Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Martinmas
Red is the color of a soldier’s cloak
Exchanged for a poor man’s blessing in the night
Met well there by a crumbling pagan oak
Ennobled now that vestment in angelic white
Martin is the name of that Roman guard
Between the watch fires pacing slow his round
Ready and alert, though the frost is hard
And spies a sad wretch shivering on the ground
Now does the soldier give him warmth and hope
Cold is the night, and yet somehow made mild
Exchanging his pride for a priestly cope
Denying self – the poor man is the Child;
As does Saint Martin, all good soldiers still
Yield self in service to the Christ Child’s will
Monday, July 6, 2015
Does This Machine Kill Fascists?
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Does This Machine Kill Fascists?
Does this machine kill Fascists? Probably not
Unless it bores them to a yawning death
Through soporific clichés crudely imposed
Upon a few poor, battered chords that twang
Like the barbed wire of an Arctic gulag
Where happy comrades
Shiver in the snow
Wither in the wind
Starve on slops
Burn with typhus
Rot in the tundra
As they build the future upon mass graves
While the anti-Fascist cashes his checks
mhall46184@aol.com
Does This Machine Kill Fascists?
Does this machine kill Fascists? Probably not
Unless it bores them to a yawning death
Through soporific clichés crudely imposed
Upon a few poor, battered chords that twang
Like the barbed wire of an Arctic gulag
Where happy comrades
Shiver in the snow
Wither in the wind
Starve on slops
Burn with typhus
Rot in the tundra
As they build the future upon mass graves
While the anti-Fascist cashes his checks
The Privileged Patriarchal Postcolonial Boy
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
The Privileged Patriarchal
Postcolonial Boy
To the tune of “The Wild Colonial Boy”
He vets his work for political tone
Writes nothing to annoy
And if his words offend – they’re gone!
The postcolonial boy
He was born and raised in poverty
His mother’s only joy
Still a child of privilege, you see
The postcolonial boy
No matter what he might dare say
No matter how polite, how coy
Nothing can excuse his DNA
The postcolonial boy
A shame it is that he submits
Agrees that he’s sans foy
He silences himself; he quits
The postcolonial boy
mhall46184@aol.com
The Privileged Patriarchal
Postcolonial Boy
To the tune of “The Wild Colonial Boy”
He vets his work for political tone
Writes nothing to annoy
And if his words offend – they’re gone!
The postcolonial boy
He was born and raised in poverty
His mother’s only joy
Still a child of privilege, you see
The postcolonial boy
No matter what he might dare say
No matter how polite, how coy
Nothing can excuse his DNA
The postcolonial boy
A shame it is that he submits
Agrees that he’s sans foy
He silences himself; he quits
The postcolonial boy
Some More Short Poems
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
The Widening World of Cookery
Old housewives cook, and talk about it so
Someone invented the cooking show
Where women watch the fashionable gas ring’s glow
And watch also their widening waistlines grow
Posting Grades
But the grades aren’t really posted at all
Just tapped by super-secret access code
Into an Orwellian telescreen
Thin tittle-tattle about test results
A Flicker of Life
Movies are but flickering images
Sometimes, to the observer, so is life
Dante
Dante Alighieri
Wasn’t very merry
Whenever he didn’t feel well
He imagined his enemies in (Newark)
A Funeral
The hymns have been sung, and the Gospel read;
We prayed for everyone except the dead
The Tedious Gatsby, Old Sport
I took up Gatsby, and I read,
And now I’m glad that Gatsby’s dead
mhall46184@aol.com
The Widening World of Cookery
Old housewives cook, and talk about it so
Someone invented the cooking show
Where women watch the fashionable gas ring’s glow
And watch also their widening waistlines grow
Posting Grades
But the grades aren’t really posted at all
Just tapped by super-secret access code
Into an Orwellian telescreen
Thin tittle-tattle about test results
A Flicker of Life
Movies are but flickering images
Sometimes, to the observer, so is life
Dante
Dante Alighieri
Wasn’t very merry
Whenever he didn’t feel well
He imagined his enemies in (Newark)
A Funeral
The hymns have been sung, and the Gospel read;
We prayed for everyone except the dead
The Tedious Gatsby, Old Sport
I took up Gatsby, and I read,
And now I’m glad that Gatsby’s dead
The Mild Ones
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
The Mild Ones
“What are you rebelling against?”
“Whaddaya got?”
“A philosophical matrix predicated
Upon experience analyzed rationally
Without incessant self-reference
Or submission to transient fashions.
This matrix considers natural law,
Epistemologically demonstrable,
Ecclesiastical law, which is subject
To discussion because of variant
Concepts of divine revelation
And then secular law, which grounds
Even a republic, in its origin,
In the Jewish-Christian Mosaic law
But which is subject to modification
According to the federal constitution
And the various state constitutions
Expressed by popular will according to
Due process of law, that is, elections.
Applying the Hegelian dialectic,
One can sort out for himself a mode of life
In harmony with both his conscience
And with the needs of a multi-cultural state.”
“Got a beer?”
mhall46184@aol.com
The Mild Ones
“What are you rebelling against?”
“Whaddaya got?”
“A philosophical matrix predicated
Upon experience analyzed rationally
Without incessant self-reference
Or submission to transient fashions.
This matrix considers natural law,
Epistemologically demonstrable,
Ecclesiastical law, which is subject
To discussion because of variant
Concepts of divine revelation
And then secular law, which grounds
Even a republic, in its origin,
In the Jewish-Christian Mosaic law
But which is subject to modification
According to the federal constitution
And the various state constitutions
Expressed by popular will according to
Due process of law, that is, elections.
Applying the Hegelian dialectic,
One can sort out for himself a mode of life
In harmony with both his conscience
And with the needs of a multi-cultural state.”
“Got a beer?”
Had Byron Lived a Few Years Longer
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
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 fluorescent light
Which Heaven to youthful lads denies
R:
He talks of Makeup, silly old wight
Of faded beauties – through his old eyes!
And 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
mhall46184@aol.com
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 fluorescent light
Which Heaven to youthful lads denies
R:
He talks of Makeup, silly old wight
Of faded beauties – through his old eyes!
And 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
Song of Comrade Photocopier Operator
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Song of Comrade Photocopier Operator
From Le Chansons de Volga File Clerks Rouge
© 1962 by Les Chansons, Leningrad
O sing a song of reproduction
Accomplished by electrical induction
As workers’ hands insert the paper
Deep into the magic vapor
Chanting without a fuss or stink,
“Yo, ho, ho and a bottle of ink!”
Ions charge the chemical toner
Unless there’s none, ‘cause it’s all goner
Or even worse – if there’s a jam
And then the worker yells out (“Goodness!”)
But with a wrench and a mighty shout
Like that ol’ Czar, the jam is OUT
The Committee decrees a Print Command
This is their red-star’red demand
And out comes the paper, newly free
Fresh from a cartridge in a… (There! See?)
By Good Comrade Worker, Ivan-on-the-Spot
Alas, the message is for him to be…
shot
mhall46184@aol.com
Song of Comrade Photocopier Operator
From Le Chansons de Volga File Clerks Rouge
© 1962 by Les Chansons, Leningrad
O sing a song of reproduction
Accomplished by electrical induction
As workers’ hands insert the paper
Deep into the magic vapor
Chanting without a fuss or stink,
“Yo, ho, ho and a bottle of ink!”
Ions charge the chemical toner
Unless there’s none, ‘cause it’s all goner
Or even worse – if there’s a jam
And then the worker yells out (“Goodness!”)
But with a wrench and a mighty shout
Like that ol’ Czar, the jam is OUT
The Committee decrees a Print Command
This is their red-star’red demand
And out comes the paper, newly free
Fresh from a cartridge in a… (There! See?)
By Good Comrade Worker, Ivan-on-the-Spot
Alas, the message is for him to be…
shot
Instructions to the Chauffeur
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Instructions to the Chauffeur
Said the owner, most intently,
“Mind, now, how you drive my Bentley:
Always drive it confidently,
Never, ever insolently
‘Sure to watch the road intently
Take the sharp curves very gently
Follow my rules most excellently
Then you’ll never get a dent, see?”
mhall46184@aol.com
Instructions to the Chauffeur
Said the owner, most intently,
“Mind, now, how you drive my Bentley:
Always drive it confidently,
Never, ever insolently
‘Sure to watch the road intently
Take the sharp curves very gently
Follow my rules most excellently
Then you’ll never get a dent, see?”
Sola Scriptura
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Sola Scriptura
“It’s right here in the Bible!” she said,
Waving her MePhone over her head
mhall46184@aol.com
Sola Scriptura
“It’s right here in the Bible!” she said,
Waving her MePhone over her head
Pursued by Hallway Gideons
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Pursued by Hallway Gideons
Hi there how are you doing isn’t this a
wonderful day would you like a New Tes
tament sir thank you hi ma’am good to see
you would you like a New Testament you
are so welcome Hi there how are you doing
isn’t this a wonderful day would you
like a New Testament sir thank you hi
ma’am good to see you would you like a New
Testament you are welcome Hi there how
are you doing isn’t this a wonderful
Repeat
Hi there how are you doing isn’t this a
wonderful day would you like a New Tes
tament sir thank you hi ma’am good to see
you would you like a New Testament you
are so welcome Hi there how are you doing
isn’t this a wonderful day would you
like a New Testament sir thank you hi
ma’am good to see you would you like a New
Testament you are welcome Hi there how
are you doing isn’t this a wonderful
Repeat
Hi there how are you doing isn’t this a
wonderful day would you like a New Tes
tament sir thank you hi ma’am good to see
you would you like a New Testament you
are so welcome Hi there how are you doing
isn’t this a wonderful day would you
like a New Testament sir thank you hi
ma’am good to see you would you like a New
Testament you are welcome Hi there how
are you doing isn’t this a wonderful
Exeunt omnes, pursued by a bore waving a little green book about
mhall46184@aol.com
Pursued by Hallway Gideons
Hi there how are you doing isn’t this a
wonderful day would you like a New Tes
tament sir thank you hi ma’am good to see
you would you like a New Testament you
are so welcome Hi there how are you doing
isn’t this a wonderful day would you
like a New Testament sir thank you hi
ma’am good to see you would you like a New
Testament you are welcome Hi there how
are you doing isn’t this a wonderful
Repeat
Hi there how are you doing isn’t this a
wonderful day would you like a New Tes
tament sir thank you hi ma’am good to see
you would you like a New Testament you
are so welcome Hi there how are you doing
isn’t this a wonderful day would you
like a New Testament sir thank you hi
ma’am good to see you would you like a New
Testament you are welcome Hi there how
are you doing isn’t this a wonderful
Repeat
Hi there how are you doing isn’t this a
wonderful day would you like a New Tes
tament sir thank you hi ma’am good to see
you would you like a New Testament you
are so welcome Hi there how are you doing
isn’t this a wonderful day would you
like a New Testament sir thank you hi
ma’am good to see you would you like a New
Testament you are welcome Hi there how
are you doing isn’t this a wonderful
Exeunt omnes, pursued by a bore waving a little green book about
A Subversive Priest
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Subversive
Lapsing into 1968-Speak
The television priest says “subversive”
While waxing (and polishing?) discursive
He says it often, at least thrice a week
mhall46184@aol.com
Subversive
Lapsing into 1968-Speak
The television priest says “subversive”
While waxing (and polishing?) discursive
He says it often, at least thrice a week
Triptych for a Dipstych
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
A Triptych for a Dipstych
Raul Castro Find Jesus
Raul admits that Jesus saves,
Says nothing of his victims’ graves
The Sleep of the Innocent
Raul sleeps peacefully in his bed
Dreaming of his thousands dead
Raul Reflects
Thousands to their executions driven -
“It’s all right, ‘cause I am shriven.”
mhall46184@aol.com
A Triptych for a Dipstych
Raul Castro Find Jesus
Raul admits that Jesus saves,
Says nothing of his victims’ graves
The Sleep of the Innocent
Raul sleeps peacefully in his bed
Dreaming of his thousands dead
Raul Reflects
Thousands to their executions driven -
“It’s all right, ‘cause I am shriven.”
Pilgrimage Along the A1
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Pilgrimage Along The A1
For all the de Beauvilles, Beauvilles,
Bevilles, Bevills, and Bevils
From Peterborough drops a road
Across the Fens, into the past
(Where wary wraiths still wear the woad);
It comes to Chesterton at last
And we will walk along that track,
Or hop a bus, perhaps; you know
How hard it is to sling a pack
When one is sixty-old, and slow
That mapped blue line across our land
Follows along a Roman way
Where Hereward the Wake made stand
In mists where secret islands lay
In Chesterton a Norman tower
Beside Saint Michael’s guards the fields;
Though clockless, still it counts slow hours
And centuries hidden long, and sealed
And there before a looted tomb,
Long bare of candles, flowers, and prayers,
We will in our poor Latin resume
Aves for old de Beauville’s cares
mhall46184@aol.com
Pilgrimage Along The A1
For all the de Beauvilles, Beauvilles,
Bevilles, Bevills, and Bevils
From Peterborough drops a road
Across the Fens, into the past
(Where wary wraiths still wear the woad);
It comes to Chesterton at last
And we will walk along that track,
Or hop a bus, perhaps; you know
How hard it is to sling a pack
When one is sixty-old, and slow
That mapped blue line across our land
Follows along a Roman way
Where Hereward the Wake made stand
In mists where secret islands lay
In Chesterton a Norman tower
Beside Saint Michael’s guards the fields;
Though clockless, still it counts slow hours
And centuries hidden long, and sealed
And there before a looted tomb,
Long bare of candles, flowers, and prayers,
We will in our poor Latin resume
Aves for old de Beauville’s cares
A Few Frivolous Poems
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
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
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!
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