campus-carry-gun-bill/).
One can see the therapeutic value. If drunken frat boys chanting racist slurs are allowed to open-carry .44 magnums on their hips they will sit down together in Christian fellowship, shoot merrily at the overhead lights, and open a conversation about their culture of puerile cloddishness.
Campus-carry could make maths more interesting: “If Tiffany fires her Glock at a sophomore on a northbound train going 70 miles per hour…”
Or languages: “Class, write an ode to a Kalashnikov in Russian. Keep asking yourself how Pushkin might have worded it.”
Or history: “I hope everyone has brought a black or blue pen and a Lee-Enfield to class today…”
Anatomy and physiology: “Class, we’re short on cadavers for our long-term dissection project. Would someone please go outside and bag a couple of sophomores? Do it for science. Do it for your school. And, hey, try not to mess up so many internal organs this time.”
“Professor Bogdown, me and my little friend here would like an ‘A.”
And that graduate student arguing with the clock in the hallway – yeah, she needs a gun.
Those late-night sessions helping each other cope with life’s challenges would become more efficient: “Biff, me ‘n’ the guys know you’ve been having a rough time, what with failing chemistry and your girlfriend leaving you, so we’ve all chipped in and bought you this revolver. We’re going to leave you alone now. Good luck, buddy.”
Dorm rules might require silencers between midnight and five a.m., except on weekends.
Residence hall supervisors would have to adapt: “Okay, people, I’m tired of stepping over all the corpses in the mornings. Let’s all develop a professional attitude in disposing of dead bodies, okay?”
Those friendly rivalries on the sports fields would change: “In the fourth quarter, the score here at Friendship Stadium stands at Redbrick State Teachers’ University 2,329 killed, 4,356 wounded; Our Mother of Mercy 1,242 killed, 3,054 wounded.”
Veterans coming home from the desert might not be happy to see the university campus as yet another outpost shared with unreliable friendlies.
If the Texas legislature permits the open-carry of firearms, would campuses still be tobacco-free zones?
Given that the death rate of university students during spring break alone is pretty much personified in the “Casualty lists! Casualty lists!” scene in Gone with the Wind, the possession of firearms on the job should be limited to trained law enforcement professionals - the Secret Service and the Drug Enforcement Agency come to mind.
Campus carry – no, it’s really not funny at all. Is there no one in the Texas legislature who has served in law enforcement, in the military, or in emergency medicine?
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
The University as a Free-Fire Zone
The Texas legislature has considered the problem of violence in universities, and proposes to make everything all better by allowing students to carry weapons on campus (http://dfw.cbslocal.com/2015/03/18/texas-senate-approves-concealed-campus-carry-gun-bill/).
One can see the therapeutic value. If drunken frat boys chanting racist slurs are allowed to open-carry .44 magnums on their hips they will sit down together in Christian fellowship, shoot merrily at the overhead lights, and open a conversation about their culture of puerile cloddishness.
Campus-carry could make maths more interesting: “If Tiffany fires her Glock at a sophomore on a northbound train going 70 miles per hour…”
Or languages: “Class, write an ode to a Kalashnikov in Russian. Keep asking yourself how Pushkin might have worded it.”
Or history: “I hope everyone has brought a black or blue pen and a Lee-Enfield to class today…”
Anatomy and physiology: “Class, we’re short on cadavers for our long-term dissection project. Would someone please go outside and bag a couple of sophomores? Do it for science. Do it for your school. And, hey, try not to mess up so many internal organs this time.”
“Professor Bogdown, me and my little friend here would like an ‘A.”
And that graduate student arguing with the clock in the hallway – yeah, she needs a gun.
Those late-night sessions helping each other cope with life’s challenges would become more efficient: “Biff, me ‘n’ the guys know you’ve been having a rough time, what with failing chemistry and your girlfriend leaving you, so we’ve all chipped in and bought you this revolver. We’re going to leave you alone now. Good luck, buddy.”
Dorm rules might require silencers between midnight and five a.m., except on weekends.
Residence hall supervisors would have to adapt: “Okay, people, I’m tired of stepping over all the corpses in the mornings. Let’s all develop a professional attitude in disposing of dead bodies, okay?”
Those friendly rivalries on the sports fields would change: “In the fourth quarter, the score here at Friendship Stadium stands at Redbrick State Teachers’ University 2,329 killed, 4,356 wounded; Our Mother of Mercy 1,242 killed, 3,054 wounded.”
Veterans coming home from the desert might not be happy to see the university campus as yet another outpost shared with unreliable friendlies.
If the Texas legislature permits the open-carry of firearms, would campuses still be tobacco-free zones?
Given that the death rate of university students during spring break alone is pretty much personified in the “Casualty lists! Casualty lists!” scene in Gone with the Wind, the possession of firearms on the job should be limited to trained law enforcement professionals - the Secret Service and the Drug Enforcement Agency come to mind.
Campus carry – no, it’s really not funny at all. Is there no one in the Texas legislature who has served in law enforcement, in the military, or in emergency medicine?
-30-
Saturday, March 28, 2015
Had Byron Lived a Few Years Longer
Had Byron Lived a Few Years Longer
V:
She stalks in Makeup, like a fright
Of Senior Specials and takeout fries;
And all that’s worst of snark and bite
Meet in her painted layers of guise:
Thus billowed in that fluorescent light
Which Heaven to youthful lads denies.
R:
He talks of Makeup, silly old wight
Of faded beauties – through his old eyes!
Tho’ his slim waist and muscled might
Have long departed – he is no prize!
Thus now of greater width than height
Which Heaven to happy girls denies.
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
V:
She stalks in Makeup, like a fright
Of Senior Specials and takeout fries;
And all that’s worst of snark and bite
Meet in her painted layers of guise:
Thus billowed in that fluorescent light
Which Heaven to youthful lads denies.
R:
He talks of Makeup, silly old wight
Of faded beauties – through his old eyes!
Tho’ his slim waist and muscled might
Have long departed – he is no prize!
Thus now of greater width than height
Which Heaven to happy girls denies.
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Friday, March 27, 2015
A Morning in March
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
A Morning in March
This morning is a sonnet sweetly sung
First by the breeze sighing through apple leaves
Then by the sun laughing across the grass
And by murmuring doves and nattering sparrows
Fussing with squirrels under a happy oak
Dressing itself in the fashion of spring
Covering the barrenness of winter with
Young leaves only now learning how to flirt
In anticipation of summer days:
This morning is a sonnet sweetly sung
Mhall46184@aol.com
A Morning in March
This morning is a sonnet sweetly sung
First by the breeze sighing through apple leaves
Then by the sun laughing across the grass
And by murmuring doves and nattering sparrows
Fussing with squirrels under a happy oak
Dressing itself in the fashion of spring
Covering the barrenness of winter with
Young leaves only now learning how to flirt
In anticipation of summer days:
This morning is a sonnet sweetly sung
Wednesday, March 25, 2015
The Morning Paper and a Cigarette
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Morning Paper and a Cigarette
The morning paper and a cigarette,
A cup of coffee to complete the theme
A booth with creaky, cracked leatherette seats
And a sticky-top table stained with stories
A joint called Al’s, just off the interstate
Dry desert cold lingering from the autumn night
Until the sun rises to light the way
To California, and The Hungry i
For now: the desert, a cup of coffee,
The morning paper, and a cigarette
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Morning Paper and a Cigarette
The morning paper and a cigarette,
A cup of coffee to complete the theme
A booth with creaky, cracked leatherette seats
And a sticky-top table stained with stories
A joint called Al’s, just off the interstate
Dry desert cold lingering from the autumn night
Until the sun rises to light the way
To California, and The Hungry i
For now: the desert, a cup of coffee,
The morning paper, and a cigarette
The Morning Paper and a Cigarette
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Morning Paper and a Cigarette
The morning paper and a cigarette,
A cup of coffee to complete the theme
A booth with creaky, cracked leatherette seats
And a sticky-top table stained with stories
A joint called Al’s, just off the interstate
Dry desert cold lingering from the autumn night
Until the sun rises to light the way
To California, and The Hungry i
For now: the desert, a cup of coffee,
The morning paper, and a cigarette
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Morning Paper and a Cigarette
The morning paper and a cigarette,
A cup of coffee to complete the theme
A booth with creaky, cracked leatherette seats
And a sticky-top table stained with stories
A joint called Al’s, just off the interstate
Dry desert cold lingering from the autumn night
Until the sun rises to light the way
To California, and The Hungry i
For now: the desert, a cup of coffee,
The morning paper, and a cigarette
Tuesday, March 24, 2015
The Great Gatsby
The Tedious Gatsby, Old Sport
I took up Gatsby, and I read,
And now I’m glad that Gatsby’s dead.
I took up Gatsby, and I read,
And now I’m glad that Gatsby’s dead.
Sunday, March 22, 2015
A Letter from France, 1919
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
A Letter from France, 1919
At an estate sale I considered buying an old letter, and decided not to. Then I considered it again, and bought it after all. It is written from France on stationery printed “AMERICAN YMCA” and ON ACTIVE SERVICE WITH THE AMERICAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCE.” The envelope is franked “SOLDIER’S MAIL” and features the “OK” and the illegible signature of the censorship officer.
A young man from Orange, Texas, probably a teenager, writes of occupation duty, erratic mail service, the marvels of electricity (few American homes had electricity in 1919), and of frustration because he and his regiment have been kept behind in France for months after their active service in combat.
Although the penmanship from this doughboy of a century ago is elegant, the paper and the ink have both deteriorated and so I may have erred in transcription. The letter is addressed to:
Mrs. M Akins
R. A. Box 69
Orange
Texas
Febuary 5, 1919
My Dear Mother & All:
Well I hope you have heard from me by this time as the last letter I got from you said that you had not heard from me in 3 months and I don’t know what the matter was as I write very often and I sure mail them. Well what kind of weather are you having at home we are having bum weather now it has quit snowing and going to raining but it is not so very cold but last week it was awful cold. Well we are still working on the French roads and I think we are doing fine as you know all of the boys are disgusted as we have been over hear almost 15 months and haven’t got to go home yet and there were some regiments over here that weren’t over here hardly no time and now have gone home and we are still in France and I sure do want to come home awful bad. I sure do want to come home but I guess I will just have to stick it out. Say the country here sure is wonderful you have heard of cave dwellers well there are miles and miles here along the river front some of the prettiest houses you ever seen just dug out in the solid rock and the farms here are all nice all the towns around here have eletcric lights and they sure look old I mean the cave dwellers. And there sure some crooked stretts here and they are about wide enough for a baby buggy.
Well I will ring off for this time and write more the next love to all
Ralph H Akins 17104
30th Company
20th Engineers
American E. F.
Almost a century later we are left wondering about young Ralph, about when he finally got to go home to Orange, what his mom cooked him for supper that first night back, and what he did afterward in life.
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
A Letter from France, 1919
At an estate sale I considered buying an old letter, and decided not to. Then I considered it again, and bought it after all. It is written from France on stationery printed “AMERICAN YMCA” and ON ACTIVE SERVICE WITH THE AMERICAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCE.” The envelope is franked “SOLDIER’S MAIL” and features the “OK” and the illegible signature of the censorship officer.
A young man from Orange, Texas, probably a teenager, writes of occupation duty, erratic mail service, the marvels of electricity (few American homes had electricity in 1919), and of frustration because he and his regiment have been kept behind in France for months after their active service in combat.
Although the penmanship from this doughboy of a century ago is elegant, the paper and the ink have both deteriorated and so I may have erred in transcription. The letter is addressed to:
Mrs. M Akins
R. A. Box 69
Orange
Texas
Febuary 5, 1919
My Dear Mother & All:
Well I hope you have heard from me by this time as the last letter I got from you said that you had not heard from me in 3 months and I don’t know what the matter was as I write very often and I sure mail them. Well what kind of weather are you having at home we are having bum weather now it has quit snowing and going to raining but it is not so very cold but last week it was awful cold. Well we are still working on the French roads and I think we are doing fine as you know all of the boys are disgusted as we have been over hear almost 15 months and haven’t got to go home yet and there were some regiments over here that weren’t over here hardly no time and now have gone home and we are still in France and I sure do want to come home awful bad. I sure do want to come home but I guess I will just have to stick it out. Say the country here sure is wonderful you have heard of cave dwellers well there are miles and miles here along the river front some of the prettiest houses you ever seen just dug out in the solid rock and the farms here are all nice all the towns around here have eletcric lights and they sure look old I mean the cave dwellers. And there sure some crooked stretts here and they are about wide enough for a baby buggy.
Well I will ring off for this time and write more the next love to all
Ralph H Akins 17104
30th Company
20th Engineers
American E. F.
Almost a century later we are left wondering about young Ralph, about when he finally got to go home to Orange, what his mom cooked him for supper that first night back, and what he did afterward in life.
-30-
Saturday, March 21, 2015
What Was in the White House Package?
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
What Was in the White House Package?
That the Not-So-Secret Service seems to consist only of superannuated frat boys carrying firearms is old news, so there is no surprise about their latest comedy routine from The Naked Gun: From the Files of Police Squad.
Paging Detective Frank Drebin…
In their latest (as of this scribbling) comedy routine, a couple of the Secret Action Hero lads drove to the White House under the influence of a late night of merriment and good fellowship, and compromised an investigation into a suspicious package (are there any trusting packages?) left at the gates.
If the local coppers / flatfoots / Peelers / gumshoes / Sherlocks / constabulary / Officer Semanskis had been permitted to investigate we would have known all about the package within a day or two. Given that The Happy Hour Cocktail Commandos are in charge, we can only speculate about what was in the suspicious package left at the White House gates. Some possibilities:
1. An advance copy of the new federally mandated cookbook for schools and hospitals: Gruel – It’s Not Just for Victorian Orphanages
2. Transcripts of a former secretary of state’s misplaced emails
3. A map to Vladimir Putin’s secret hideout where he plans world domination, beginning with Disneyland
4. A copy of the U.S. Constitution
5. A book of Hillary’s cookie recipes
6. Pizza
7. The complete The Brady Bunch Meet The Flintstones on DVD, including The Lost Episodes
8. An invitation to join Governor Christie and his wife for a game of bridge
9. The remains of a fence-jumper who misjudged speed, distance, height, and those really sharp spikes
10. The complete edition of late-night TV Secret Service Jokes in three DVDs dropped by a renegade drone
But I must close now. It’s midnight, and there’s a knock on the door. Wonder who it could be…
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
What Was in the White House Package?
That the Not-So-Secret Service seems to consist only of superannuated frat boys carrying firearms is old news, so there is no surprise about their latest comedy routine from The Naked Gun: From the Files of Police Squad.
Paging Detective Frank Drebin…
In their latest (as of this scribbling) comedy routine, a couple of the Secret Action Hero lads drove to the White House under the influence of a late night of merriment and good fellowship, and compromised an investigation into a suspicious package (are there any trusting packages?) left at the gates.
If the local coppers / flatfoots / Peelers / gumshoes / Sherlocks / constabulary / Officer Semanskis had been permitted to investigate we would have known all about the package within a day or two. Given that The Happy Hour Cocktail Commandos are in charge, we can only speculate about what was in the suspicious package left at the White House gates. Some possibilities:
1. An advance copy of the new federally mandated cookbook for schools and hospitals: Gruel – It’s Not Just for Victorian Orphanages
2. Transcripts of a former secretary of state’s misplaced emails
3. A map to Vladimir Putin’s secret hideout where he plans world domination, beginning with Disneyland
4. A copy of the U.S. Constitution
5. A book of Hillary’s cookie recipes
6. Pizza
7. The complete The Brady Bunch Meet The Flintstones on DVD, including The Lost Episodes
8. An invitation to join Governor Christie and his wife for a game of bridge
9. The remains of a fence-jumper who misjudged speed, distance, height, and those really sharp spikes
10. The complete edition of late-night TV Secret Service Jokes in three DVDs dropped by a renegade drone
But I must close now. It’s midnight, and there’s a knock on the door. Wonder who it could be…
-30-
Tuesday, March 17, 2015
A Funeral
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
A Funeral
The hymns have been sung, and the Gospel read;
We prayed for everyone except the dead
Mhall46184@aol.com
A Funeral
The hymns have been sung, and the Gospel read;
We prayed for everyone except the dead
Friday, March 13, 2015
Old Karamazov
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Old Karamazov
Young Karamazov – once upon a time
Strolled dreaming through the happy hopes of youth
And surely wondered about spring and love
Wrote clumsy verse, perhaps, for a pretty girl
Then fell unfortunately into fashion:
The acquisition of proud vanities
Through the disposition of dreams and souls
Until he was only an old man who
Sat brooding through the bitter schemes of age
Old Karamazov – lost upon a time
Mhall46184@aol.com
Old Karamazov
Young Karamazov – once upon a time
Strolled dreaming through the happy hopes of youth
And surely wondered about spring and love
Wrote clumsy verse, perhaps, for a pretty girl
Then fell unfortunately into fashion:
The acquisition of proud vanities
Through the disposition of dreams and souls
Until he was only an old man who
Sat brooding through the bitter schemes of age
Old Karamazov – lost upon a time
Wednesday, March 11, 2015
Welcome to Texas
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Welcome to Texas
Welcome to Texas no bathroom no no
Museum closed left lane closed right lane closed
The clerk has your receipt no bathroom no
Rest stop closed traffic fines double if you don’t
Slow down for the workers who aren’t there
This is the lane for 287 south
But it isn’t ha ha fooled you again
Detour now past the Blackberry beggar
Who must go to the bathroom somewhere here
Welcome to Texas no bathroom no no
Mhall46184@aol.com
Welcome to Texas
Welcome to Texas no bathroom no no
Museum closed left lane closed right lane closed
The clerk has your receipt no bathroom no
Rest stop closed traffic fines double if you don’t
Slow down for the workers who aren’t there
This is the lane for 287 south
But it isn’t ha ha fooled you again
Detour now past the Blackberry beggar
Who must go to the bathroom somewhere here
Welcome to Texas no bathroom no no
POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS POLICE LINE
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS POLICE LINE
Another world beyond the yellow tape:
Chaos and smoke, confusion, blood, and pain
A wreckage of souls, cigarettes, and beer
Grim death encompassed within appointed bounds.
Some order on this side the yellow tape:
Cheeseburgers and fries, sodas in paper cups
MePhones uplifted in Hitlerian salute
Recording the pagan chant: “OMG!”
Sung by life’s postulants surprised to see
Another world beyond the yellow tape
Mhall46184@aol.com
POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS POLICE LINE
Another world beyond the yellow tape:
Chaos and smoke, confusion, blood, and pain
A wreckage of souls, cigarettes, and beer
Grim death encompassed within appointed bounds.
Some order on this side the yellow tape:
Cheeseburgers and fries, sodas in paper cups
MePhones uplifted in Hitlerian salute
Recording the pagan chant: “OMG!”
Sung by life’s postulants surprised to see
Another world beyond the yellow tape
Die Skihutte / The Ski Hut
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Die Skihutte
Upon a shelf a tiny hut awaits
Its tiny skiers on their holiday
A tiny bench sits on the lamplit porch
And someone’s skis are leaned against the wall
The tiny door is closed against the cold
But windows with their shutters open wide
Invite a peek into a tiny world
Of bunks and boots and books and bottles of beer
A pot of stew kept warm beside the fire -
Upon a shelf a tiny hut awaits
Mhall46184@aol.com
Die Skihutte
Upon a shelf a tiny hut awaits
Its tiny skiers on their holiday
A tiny bench sits on the lamplit porch
And someone’s skis are leaned against the wall
The tiny door is closed against the cold
But windows with their shutters open wide
Invite a peek into a tiny world
Of bunks and boots and books and bottles of beer
A pot of stew kept warm beside the fire -
Upon a shelf a tiny hut awaits
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