Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
The Fall of Man
A Christian walking down the street -
A dog came by and tripped his feet
The man fell down; oh, gosh, it hurt!
Another man (his name was Bert)1
Said
“We don’t agree on what’s essential;
I, you see, am existential
I’ll call my friend; you’re in a fix -
You’ll need two walking agnostics!
(Thank you. Thank you very much.)
1Father Raph suggests that this passerby might have been Bertram Russell
Wu Who?
One misses the British Empire
And the jolly old Hapsburgs too
The Czars beneath an onion spire
And Chinese emperors named Wu
The Heart of the House
In the place of honor, a great flat screen -
No sacred image of Our Lady Queen
No crucifix, cross, or ikon Hellene
No painting of some calm pastoral scene -
No, only a glowing, pulsing flat screen
On which nothing worthy is ever seen
The Latest Pew Poll
Sometimes you just don’t know what you should
do -
So park that problem in the nearest pew
Monday, July 6, 2015
Bill Kristol Disapproves of Baby Boomers
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Baby Boomers
For William Kristol Epiphanes
Children of privilege getting up at four
To herd milk cows in from ice-sleeted woods
And then at dawn running late down the lane
To catch the rattling school bus into town
Self-indulgent baby-boomers sentenced
To the gasping heat of Indo-China
Along the banks of the Song Vam Co Tay
Not optimistic about seeing the dawn
A useless, indolent generation
Working double shifts at the shop by night
Chaucer, geometry, history by day
Coffee, noodles, used textbooks, the laundromat
Those insolent, unfocused layabouts
On pilgrimage along the American road
Jobs, families, house-notes, voting, and taxes
But judged and found wanting by The Divine Bill
mhall46184@aol.com
Baby Boomers
For William Kristol Epiphanes
Children of privilege getting up at four
To herd milk cows in from ice-sleeted woods
And then at dawn running late down the lane
To catch the rattling school bus into town
Self-indulgent baby-boomers sentenced
To the gasping heat of Indo-China
Along the banks of the Song Vam Co Tay
Not optimistic about seeing the dawn
A useless, indolent generation
Working double shifts at the shop by night
Chaucer, geometry, history by day
Coffee, noodles, used textbooks, the laundromat
Those insolent, unfocused layabouts
On pilgrimage along the American road
Jobs, families, house-notes, voting, and taxes
But judged and found wanting by The Divine Bill
The Indictment of Beowulf
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
The Indictment of Beowulf
A sad, sensitive, suffering soul,
Dwelling deeply down in a wetland,
Poisoned by perfidious polluters,
And cunning cultural imperialism,
Vacated vehement vegetarianism,
And dined on Danes, delicious Danes,
Who foolishly failed in their fatuous folly
To understand Grendel's special needs.
His hunger for delectable Danes in truth
A plaintive plea for pity, for grief counseling,
Because the demonic, devilish Danes
Forced Grendel to devour them
Through their ethnocentric failure to
inculturate,
Vividly vivifying Grendel's victimhood.
The harrowing of Herot, high Herot,
Was, as all the world knows,
The fault of the Danes themselves.
'Til that warrior came, that weaponed wonder,
That greatest of Geats, brave Beowulf,
Who slew misunderstood Grendel,
Grendel, who had a bad childhood,
His existential angst
Crying out among the fluorescent-lit cinder-
blocks,
Who just happened to be standing on dead
bodies,
Dead Danish bodies, waiting for his friend,
His friend, um, Bob, um, to
To drive him to his therapy.
Or maybe to his Bible class.
And the Danes cheered that brave Beowulf,
Deliverer of that people, leader of men,
Until office-hungry courtiers,
Perfumed, protected, precious princes
Loaded fantasies into their photo programs,
And promoted a perfidious pogrom,
Sacrificing truth, once again
Worshipping the old, old gods.
Then Hrothgar, as commanded by the Court,
The wonderful, worshipful Witan Court
Arrested Beowulf, woeful warrior,
For the worst of war crimes -- winning a war.
"Hwaet!" wailed the wise ones, wrapped in robes,
Judicial robes spun from the blood of workers.
"We accuse you of insensitivity, of Grendel-cide,
Of profiling, heterosexuality, and smoking
cigarettes.
We accuse you, in the name of The People,
The MePhone-passive, obedient People,
Who think as they are told, vote as they are told,
Dress as they are told, riot as they are told,
The People, in whose Name we fatten ourselves --
We accuse you, Beowulf, of thinking for yourself.
We accuse you of courage, of caring, of
compassion.
We accuse you of killing an innocent creature
Who was just expressing his or her existential
angst,
Undoubtedly abused by a meddlesome priest,
And of killing a mother, a caring mother,
An artist, an acclaimed artist
And an activist (we forget just for what)
Whose scraps of human skin on the walls of her
den
Won a 1985 Honorable Mention
In the Cutting-Edge Arts Show and Peace Rally.
"Did you try therapy, tender-touch therapy?
Did you offer Grendel, that forest-forager,
Your human hand in in humane humility?"
Then Beowulf, greatest of the Geats,
Deliverer of Danes, destroyer of dung-hearts,
Stood, and, almost unlocking words from his
pancreas...
Was told by his court-appointed attorneys
That his salvation reposed in silence.
"It was all Beowulf's fault!" cried The People,
Forgetting the slaughter of their friends.
"Punish Beowulf for lying about
Monsters of mad destruction!
Let us abase ourselves
For offending Grendel,
Cultural, colorful Grendel, and let us dialogue
And inculturate. Like, y'know."
And so beaten Beowulf, now baddest of the bad,
Retired to his country home
To spend more time with his family
to write his memoirs,
While his men, winning warriors all,
Rowed back to Geatland, and were ignored
By the MePhone People,
Who praised whomever in this hour’s Daily Mail
And had no more use for truth, justice,
Or the Geat way. They tore down statues
Of their warriors, and put up peace plazas,
And lapsed into languor, Lethe-ish languor.
And other Grendels, grinning Grendels,
Waited and watched.
mhall46184@aol.com
The Indictment of Beowulf
A sad, sensitive, suffering soul,
Dwelling deeply down in a wetland,
Poisoned by perfidious polluters,
And cunning cultural imperialism,
Vacated vehement vegetarianism,
And dined on Danes, delicious Danes,
Who foolishly failed in their fatuous folly
To understand Grendel's special needs.
His hunger for delectable Danes in truth
A plaintive plea for pity, for grief counseling,
Because the demonic, devilish Danes
Forced Grendel to devour them
Through their ethnocentric failure to
inculturate,
Vividly vivifying Grendel's victimhood.
The harrowing of Herot, high Herot,
Was, as all the world knows,
The fault of the Danes themselves.
'Til that warrior came, that weaponed wonder,
That greatest of Geats, brave Beowulf,
Who slew misunderstood Grendel,
Grendel, who had a bad childhood,
His existential angst
Crying out among the fluorescent-lit cinder-
blocks,
Who just happened to be standing on dead
bodies,
Dead Danish bodies, waiting for his friend,
His friend, um, Bob, um, to
To drive him to his therapy.
Or maybe to his Bible class.
And the Danes cheered that brave Beowulf,
Deliverer of that people, leader of men,
Until office-hungry courtiers,
Perfumed, protected, precious princes
Loaded fantasies into their photo programs,
And promoted a perfidious pogrom,
Sacrificing truth, once again
Worshipping the old, old gods.
Then Hrothgar, as commanded by the Court,
The wonderful, worshipful Witan Court
Arrested Beowulf, woeful warrior,
For the worst of war crimes -- winning a war.
"Hwaet!" wailed the wise ones, wrapped in robes,
Judicial robes spun from the blood of workers.
"We accuse you of insensitivity, of Grendel-cide,
Of profiling, heterosexuality, and smoking
cigarettes.
We accuse you, in the name of The People,
The MePhone-passive, obedient People,
Who think as they are told, vote as they are told,
Dress as they are told, riot as they are told,
The People, in whose Name we fatten ourselves --
We accuse you, Beowulf, of thinking for yourself.
We accuse you of courage, of caring, of
compassion.
We accuse you of killing an innocent creature
Who was just expressing his or her existential
angst,
Undoubtedly abused by a meddlesome priest,
And of killing a mother, a caring mother,
An artist, an acclaimed artist
And an activist (we forget just for what)
Whose scraps of human skin on the walls of her
den
Won a 1985 Honorable Mention
In the Cutting-Edge Arts Show and Peace Rally.
"Did you try therapy, tender-touch therapy?
Did you offer Grendel, that forest-forager,
Your human hand in in humane humility?"
Then Beowulf, greatest of the Geats,
Deliverer of Danes, destroyer of dung-hearts,
Stood, and, almost unlocking words from his
pancreas...
Was told by his court-appointed attorneys
That his salvation reposed in silence.
"It was all Beowulf's fault!" cried The People,
Forgetting the slaughter of their friends.
"Punish Beowulf for lying about
Monsters of mad destruction!
Let us abase ourselves
For offending Grendel,
Cultural, colorful Grendel, and let us dialogue
And inculturate. Like, y'know."
And so beaten Beowulf, now baddest of the bad,
Retired to his country home
To spend more time with his family
to write his memoirs,
While his men, winning warriors all,
Rowed back to Geatland, and were ignored
By the MePhone People,
Who praised whomever in this hour’s Daily Mail
And had no more use for truth, justice,
Or the Geat way. They tore down statues
Of their warriors, and put up peace plazas,
And lapsed into languor, Lethe-ish languor.
And other Grendels, grinning Grendels,
Waited and watched.
Somewhat Annoying Dan McGrew
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Somewhat Annoying Dan McGrew
A bunch of the guyyys were whooo-ing it up
in the Pomeranian Latte Café
The dude that works the cappuccino machine
was really making it play
Back of the expresso bar all afunk sat a tiresome
chap named Leather
And snooping out his ‘phone was his soul-mate
true, a person that’s known as Heather
When out of the night, which was fifty above,
and into the din of yuppies
There stumbled a designer fresh from a show, in
need of a shower, and loaded for puppies
He looked like a guy with a foot in Wal-Mart, and
scarcely the strength of an elf
Yet he tilted a credit card onto the bar, and
called for coffee for himself
There was no could place the new guy’s face,
though and nobody cared a feather
But we ignored his health, and the last to ignore
him was Somewhat Annoying Biff Leather
There’s guys that tire your eyes, somewhat like a
rotten tuna
And such was he, and he looked to me like a guy
who had lived in Buna
With a styled goatee (not a good look, you see),
and the half-and-half all swirled
Then I got to figuring who he was, in a sports
coat colored like (I’m all out of rhymes for
Leather)
And I turned my head – watching him was the
person that’s known as Heather
His eyes went latexing around the room…but the reader can take pen or gadget in hand and continue.
Robert W. Service is out of fashion at present, probably because writing rhyming doggerel is pretty much a crime, as is much of Service’s vocabulary. But he’s good. He insisted that he wrote verse, not poetry, and verse for miners, sailors, soldiers, and bums. He succeeded brilliantly. And what a life he lived!
mhall46184@aol.com
Somewhat Annoying Dan McGrew
A bunch of the guyyys were whooo-ing it up
in the Pomeranian Latte Café
The dude that works the cappuccino machine
was really making it play
Back of the expresso bar all afunk sat a tiresome
chap named Leather
And snooping out his ‘phone was his soul-mate
true, a person that’s known as Heather
When out of the night, which was fifty above,
and into the din of yuppies
There stumbled a designer fresh from a show, in
need of a shower, and loaded for puppies
He looked like a guy with a foot in Wal-Mart, and
scarcely the strength of an elf
Yet he tilted a credit card onto the bar, and
called for coffee for himself
There was no could place the new guy’s face,
though and nobody cared a feather
But we ignored his health, and the last to ignore
him was Somewhat Annoying Biff Leather
There’s guys that tire your eyes, somewhat like a
rotten tuna
And such was he, and he looked to me like a guy
who had lived in Buna
With a styled goatee (not a good look, you see),
and the half-and-half all swirled
Then I got to figuring who he was, in a sports
coat colored like (I’m all out of rhymes for
Leather)
And I turned my head – watching him was the
person that’s known as Heather
His eyes went latexing around the room…but the reader can take pen or gadget in hand and continue.
Robert W. Service is out of fashion at present, probably because writing rhyming doggerel is pretty much a crime, as is much of Service’s vocabulary. But he’s good. He insisted that he wrote verse, not poetry, and verse for miners, sailors, soldiers, and bums. He succeeded brilliantly. And what a life he lived!
Three Short Poems
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Sanctuary
There is nothing outside. Yes, there are doors
One can, for now, come in, for there are doors
And one can always leave, for there are doors
But to go where? There is nothing outside.
The Doors! The Doors!
The celebrant still cries “The doors! The doors!”
But now we shut them only on ourselves
Silly Old Ox
Two stockings make complete a pair of socks
And two physicians are a paradox
And two Greek fellows are, yes, Orthodox!
mhall46184@aol.com
Sanctuary
There is nothing outside. Yes, there are doors
One can, for now, come in, for there are doors
And one can always leave, for there are doors
But to go where? There is nothing outside.
The Doors! The Doors!
The celebrant still cries “The doors! The doors!”
But now we shut them only on ourselves
Silly Old Ox
Two stockings make complete a pair of socks
And two physicians are a paradox
And two Greek fellows are, yes, Orthodox!
The End of the World - There are Crumbs all Over Your Shirt
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
There are Crumbs all Over Your Shirt
For a friend who must remain anonymous
A man in silences sniffs the air and notes
That wolves are lurking in the nearby copse
And his wife says:
“There are crumbs all over your shirt.”
A man in grief meditates a tragedy
And weigh its pain between scripture and prayer
And his wife says:
“There are crumbs all over your shirt.”
A man observes a burning house; alarmed,
He rushes in to save an endangered child
And his wife says:
“There are crumbs all over your shirt.”
A man has trouble opening the door:
“Dear Wife, there is a corpse upon the mat.”
And his wife replies:
“There are crumbs all over your shirt.”
The missiles fall, the skies and moon turn red
The tides run high, are littered with the dead
The air is poisoned (which is always odd)
A man says “We must give our lives to God.”
And his wife replies:
“There are crumbs all over your shirt.
And wipe your feet; I just mopped the
floor.”
mhall46184@aol.com
There are Crumbs all Over Your Shirt
For a friend who must remain anonymous
A man in silences sniffs the air and notes
That wolves are lurking in the nearby copse
And his wife says:
“There are crumbs all over your shirt.”
A man in grief meditates a tragedy
And weigh its pain between scripture and prayer
And his wife says:
“There are crumbs all over your shirt.”
A man observes a burning house; alarmed,
He rushes in to save an endangered child
And his wife says:
“There are crumbs all over your shirt.”
A man has trouble opening the door:
“Dear Wife, there is a corpse upon the mat.”
And his wife replies:
“There are crumbs all over your shirt.”
The missiles fall, the skies and moon turn red
The tides run high, are littered with the dead
The air is poisoned (which is always odd)
A man says “We must give our lives to God.”
And his wife replies:
“There are crumbs all over your shirt.
And wipe your feet; I just mopped the
floor.”
Even the Frogs are Plotting Against Us
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Shhhhh…Even the Frogs
are Plotting Against Us
Little green frog upon the window screen
What are your intentions? What do you mean?
No Yankee Doodle Frog lurks in the night
Devouring bugs with its reptilian bite
Perhaps you are the newest Vatican drone
Programmed to spy out this domestic zone
Reporting to your masters in Peking
Your victim’s times for sleeping and waking
And sending secret codes from ice cream trucks
Unmarked UN chickens whose lying clucks
Are beamed from behind those closed big-box
stores
Political prisoners locked behind their doors -
But we with our emails will overwhelm
The NATO conspiracy of Jade Helm!
mhall46184@aol.com
Shhhhh…Even the Frogs
are Plotting Against Us
Little green frog upon the window screen
What are your intentions? What do you mean?
No Yankee Doodle Frog lurks in the night
Devouring bugs with its reptilian bite
Perhaps you are the newest Vatican drone
Programmed to spy out this domestic zone
Reporting to your masters in Peking
Your victim’s times for sleeping and waking
And sending secret codes from ice cream trucks
Unmarked UN chickens whose lying clucks
Are beamed from behind those closed big-box
stores
Political prisoners locked behind their doors -
But we with our emails will overwhelm
The NATO conspiracy of Jade Helm!
A Bucketful of Short Poems
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Abercrombie & Wal-Mart
As vain as any Paris boulevardier
The mighty hunter stalks the latest fashion
The latest camouflage is his only way
If it’s declasse’, his face turns ashen
When hunting wary deer through mud and mire
He must have a new suit of latest sheen
For all of his good buddies to admire
In leaf-mold green - so that he won’t be seen!
Blocking Progress
We must shore up crumbling institutions
Not because they are crumbling
Or even because they are institutions
But because they are right
A Republic
No God and no kings, no givers of rings
Only the scripted yelpings of a mob
Admiring each other’s piercings and tats
By the flickering light of burning books
Premium Unleaded Dinosaur
Drive faster, farther, more and more!
The gas tank’s full of dinosaur -
Faster than feet, faster than mules,
Just gotta love those fossil fuels!
Teach a Man to Fish
Give a man a fish and he’ll eat that day
Teach a man to fish and then he will say
“Forget this; gimme another ****ed fish.”
Prose and Poetry
Prose is nothing more than an untanned hide
From a bunny rabbit beaten to death
With a large stick, a rock, an unwashed fist
Poetry is a Sheffield-crafted knife
Well-sharpened and well-oiled, a work of art
Carefully cradled in an artisan’s hand
A Windy Day in Rome
If hungry children ask their father for bread
Will he then give them climate lectures instead?
These Floors Have Character
“These floorrrrrrrrs have characterrrrrr,” the
buyer purrrrrred,
Dragging trailing consonants to their deaths
Along the continuum of puffery
And then she stepped on the charactered floors
A Wireless God
A crucifix, an ikon on the shelf -
But how does Talk Guy venerate himself?
“But They Didn’t Let Me Finish!”
For Isaac Babel
Babel, you hated Russian, Pole, and Jew
You wrote the same old bigotry, nothing new
You wrote as you were told, in ink all Red
In gratitude dear Stalin shot you dead
Kennkarte
In Hitler’s time the Kennkarte was required
As proof that Aryan blood had not been
mired
By interbreeding with us lesser folk
Thus contaminating that Nordic yolk
The Kennkarte…
Once properly despised as grievous sin
But now…
Who dreamed the Kennkarte would be back
again?
mhall46184@aol.com
Abercrombie & Wal-Mart
As vain as any Paris boulevardier
The mighty hunter stalks the latest fashion
The latest camouflage is his only way
If it’s declasse’, his face turns ashen
When hunting wary deer through mud and mire
He must have a new suit of latest sheen
For all of his good buddies to admire
In leaf-mold green - so that he won’t be seen!
Blocking Progress
We must shore up crumbling institutions
Not because they are crumbling
Or even because they are institutions
But because they are right
A Republic
No God and no kings, no givers of rings
Only the scripted yelpings of a mob
Admiring each other’s piercings and tats
By the flickering light of burning books
Premium Unleaded Dinosaur
Drive faster, farther, more and more!
The gas tank’s full of dinosaur -
Faster than feet, faster than mules,
Just gotta love those fossil fuels!
Teach a Man to Fish
Give a man a fish and he’ll eat that day
Teach a man to fish and then he will say
“Forget this; gimme another ****ed fish.”
Prose and Poetry
Prose is nothing more than an untanned hide
From a bunny rabbit beaten to death
With a large stick, a rock, an unwashed fist
Poetry is a Sheffield-crafted knife
Well-sharpened and well-oiled, a work of art
Carefully cradled in an artisan’s hand
A Windy Day in Rome
If hungry children ask their father for bread
Will he then give them climate lectures instead?
These Floors Have Character
“These floorrrrrrrrs have characterrrrrr,” the
buyer purrrrrred,
Dragging trailing consonants to their deaths
Along the continuum of puffery
And then she stepped on the charactered floors
A Wireless God
A crucifix, an ikon on the shelf -
But how does Talk Guy venerate himself?
“But They Didn’t Let Me Finish!”
For Isaac Babel
Babel, you hated Russian, Pole, and Jew
You wrote the same old bigotry, nothing new
You wrote as you were told, in ink all Red
In gratitude dear Stalin shot you dead
Kennkarte
In Hitler’s time the Kennkarte was required
As proof that Aryan blood had not been
mired
By interbreeding with us lesser folk
Thus contaminating that Nordic yolk
The Kennkarte…
Once properly despised as grievous sin
But now…
Who dreamed the Kennkarte would be back
again?
Feles Arcana
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Feles Arcana
A misty, mournful, mysterious dusk
In the far west, a dying, paling glow
Overhead, a cold, sinister half-moon
The back yard darkens to an evil grey
Cats sit eerily, silent, motionless
Posed in different artistic attitudes
Like statues in a murky pagan temple
They wait, they watch, they listen;
they do not move
Are they waiting for the ancient Cat-Goddess?
Do they ponder the end of Man and Time?
Is this the hour they worship dark powers?
Do they listen for voices from the nether world?
Sarah says they’re waiting to be fed
Women are like that
mhall46184@aol.com
Feles Arcana
A misty, mournful, mysterious dusk
In the far west, a dying, paling glow
Overhead, a cold, sinister half-moon
The back yard darkens to an evil grey
Cats sit eerily, silent, motionless
Posed in different artistic attitudes
Like statues in a murky pagan temple
They wait, they watch, they listen;
they do not move
Are they waiting for the ancient Cat-Goddess?
Do they ponder the end of Man and Time?
Is this the hour they worship dark powers?
Do they listen for voices from the nether world?
Sarah says they’re waiting to be fed
Women are like that
Advent at the Dollar Store
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Advent at the Dollar Store
The boozy, roachy desperation of
the unswept dollar store’s cellophane dreams
At Prices You’ll Love boxes of oilless
popcorn poppers deep-fat fryers massagers
to sweeten generational desperation
behind the counter cigarettes locked up
We Cash Work And Welfare Checks can’t afford
our own homes so we console ourselves with
electric hair-curlers and boxes of chips
singing NFL coffee machines
shiny new bicycles to be stolen
before the end of January or
left out to rust in the February rain
dusty plastic holly shiny CD
players for the administration of
anesthesia Jumbo Bargain Gift Wrap
for Your Happy Holiday Shopping Pleasure
No Shirt No Shoes No Service No, No, No
Hyphenated Industries of Chicago,
Tokyo, Seoul, and Taipei wishes us
a Merry Christmas
mhall46184@aol.com
Advent at the Dollar Store
The boozy, roachy desperation of
the unswept dollar store’s cellophane dreams
At Prices You’ll Love boxes of oilless
popcorn poppers deep-fat fryers massagers
to sweeten generational desperation
behind the counter cigarettes locked up
We Cash Work And Welfare Checks can’t afford
our own homes so we console ourselves with
electric hair-curlers and boxes of chips
singing NFL coffee machines
shiny new bicycles to be stolen
before the end of January or
left out to rust in the February rain
dusty plastic holly shiny CD
players for the administration of
anesthesia Jumbo Bargain Gift Wrap
for Your Happy Holiday Shopping Pleasure
No Shirt No Shoes No Service No, No, No
Hyphenated Industries of Chicago,
Tokyo, Seoul, and Taipei wishes us
a Merry Christmas
Haiku for Autumn
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Haiku for Autumn
Autumn grass browning
Pale, cold, high, austere blue skies
Children in Sweaters
An early chilling
Brisk north wind blowing away
Summer’s hot dampness
Autumn and a pipe
Smoked under a hill-top oak
Watching the geese fly
Early, icy fogs
In the rotting wood hollows
Wind in the pine tops
Men smoke, chew, and talk
Shotguns, dogs, woods, trucks, and bucks -
Almost deer season!
mhall46184@aol.com
Haiku for Autumn
Autumn grass browning
Pale, cold, high, austere blue skies
Children in Sweaters
An early chilling
Brisk north wind blowing away
Summer’s hot dampness
Autumn and a pipe
Smoked under a hill-top oak
Watching the geese fly
Early, icy fogs
In the rotting wood hollows
Wind in the pine tops
Men smoke, chew, and talk
Shotguns, dogs, woods, trucks, and bucks -
Almost deer season!
Existential Identity Crisis in the Student Commons
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Existential Identity Crisis
in the Student Commons
He wears a little plastic cap that says
Harley-Davidson
He wears a tee that says
Texas A & M
(he’s enrolled in Angelina College)
He wears a jacks that says
Go Climb a Glacier
He wears on the jacket a patch that says
Scorpio
He wears a belt-buckle that says
Peterbilt
He Wears a belt that says
John 3:16
He wears sneakers that say
Adidas
He carries a bag that says
Tennis is My Racket
He says
That he’s suffering an identity crisis
mhall46184@aol.com
Existential Identity Crisis
in the Student Commons
He wears a little plastic cap that says
Harley-Davidson
He wears a tee that says
Texas A & M
(he’s enrolled in Angelina College)
He wears a jacks that says
Go Climb a Glacier
He wears on the jacket a patch that says
Scorpio
He wears a belt-buckle that says
Peterbilt
He Wears a belt that says
John 3:16
He wears sneakers that say
Adidas
He carries a bag that says
Tennis is My Racket
He says
That he’s suffering an identity crisis
Three Short Poems from Viet-Nam
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Intensive Care Unit
A twilight world
A mad world
Peering down infected wounds
Mortars night building shiver
Down from the black sky flares float
Broken bodies from a few klicks away
Eyes of a shattered nineteen-year-old Marine
Staring at the door to Yokosuka
R & R in Sydney
On the corner of Bridge and Pitts
The wind is chilly, and little raindrops alight
On his spectacles
Sydney-siders dressed warmly in dark suits
And dark waistcoats
And dark raincoats
And carrying dark umbrellas
Bustle about, coming and going
Purposefully walking here and there
The skinny American in a pullover
And thin slacks
Shivers conspicuously
And marvels: this is July!
On the Corner of Bridge and Pitts
September on the Vam Co Tay
Rain is drizzling on the River
And the whole world has gone grey
Amid the muck and mud and sandbags
Stinking and hot and effing miserable
On the Cambodian border
But the chlorine-mud coffee is warm
And they usually don’t shoot us
in the daylight
And The World is only
Fifty-three days away
mhall46184@aol.com
Intensive Care Unit
A twilight world
A mad world
Peering down infected wounds
Mortars night building shiver
Down from the black sky flares float
Broken bodies from a few klicks away
Eyes of a shattered nineteen-year-old Marine
Staring at the door to Yokosuka
R & R in Sydney
On the corner of Bridge and Pitts
The wind is chilly, and little raindrops alight
On his spectacles
Sydney-siders dressed warmly in dark suits
And dark waistcoats
And dark raincoats
And carrying dark umbrellas
Bustle about, coming and going
Purposefully walking here and there
The skinny American in a pullover
And thin slacks
Shivers conspicuously
And marvels: this is July!
On the Corner of Bridge and Pitts
September on the Vam Co Tay
Rain is drizzling on the River
And the whole world has gone grey
Amid the muck and mud and sandbags
Stinking and hot and effing miserable
On the Cambodian border
But the chlorine-mud coffee is warm
And they usually don’t shoot us
in the daylight
And The World is only
Fifty-three days away
The First Day of Summer
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
The 21st of June
Summer begins at eleven thirty-five
Say the boys in white coats. Oh, what a jive;
‘Cause that’s not the date it can ever arrive
Every school child knows summer comes alive
On the last day of school, at three thirty-five!
mhall46184@aol.com
The 21st of June
Summer begins at eleven thirty-five
Say the boys in white coats. Oh, what a jive;
‘Cause that’s not the date it can ever arrive
Every school child knows summer comes alive
On the last day of school, at three thirty-five!
Geriatric Park
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Geriatric Park
Yes, two by two aboard old Noah’s ark
Saved from the Flood, like the little skylark
And happy little dogs who run and bark
The poor, unfortunate, clumsy aardvark
And worse, the sleepless carnivorous shark
Another sad species to disembark
Who should perhaps have been left in the dark
Prehistoric creatures, slow off the mark
Who lurk in the Faculty Commons (now mark!)
Far better known as Geriatric Park
mhall46184@aol.com
Geriatric Park
Yes, two by two aboard old Noah’s ark
Saved from the Flood, like the little skylark
And happy little dogs who run and bark
The poor, unfortunate, clumsy aardvark
And worse, the sleepless carnivorous shark
Another sad species to disembark
Who should perhaps have been left in the dark
Prehistoric creatures, slow off the mark
Who lurk in the Faculty Commons (now mark!)
Far better known as Geriatric Park
Some Aspects of Popular Culture in Couplets
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Some Aspects of Popular Culture
Gilligan’s Island
With Ginger’s come-hither and Mary Ann’s smile
Why would anyone leave Gilligan’s isle?
Hogan’s Heroes
Plenty to eat, and stealing Schultz’s gun
The Second World War was sure lots of fun1
Did Samuel Colt Know About This?
John Wayne blasts the robbers right off the road
With a revolver he never needs to re-load
N.C.I.S.
Unlimited firepower to shoot every jerk
And never, ever any paperwork
Robin Hood
Richard Greene as Robin wins all his fights
But get a load of Marian workin’ those tights!
Dancing With the Stars
We’d love to see who wins the trophy cup
If only the judges would just shut up!
1Irony, Ms. Grundy, irony
mhall46184@aol.com
Some Aspects of Popular Culture
Gilligan’s Island
With Ginger’s come-hither and Mary Ann’s smile
Why would anyone leave Gilligan’s isle?
Hogan’s Heroes
Plenty to eat, and stealing Schultz’s gun
The Second World War was sure lots of fun1
Did Samuel Colt Know About This?
John Wayne blasts the robbers right off the road
With a revolver he never needs to re-load
N.C.I.S.
Unlimited firepower to shoot every jerk
And never, ever any paperwork
Robin Hood
Richard Greene as Robin wins all his fights
But get a load of Marian workin’ those tights!
Dancing With the Stars
We’d love to see who wins the trophy cup
If only the judges would just shut up!
1Irony, Ms. Grundy, irony
Freshman Year on the G.I. Bill
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Freshman Year on the G.I. Bill, I
From the pages of Mohammed and Charlemagne
To the porch to smoke and watch the rain
Falling in the dark afternoon, down, down
In a pitter-patter splatter
Car windows up, room windows down
Coffee warming on the stove,
lightning over the town
And raindrops breaking on the pavement
Like little dreams
Freshman Year on the G.I. Bill, II
The instructor talks about
Wellington at Waterloo
The British Square
Napoleon’s hemorrhoids
One student thinks about
The boat on fire
And bodies on the deck
Only a few months ago
mhall46184@aol.com
Freshman Year on the G.I. Bill, I
From the pages of Mohammed and Charlemagne
To the porch to smoke and watch the rain
Falling in the dark afternoon, down, down
In a pitter-patter splatter
Car windows up, room windows down
Coffee warming on the stove,
lightning over the town
And raindrops breaking on the pavement
Like little dreams
Freshman Year on the G.I. Bill, II
The instructor talks about
Wellington at Waterloo
The British Square
Napoleon’s hemorrhoids
One student thinks about
The boat on fire
And bodies on the deck
Only a few months ago
Joey
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Joey
A Joey is a baby kangaroo
He first begins to hop at the age of two
Or maybe even earlier; who can know?
But what a happy, hopping, happening show!
He hops and hops and flops all over the floor
And then he hops right out the wide front door
To hop around the lawn and leafy trees
And hop right past some buzzing busy bees
What marvelous, magical hopping powers!
He hops all through the sunlit summer hours
Until it’s time for bath and book and bed
When hopping dreams hop through his sleepy
head
And of this tale, what is the hoppiest part?
Our little Joey hops - into my heart
mhall46184@aol.com
Joey
A Joey is a baby kangaroo
He first begins to hop at the age of two
Or maybe even earlier; who can know?
But what a happy, hopping, happening show!
He hops and hops and flops all over the floor
And then he hops right out the wide front door
To hop around the lawn and leafy trees
And hop right past some buzzing busy bees
What marvelous, magical hopping powers!
He hops all through the sunlit summer hours
Until it’s time for bath and book and bed
When hopping dreams hop through his sleepy
head
And of this tale, what is the hoppiest part?
Our little Joey hops - into my heart
And Even More Things People Never Say
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
And Even More Things People Never Say
“Yogurt – it’s what’s for dinner.”
“I’m sure glad our federal government went after those soccer people in Yurp. The international soccer organizations should learn about fair play and honest dealing from all our fine American internet service providers.”
“Chicken – it tastes a little like rattlesnake.”
“The poems of Anna Akhmatova are just too frivolous and silly for me. Good enough for teens, maybe, but I prefer deeper stuff, like Rod McKuen.”
“We didn’t miss you in church last Sunday.”
“Time to rise and shine, and greet the new night.”
“I’m as fit as a bassoon.”
“I’m hoping Santa Claus brings me a copy of Eugenio Corti’s The Red Horse trilogy for Christmas.”
“The other day I saw a Supreme Court justice reading The Bible.”
“And, if you call now, we’ll add 15% to the price!”
“Trouble is not my middle name.”
“Aw, Mom, why can’t I go to bed early and get a good night’s sleep!?”
“You know, I really miss Dan Rather and Brian Williams.”
“I’m just not doing my job, ma’am.”
“Don’t bother covering me. I’m not going in.”
“Margaret Sanger for the twenty-dollar-bill, just to prove that we women can be as genocidal as men!”
“I was born not ready.”
“I can’t explain. This is exactly what it looks like.”
“You’ll probably get away with this.”
“There are probably several things you and anybody else can do to stop me.”
“You’ll never take me alive! Or maybe you will.”
“You look as if you haven’t seen a ghost.”
“Fire in the convexity!”
“You listen to me, and you listen good, because I’m going to say this only three or four times…”
“Is this some kind of healthy joke?”
“If there’s anything Beaumont businesses are known for, it’s good customer service.”
“I’m just fine without my Blue Bell™. Really. I’m okay…”
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
And Even More Things People Never Say
“Yogurt – it’s what’s for dinner.”
“I’m sure glad our federal government went after those soccer people in Yurp. The international soccer organizations should learn about fair play and honest dealing from all our fine American internet service providers.”
“Chicken – it tastes a little like rattlesnake.”
“The poems of Anna Akhmatova are just too frivolous and silly for me. Good enough for teens, maybe, but I prefer deeper stuff, like Rod McKuen.”
“We didn’t miss you in church last Sunday.”
“Time to rise and shine, and greet the new night.”
“I’m as fit as a bassoon.”
“I’m hoping Santa Claus brings me a copy of Eugenio Corti’s The Red Horse trilogy for Christmas.”
“The other day I saw a Supreme Court justice reading The Bible.”
“And, if you call now, we’ll add 15% to the price!”
“Trouble is not my middle name.”
“Aw, Mom, why can’t I go to bed early and get a good night’s sleep!?”
“You know, I really miss Dan Rather and Brian Williams.”
“I’m just not doing my job, ma’am.”
“Don’t bother covering me. I’m not going in.”
“Margaret Sanger for the twenty-dollar-bill, just to prove that we women can be as genocidal as men!”
“I was born not ready.”
“I can’t explain. This is exactly what it looks like.”
“You’ll probably get away with this.”
“There are probably several things you and anybody else can do to stop me.”
“You’ll never take me alive! Or maybe you will.”
“You look as if you haven’t seen a ghost.”
“Fire in the convexity!”
“You listen to me, and you listen good, because I’m going to say this only three or four times…”
“Is this some kind of healthy joke?”
“If there’s anything Beaumont businesses are known for, it’s good customer service.”
“I’m just fine without my Blue Bell™. Really. I’m okay…”
-30-
NIGHT OF TERROR ABOARD DOOMED AIRCRAFT!!!!!!
Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
NIGHT OF TERROR ABOARD
DOOMED AIRCRAFT!!!!!!!!!!!
(Or something like that)
No, this is not a story about Air Canada flight attendants. If it were, “sneering disdain” and “snarling ill manners” would be added to the title.
Last week a Famous Name Brand airplane en route from Chicago to London made one of those famous unscheduled stops in Gander, Newfoundland because of an undisclosed malfunction. The desperate selfies / mefies / tweeties of the surviving passengers lead the free world to conclude that this was a Jade Helm kidnapping of Americans by unmarked invisible NATO / UN ninjas armed with deadly pictures of Miley Jenner twerking.
The Jade Helm operatives and their unmarked, green-powered nuclear tanks had been lurking in ambush in a series of abandoned Tim Horton’s restaurants across the frozen lunar landscape that is Newfoundland, home only to reindeer and venomous snow snakes. Eh.
Upon landing the passengers were brutally yanked out of the aircraft by knuckle-dragging OGPU agents and then flogged into icy barracks to be starved and humiliated. Such brutal maltreatment has not been inflicted on suffering people since the last of Uncle Joe Stalin’s merry gulags was shut down in the 1960s.
If any of this can be proven, the American Transportation Security Agency will have something to say about it because humiliating airline passengers is their job. As for depriving airline passengers of food, that’s Air Canada’s job.
The only comfort that can be offered to the friends and relatives of the prisoners of Jade Helm is that there is no evidence that they were forced to drink Screech rum.
The passengers were housed – possibly chained - overnight in (gasp!) barracks built by the United States Air Force. The beds were said to be uncomfortable (eeeeek!), and the inmates were given only two blankets each (oh, the humanity!).
Beyond the barbed wire the prisoners could see demented I’s d’ B’ys beating spotted owls to death with cricket bats. In Newfoundland, you see, this is their idea of a night out at Hooter’s. (Oh, I am so not going to be asked back to Newfoundland…)
As the prison barracks began to sink beneath the dark, barren wastes of bleak, icy, frozen, Godforsaken Newfoundland, the brave young men gave their blankies to women and children, and everyone held hands and sang “Nearer, my God to Thee” as Kommandant Klink accompanied them on the violin. Or maybe it was something about Gilligan’s Island – “…the Minnow would be lost…the Minnow would be lost…”
One news report said that the air crew were billeted in a hotel in Newfoundland and Labrador. This would require a demonstration of bi-location since Newfoundland is an island and Labrador is part of the Canadian mainland. The Canadian federal government, which at times can be as unclear about reality as the U.S. federal government, forced a marriage of hyphenation so that Newfoundland (which is an island about the size of Ireland) and Labrador (which is not) are on the map as one province. This is no more logical than declaring Texas and Florida to be one state.
The passengers were jealous that The Captain and Gilligan and all the rest of the flight crew got to sleep in a hotel instead of a genuine United States Air Force barracks. Yeah, and the captain and the co-pilot get to sit up front in the airplane all the time – what’s up with that, hah?
The logical passenger wants to the pilot to be well-rested, well-fed, and content with life. Passengers should be able to sit in on a job interview with the flight deck crew before every flight: “Did you get plenty of sleep last night? So how’s your personal life? Meet anyone nice lately? What are your plans for the future? Have you ever flown for Lufthansa? Were you ever a flight attendant for Air Canada?”
Two realities obtain: the first one is that whiny people whine on the whiny MeFaceSpaceBook thingies about everything. If you were to give them a new Mercedes-Benz they’d belly-ache about the paint job.
The second reality is that Newfoundland is one of the most beautiful islands on the planet. The people of Newfoundland are unquestionably the nicest group of folks anywhere, generous and hospitable, and still fond of us Yanks. Any Tim Horton’s has the best road coffee along the Trans-Can, not everyone in Newfoundland ends every sentence with “eh,” they’ve got icebergs and whales and mountains and camping and boat tours and cruise ships and universities and shopping malls and hunting and those really stupid mooses and the railway trail for walking and Gros Morne National Park and fresh fish, fish, fish and puffins (please don’t eat the puffins) and the site of Lord Baltimore’s first colony and history and culture and music and art and a ‘way-cool provincial flag.
Newfoundland does not have any snakes, mosquitoes, or stinging insects, thus proving it is not Texas.
If on a map you draw a line from Houston to London you’ll find that Newfoundland is on the way but most folks don’t think of visiting there, and that is a shame. You can look up Newfoundland at www.newfoundlandandlabrador.com.
Stuck for a day or two in Newfoundland? We should all be so lucky.
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
NIGHT OF TERROR ABOARD
DOOMED AIRCRAFT!!!!!!!!!!!
(Or something like that)
No, this is not a story about Air Canada flight attendants. If it were, “sneering disdain” and “snarling ill manners” would be added to the title.
Last week a Famous Name Brand airplane en route from Chicago to London made one of those famous unscheduled stops in Gander, Newfoundland because of an undisclosed malfunction. The desperate selfies / mefies / tweeties of the surviving passengers lead the free world to conclude that this was a Jade Helm kidnapping of Americans by unmarked invisible NATO / UN ninjas armed with deadly pictures of Miley Jenner twerking.
The Jade Helm operatives and their unmarked, green-powered nuclear tanks had been lurking in ambush in a series of abandoned Tim Horton’s restaurants across the frozen lunar landscape that is Newfoundland, home only to reindeer and venomous snow snakes. Eh.
Upon landing the passengers were brutally yanked out of the aircraft by knuckle-dragging OGPU agents and then flogged into icy barracks to be starved and humiliated. Such brutal maltreatment has not been inflicted on suffering people since the last of Uncle Joe Stalin’s merry gulags was shut down in the 1960s.
If any of this can be proven, the American Transportation Security Agency will have something to say about it because humiliating airline passengers is their job. As for depriving airline passengers of food, that’s Air Canada’s job.
The only comfort that can be offered to the friends and relatives of the prisoners of Jade Helm is that there is no evidence that they were forced to drink Screech rum.
The passengers were housed – possibly chained - overnight in (gasp!) barracks built by the United States Air Force. The beds were said to be uncomfortable (eeeeek!), and the inmates were given only two blankets each (oh, the humanity!).
Beyond the barbed wire the prisoners could see demented I’s d’ B’ys beating spotted owls to death with cricket bats. In Newfoundland, you see, this is their idea of a night out at Hooter’s. (Oh, I am so not going to be asked back to Newfoundland…)
As the prison barracks began to sink beneath the dark, barren wastes of bleak, icy, frozen, Godforsaken Newfoundland, the brave young men gave their blankies to women and children, and everyone held hands and sang “Nearer, my God to Thee” as Kommandant Klink accompanied them on the violin. Or maybe it was something about Gilligan’s Island – “…the Minnow would be lost…the Minnow would be lost…”
One news report said that the air crew were billeted in a hotel in Newfoundland and Labrador. This would require a demonstration of bi-location since Newfoundland is an island and Labrador is part of the Canadian mainland. The Canadian federal government, which at times can be as unclear about reality as the U.S. federal government, forced a marriage of hyphenation so that Newfoundland (which is an island about the size of Ireland) and Labrador (which is not) are on the map as one province. This is no more logical than declaring Texas and Florida to be one state.
The passengers were jealous that The Captain and Gilligan and all the rest of the flight crew got to sleep in a hotel instead of a genuine United States Air Force barracks. Yeah, and the captain and the co-pilot get to sit up front in the airplane all the time – what’s up with that, hah?
The logical passenger wants to the pilot to be well-rested, well-fed, and content with life. Passengers should be able to sit in on a job interview with the flight deck crew before every flight: “Did you get plenty of sleep last night? So how’s your personal life? Meet anyone nice lately? What are your plans for the future? Have you ever flown for Lufthansa? Were you ever a flight attendant for Air Canada?”
Two realities obtain: the first one is that whiny people whine on the whiny MeFaceSpaceBook thingies about everything. If you were to give them a new Mercedes-Benz they’d belly-ache about the paint job.
The second reality is that Newfoundland is one of the most beautiful islands on the planet. The people of Newfoundland are unquestionably the nicest group of folks anywhere, generous and hospitable, and still fond of us Yanks. Any Tim Horton’s has the best road coffee along the Trans-Can, not everyone in Newfoundland ends every sentence with “eh,” they’ve got icebergs and whales and mountains and camping and boat tours and cruise ships and universities and shopping malls and hunting and those really stupid mooses and the railway trail for walking and Gros Morne National Park and fresh fish, fish, fish and puffins (please don’t eat the puffins) and the site of Lord Baltimore’s first colony and history and culture and music and art and a ‘way-cool provincial flag.
Newfoundland does not have any snakes, mosquitoes, or stinging insects, thus proving it is not Texas.
If on a map you draw a line from Houston to London you’ll find that Newfoundland is on the way but most folks don’t think of visiting there, and that is a shame. You can look up Newfoundland at www.newfoundlandandlabrador.com.
Stuck for a day or two in Newfoundland? We should all be so lucky.
-30-
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