About Those Purple Socks - Poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

About Those Purple Socks

Graham Greene’s Monsignor Quixote

The world had no more use for any of them:
An old Communist, an old priest, an old car
All of them well into their horsemeat days
And so they fled, and crashed into the truth

On a chivalric quest for purple socks
Wandering on the road to Golgotha
Their Stations of the Cross a cinema,
A pair of Guardia, a brothel, wine

And so they fled, and fell into the truth
There at the foot of the Altar of God

The History Side of Wrong - Poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aolcom

The History Side of Wrong

How very joyful then to be condemned
For serving on the wrong side of history
Stubbornly refusing the Kronos-trap
And laughing at a clock that isn’t there

Poor centuries are but long lists of lies
Death’s dated data-base of next best things
That weren’t, as pointless as a game of Pong
Played out by polyester Arians

For the tired thoughtcrime of not groovin’ in time:
How very joyful now to be condemned!

A Salvage Sunday Morning - Poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

A Salvage Sunday Morning

Pearly morning mist over our little harbour
The water sloshing a few feet away
A censer swinging, wafting goodly odours:
Sweet water, air, and earth, consubstantial
With coffee in a mug from Canadian Tire
A morning offering in gratitude
From this small porch, for all of Creation
For the quiet before Bert starts cussing his boat
(Because the engine is balky again) -
For here where we have found a Heaven indeed

Room at the Inn

Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

Room at the Inn

If Jesus had been born in Newfoundland, the folks there would have found room for the Holy Family.

Many Americans fly over Newfoundland on their way to and from Europe, but too few visit that beautiful island. Fourteen years ago, when all flights to and from the USA were forbidden, a great many people of all nations found themselves taking an unexpected time-out there.

This piece of 9/11 history comes from Newfoundland via a friend of a friend there. Heather McKinnon, the operations manager of the Delta Hotel and Conference Center in St. John’s, relates this remembrance of 9.11.2001 and the days following:


I will never forget this day for the rest of my days. It was a Tuesday, on Sept 11, 2001. We became aware at the Delta that we would start accepting the passengers whose flights were landing in quick succession at YYT [St. John’s]. The first group of guests who arrived were flight crews from two United Airlines flights who had just lost many of their colleagues. They were shell shocked. Then the passengers started arriving - hundreds more than we could handle comfortably. And they kept coming. They slept on the floor in the ballrooms and meeting rooms, on couches in the lobby, anywhere they could find a space. This went on until the following Sunday. And my team here at the Delta displayed a level of humanity I won't soon forget. They swung into action. Worked an 8 hour shift and then volunteered to stay behind as unpaid volunteers for another 8-10 hours - served food, read stories to the children, organized games, took passengers to their homes for showers, did pharmacy runs. It went on and on. Corporate partners like Margot Bruce-O'Connell at ExxonMobil reached out to help us manage the masses. George Street United Church ministers conducted an ecumenical service in our lobby and everyone gathered together. Air Canada and United Airlines stranded flight crew showed up in their uniforms as a sign of respect to the fallen air crew of the US flight crew. It was heart breaking.

We had to ask all the ballroom sleeping bag guests to pack up their belongings on the Saturday before they left so a wedding could go ahead. Once the dinner was over, the bride threw open the doors to the ballroom and invited the passengers to the dance. For the first dance, they all joined hands in a massive circle around the wedding couple as they took their first dance. These passengers arrived as strangers. On Sunday, they left as grateful friends. On this day, every year since, I still receive messages from some of the guests from that week. They say the same thing. They will never forget. I have kept every one of those messages. What a week that was.

Amen.

An excellent book related to the thousands of travelers grateful to have been given sanctuary by the generous citizens of Newfoundland is Jim DeFede’s The Day the World Came to Town, New York: Harper Collins, 2002.

-30-

Perhaps Today - Poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Perhaps Today…

The sun appears each dawn, predictably
In its accustomed cosmic liturgy
Arising from the baptism of the night
The sins of yesterday now washed away

It smiles upon all earthbound penitents
And sings a morning hymn of sacraments
For now a theme, a dream, to dance as light
Thin filaments of air, soft-sighing there

Are teasingly presented, and then – withdrawn:
Another night of feverish, ragged sleep

Untamed Poem - Poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Untamed Poem

A writer in an online 'zeen issues
An edict that must not be disobeyed:
By order poetry will be untamed
Untamed and free! (to specifications)

Now unmuzzle the trammeled trimeter
Let trope and trochee gallop wild and free
Release pentameters to pentabout
And dactyls to anaphora their dreams

O wild little poem, telling truth through metaphor -
You will be neutered by the editor

Whatever Happened to Gilligan's Castaways?

Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

Whatever Happened to Gilligan’s Castaways?

After a busy day we are all tempted to take a well-deserved break from work and family chores in order to flop into a comfortable chair and vegetate in front of jolly post-war Italian cinema, the merry visions of Fritz Lang’s silent German films (silent, and somehow still loudly German), or the fluffy Soviet films of Sergei Bondarchuk, Sergei Eisenstein, and Grigory Chukhray.

Who hasn’t shed tears of joy and laughter as the cackling, sneering, moustache-twirling Czarist cavalry run down innocent, granola-earing, flower-sniffing workers and peasants through the thoughtful character development and in the subtle artistry for which Soviet films are famous?

We have to remind herself that for the sake of intellectual and ethical development we should occasionally challenge ourselves to consider more demanding works of the visual arts: Gilligan’s Island comes to mind.

The exposition is this - in the autumn of 1964 the tour boat Minnow is disabled by a storm and beached on an unknown island. In Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales the Skipper is a pirate, but now he has reformed and doesn’t murder people. Although the Skipper is an experienced seaman, hiring bumbling Gilligan as his ship’s crew does indicate a tendency to self-destruction. Also aboard, and then beached, are a rascally Republican millionaire and his wife, a movie star, a professor, and a farm girl.

For three years of half-hour programs and then a series of television movies and cartoon remakes the castaways enjoyed adventures among themselves and with hundreds of visitors – including Soviet cosmonauts and the Harlem Globetrotters – on that supposedly unknown island.

The irony of Gilligan’s Island is that while the castaways want to leave the beach and the palm trees, the rest of us think that a month or so of sloshing around in the lagoon and drinking refreshing beverages from a coconut shell would be great therapy. And let the people say “existential.”

And what happened to the castaways?

After returning to the USA Gilligan became the lead technology guru for the State Department.

The Skipper, as a middle-aged white male, was declared redundant. He is said to spend his days on the beach in Florida bumming spare change from tourists and singing “Margaritaville” in bars.

Thurston Howell IV is currently the director of the Donald Trump campaign. Mr. Howell’s wife, Lovey, left him for Brad Pitt. The bitter custody battle over her pink poodles and Mr. Howell’s famous suitcase full of cash continues to this day.

Glamorous Ginger, now over thirty, finds work only as erratic mothers in guest spots in unimaginative, heavily laugh-tracked sitcoms.

The Professor was vetted by his university for ideological correctness, sensitivity, and multi-culti, and is permitted to continue teaching and research as long as he understands that physics, chemistry, and the maths are not objective realities, and can be changed often since they are always subject to the collective needs and cultural visions of The People.

Mary Ann developed a television cooker show called The Ruthlessly Chipper Cupcake which was a staple of daytime programming for years until she was convicted for poisoning three husbands, four boyfriends, and an unknown number of unhappy staffers. Her case was not helped when she baked the judge and prosecutor a batch of happy-face cupcakes sodden with a rare poison she discovered while on the island.

Does anyone imagine that Gilligan’s Island, with its innocent plots and gags and physical comedy, would be accepted for prime-time programming now?

The little ship Minnow is said to have been named as a dig at Newton Minnow, the chairman of the FCC who famously dismissed television as “a vast wasteland.” If Gilligan’s Island is a wasteland, well, this poor old world certainly could use a little more waste.

-30-

September at Last - Poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

September at Last

A dawn under clouds – September at last
No one longs for August, or misses it
The heat and humidity linger still
But the mythology of the calendar

Has drawn the summer’s metaphorical fangs
And grownups now anticipate cold fronts
Like children who know that Christmas will come
Although the season seems to be taking

Its own sweet time in bringing home its gifts
Of chilly mornings, and geese winging south

The Apocalyptic Wasp Spray of Cosmic Doom

Mhall46184@aol.com

The Apocalyptic Wasp Spray of Cosmic Doom

As with rattlesnakes, fire ants, and presidential candidates, the purpose of wasps within the glory of Creation is a great mystery.

Big red Communist wasps, their wicked, batlike wings pulsating slowly to the degenerate rhythm of a pagan blood-song of pain, lurk in porch corners - or along any of Donald Trump or Scott Walker’s Berlin walls - and then attack with a sting as painful and bitter as a glare of disapproval from a poll watcher from the other party who sees you voting in The Wrong Primary.

As the old hippie song does not say: Wasps! Unh! What are they good for!? Absolutely nothin’!

And if the county agricultural extension agent tells you that wasps are a beneficent species because they blah, blah, blah, she’s probably a Fascist or something. So there. Tell me something. End of. And stuff. And other logical rebuttals.

Real Americans buy aerosols of toxic poisons for sending wasps to the Grendel-doom they’ve earned. If the environment must be destroyed in order that wasps die, that’s a fair and reasonable exchange.

Usually the sprays work, but sometimes the wasps fly insolently away, unimpressed with better dying through chemistry.

What this world needs is a really good wasp spray. The ideal wasp spray would not kill wasps instantly, though. Oh, no. The perfect bug bomb would send each wasp spinning down like The Red Baron in flames, thudding to the ground still alive but dying in such gruesome (or is that grueful?) pain that the progressive Renaissance practice of hanging, drawing, and quartering would seem like a walk in the mall.

The American consumer wants that wasp to feel the soul-destroying existential despair of a freshman football player at the University of Tennessee at Knoxville when he (or “zhe”) is told that the name of his (or “zher”) team has been changed from The Tennessee Volunteers to The Incredible Edible Eloi.

The dying wasp must wallow in the same agony as a traveler doomed to wander throughout eternity the wretched-hive-of-scum-and-villainy hallways of Newark International Airport.

The dying wasp must be made to feel the ghostly chill that reduces even the bravest, strongest young manly-man into a quivering emotional puddle when he arrives at school on Monday morning and suddenly remembers that he is scheduled to take an algebra II exam at 0800.

The dying wasp must experience total bleakness of spirit as he realizes in his last moments that, just like a Republican in the summer of 2015, his life suddenly has no meaning after all. And that’s really hairy.

The dying wasp must sob in spasms of grief and sorrow, rather like a hungry child standing in line for her Michelle Obama lunch.

The dying wasp must be made to scream in horror like an ear-banging-hammer-metal-scum-rock DJ who finds that he is scheduled to work the three-day All Lovin’ Spoonful All The Time Festival.

Anyone who has ever applied cold compresses to a swollen, wasp-stung ear can only wonder why wasps were allowed to board the Ark and unicorns were not.

We need a meaner wasp spray.

-30-

Make America Change and Hope Yet Again

Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

Make America Change and Hope Yet Again

Roderick Spode: “…this great country can go forward once more to glory!...Citizens…I say to you that nothing stands between us and our victory except defeat! Tomorrow is a new day! The future lies ahead!”

Man in audience: “You know, I never thought of that.”

-Jeeves and Wooster

Just like poor Charlie Brown believing, despite humiliating experience, that this time Lucy is not going to snatch away that football, the American people believe, over and over, that this time they’ve got a candidate. But again and again their football of happiness is snatched away - by Senator Clinton, Governor Christie, Senator Cruz, and a series of other Lucy Van Pelts.

As John Keats did not say, where are the candidates of spring? Ay, where are they?

They are gone, lost down the Orwellian Memory Hole along with pet rocks, the End of the World in 1999, the Hale-Bopp Comet spaceships, the End of the World in 2000, Jade Helm ninjas, the End of the World some other time, unmarked UN helicopters, the End of the World yet again, the Central Texas Disney World, the End of the World we really mean it this time, global-warming, the End of the World this September 13th, and those buckets of magic ice water that were said to cure disease.

Quick – who were the candidates who stood against George H. W. Bush in the primaries? Who was Bill Clinton’s first pick for vice-president? Who were the big noises for each political party only last June?

The current big noise promises to make America great again – just like all the other big noises since George Washington.

As a modest contribution to the low-Prole unreality show that by populist acclamation has replaced thinking in this nation, here is a matrix of well-used terms, some of them quite international, for future presidential campaign slogans. Read them, and then follow the instructions below for each candidate who is really going to save us this time, just like that last one, and the one before that, and the one before:

We are the people we are the 99% transparency we shall triumph the whole world is watching make American great again sustainable forward together hope and change long live our glorious leader the buck stops here remember the Maine power to the people no war but class war Le Québec aux Québécois justice for everyone je suis Charlie it’s Scotland’s oil heim ins reich every man a king Ross for boss change we can believe in si se puede bread and roses me no frego let’s keep fighting for progress Peron o muerte where’s the beef? reigniting the promise of America not just peanuts he’s making us proud again kinder gentler nation for people a new American century time for a change it’s time to change America integrity vote for change commitment honest putting people first building a bridge to the 21st century in your heart you know he’s right a time for greatness to begin anew peace and prosperity a revolution is coming happy days are here again he kept us out of war fighting for us rum Romanism and rebellion go Greens turn the rascals out forward the people’s president a green new deal for America had enough? strength and experience reform prosperity and peace drill baby drill America first country first hope let America be America again taking America back vote for leadership a real choice for America defeat the Washington machine unleash the American dream a safer world and a more hopeful America tea party working for America the choice is clear a stronger America prosperity and progress compassionate conservatism leadership for the new millennium we can’t wait everyday Americans need a champion I want to be that champion from hope to higher ground the people united will never be defeated bread and freedom a chicken in every pot I’ll build a wall it’s time for a change death to world capitalism greater together.

And stuff.

Cut up this scribble into individual words. Dump all of them into a gimme cap. Pull any four words out of the cap. Have those four words stitched onto the cap. Practice saying the words over and over while taking selfies. And there you are, all ready for Campaign 2016 for any political party you choose.

-30-

Poets are Remarkably Silent on the Subject of Wrenches - poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Poets are Remarkably Silent on the Subject of Wrenches

In life one suffers many twists and turns
And this is why one takes a wrench in hand
And turns the good things forward, the bad things back
When mending broken gadgets, lives, or hopes
So take the wrench, and turn the twist aright
Or take the wrench, and twist the turn aright
And spiral something beautiful into being
Because, as a worthy Marine might say,
This is a wrench. There are many like it
But this one is in the hands of an artist

Hurricane Tracks - Two Poems

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Hurricane Tracks

What if your life were a hurricane map
Available upon a glowing screen
Or as a supermarket paper handout
With all of life gridded into neat squares

You then would know exactly what to do
And where to go, predicated upon
The latest scientific spaghetti
Curved colored strings ordering you aright

But you are free not to follow the lines
Because your life is not a gridded map




Hurricane Tracks – The Kirk Briggs Variant

What if your life were a hurricane map
Available upon a glowing screen
Or as a supermarket paper handout
With all of life gridded into neat squares

You then would know exactly what to do
And where to go, predicated upon
The latest scientific spaghetti
Curved colored strings ordering you aright

But you are free not to follow…oh…wait:
You could also stall, strengthen, or fizzle out!

The Palmer Method of Child Cruelty - a poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

The Palmer Method of Child Cruelty

Left-handed children will write prettily
To Old Lady Stalin’s specifications
When Buna, Texas freezes over – twice
Or wicked Palmer rises from the dead

“Why can’t you write neatly, like your brother?
Just look what a chicken-scratch you’re making
You’ll stay in from recess and write it over
And don’t you waste so much paper this time…”

No stories, no thoughts, only soulless curves
Left-handed children will write angrily

Corporal Himmelstoss - A Poem About the Office

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Corporal Himmelstoss

Oh, yes, we all know Corporal Himmelstoss
That dutiful office functionary
Bully and thief, master of the resume’
Keeper of the entrance to the boss-cave
A creature of fluorescent lights, a worm
Obsequious above, brutal below
The listener at doors, the writer of reports
The examiner of secrets and lies
The administrator of loyalty oaths
Oh, yes, we all know Corporal Himmelstoss

Two Cups of Coffee - a poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Two Cups of Coffee

Two lovers surely sat here long ago
One evening early, as the winter rain
Slid down the windows like children at play
The raindrops teasing and chasing each other;

Across the table shyly flirting eyes
A little bit unsure, a little bit lost -
But happily so – they also teased and played
As softly as the winter’s window-mist

Two lovers surely sat here long ago
“Yes, sugar, please,” she said. “How did you know?”

The First Lesson in Diplomacy - poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

The First Lesson in Diplomacy

A fountain pen cannot be monitored
By frightened Norks at ranks of glowing screens
Or hipster graduates of M.I.T.
Submissive to their way-cool boy-gods

A sheet of paper never breaks an oath
Or whispers carelessly across the sky
A bottle of ink stands firm upon your desk
And knows all secrets only ‘til they dry

A fountain pen cannot be monitored
So take it up, and not that spying ‘phone

High-Tuned Little Magazine of Little Poetry - poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

High-Tuned Little Magazine of Little Poetry

Negates stultifying silencing I
Originary events negate me
Bible Belt culture of racism I
Nuanced imperialist grappling we
Compelled surrounding culture footnote I
Grew the poetry community me
Identify attitudes impulse I
Literally typically dismissed we
Cursory recurring dismissal I
Imbalanced anemic valuing I

Who is That Absurd Old Man? - a poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Who is That Absurd Old Man?

Who is that old man in the looking-glass
That absurd old man with the puffy face
And thinning hair, more grey than anything
Whence came that wobbly chin, those hairy ears?

The face in the mirror is supposed to be
Narrow and sharp, with lots of tousled hair
Falling over bright and healthy eyes
Eagerly greeting the morning of life

But this is no matter – lift high the blade
(Rotary now) and with it challenge the dawn!

Pretty Klan Girls - Poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Pretty Klan Girls

Three girls, three teenaged girls, three giggling girls
So fresh and lovely in their springtime prints
A daring bit of makeup, hair just right
At early breakfast with their moms and dads
But sitting at a separate table so
Their youthful giddiness does not disturb
The adults’ serious, prayerful conversation
Over coffee in the no-smoking area
Three girls, three teenaged girls, three giggling girls
All pretty for the rally later today

Elias and the Broom Tree - Poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Elias and the Broom Tree

Asleep beneath a broom tree in Judaea
A man brought low, and lost among the waste
Stopped there to die, exhausted and alone
In refuge from a queen’s pursuivants
But in a little while a Messenger
Unseen will leave a gift of water and of bread
Food for a journey to the Mountain of God
But now, for now, for a few healing hours
Guarded in holy silence, only a man
Asleep beneath a mysterious Tree