Thursday, March 9, 2017

Re-Reading Tolkien for Lent - poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Re-Reading Tolkien for Lent

Across the page, across the words, soft light
Soft morning light at play this quiet day
This stand-down day when duty does not call
Not call, and life is for a few hours free

Ink on a page, now forming into songs
Songs that were old when this green world was new
And fields of flowers were as fields of stars
Fields of Creation and eternal Hope

O happy fields forever, here, right here
Across the page, across the words, soft light

Tuesday, March 7, 2017

Old Pompeo Had Some Spies, C.I., C.I., A! - poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Mike Pompeo Had Some Spies

Mike Pompeo had some spies
     C.I., C.I., A!
Among these spies he had some sneaks
     C.I., C.I., A!
With a wiretap here
And a wiretap there
Here a tap, there a tap
Everywhere a wiretap
Mike Pompeo had some spies
     C.I., C.I., A!

Mike Pompeo had some spies
     C.I., C.I., A!
Among these spies some Russians lurked
     C.I., C.I., A!
With a lurk-lurk here
And a lurk-lurk there
Here a lurk, there a lurk
Everywhere a lurk-lurk
Mike Pompeo had some spies
     C.I., C.I., A!

Mike Pompeo had some spies
     C.I., C.I., A!
And to these spies came Wiki-Leaks
     C.I., C.I., A!
With a leak-leak here
And a leak-leak there
Here a leak, there a leak
Everywhere a leak-leak
Mike Pompeo had some spies
     C.I., C.I., A!

Mike Pompeo had some spies
     C.I., C.I., A!
And then there was the President
     C.I., C.I., A!
With a tweet-tweet here
And a tweet-tweet there
Here a tweet, there a tweet
Every day a tweet-tweet
Mike Pompeo had some spies
     C.I., C.I., A!

Mike Pompeo had some headaches
     C.I., C.I., A!
Among these headaches was Congress
     C.I., C.I., A!
With questions here
And doubtings there
Here a quiz, there a doubt
Everybody run about
Mike Pompeo had some headaches
     C.I.,
              C.I.,
                        Aaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

When You Come to a Knife in the Road - column

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

When You Come to a Knife in the Road

     Thomas Becket: “Tonight you can do me the honor of christening my forks.”

     King Henry II: “Forks?”

     Thomas Becket: “Yes, from Florence. New little invention. It's for pronging meat and carrying it   
     to the mouth. It saves you dirtying your fingers.”

     King Henry II: “But then you dirty the fork.”

     Thomas Becket: “Yes, but it's washable.”

     King Henry II: “So are your fingers. I don't see the point.”

-Becket, 1964, produced by Hal Wallis

A complete table service with knives, forks, and spoons as we know them was common in Roman times. With the collapse of the empire Europeans reverted to eating with just their hands and their own knives.

Sort of like ordering from a drive-through now.

Or hanging out with British soccer fans.

In the high middle ages forks reappeared, and except for takeout and Manchester United are still pretty popular. In some restaurants, though, like one of Chaucer’s pilgrims you’ll have to bring your own knife.

Some eateries are shy about providing knives and napkins. The meal is served with a fork so thin that it will bend if you hold it wrong, and a little square of thin paper napkin that appears to have been peeled from the roll on the wall in the euphemism.

If you want a knife, you must ask for it.

If you want a second tiny square of paper napkin, you must ask for that too.

One shouldn’t complain; there’s still a plate.

In California restaurants the pepper has been replaced with pepper spray.

Okay, okay, first-world problems, right? This is not serious stuff, like Secretary Clinton having to fly commercial and occupying only two first-class seats for herself and her bubble, the poor dear. Oh, the humanity.

Still, you wonder how long before you’ll have to ask for a cup for the coffee.

Someone probably read an article the industry magazine Beyond Roadkill about how if they don’t provide knives for customers they can save electricity and soap by running the dishwasher two fewer times a year.

Thanks to a young person of his acquaintance y’r ‘umble scrivener recently had occasion to dine at a nice restaurant in Baytown (Capital of the Culinary World), and was happy to see a complete table setting: a collection of cutlery, a big cloth napkin, big plates, small plates, and bowls.

But then, Baytown’s pretty sophisticated: they’ve got traffic lights, movin’ picture shows, sidewalks, and Russian spies.

Rumor has it that former President Obama bugged the iced tea.

And then there was this guy in corner wearing Tom Brady’s game jersey and crying softly into his double mocha latte’ with a dusting of cinnamon: “But it was the right envelope. It was. I handed them the right envelope…sob!”

He had a big cloth napkin for his tears, though.

-30-

The Smart Phone That Came in From the Cold - poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

The Smart Phone That Came in From the Cold

Along the bridge that was a wall a phone
Whispered endearments to a thermostat
Hoping to turn it as a double agent
Which would betray the satellite TV

Beyond the talking doll that talks too much
The new refrigerator’s ice machine
Betrayed its memory chip to a light bulb
Which killed an activity tracker gone rogue

Your teapot is a data dump – it’s true!
And your fountain pen is ratting on you

Stoned to the No - poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Stoned to the No

Stoned to the No in 1968
On words and life, keeping the center between
Chaos and other chaos, hiding peace
In backwards lines and in the silences

Awkward and rare, perceived in starlit dreams
That flickered above conflicting demands
For fearful unthinking obedience
And the No is recusance, perhaps defiance

Fifty years later, still stoned to the No
On words and life, keeping the center still

Monday, March 6, 2017

I Spy with my Little FBI... - poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

I Spy with my Little FBI

I spy with my little bright FBI
A government wet and hung out to dry
On clotheslines that might (or might not) be tapped
Through circuitry that the Soviets mapped
And passed the plans on to bad Vladimir
(Who wrestles tigers sans shirt and sans fear)
But, sure, that mighty hyperborean
Had better watch for the North Korean
And keep him closer than a dodgy brother

Because

All we Yanks do is snoop on each other

Sunday, March 5, 2017

If the Russians Find Out That the Iced Tea was Bugged - poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

If the Russians Find Out That the Iced Tea was Bugged

If the Russians find out that the iced tea
Was bugged they may well conclude that Area 51
Has tested Tom Brady’s jersey which was stowed
In a bus station locker in Donetsk

With the claim check issued to Kellyanne Conway
And passed to a North Korean operative via
A secret drop in a hollow pumpkin
Behind a voting machine in Spokane

That was hacked by a rogue albino nun
Carrying secret numbers for Rand Paul

Saturday, March 4, 2017

Who Will Pray for Poor Topcliffe? - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com



Who Will Pray for Poor Topcliffe?

There must be someone to pray for the soul
Of poor Richard Topcliffe, pursuivant of
The souls of others, but not of his own
This master of irons and fires and chains

There must be someone to pray for the soul
Of a liar, a sneak, a torturer
Who hounded innocents into mass graves
Tormenting thus himself no less than them

Who will then pray for poor Richard Topcliffe?

These:

Of their mercy, his hundreds of innocents

The Wolf Who Cried "Boy!" - poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

The Wolf Who Cried “Boy!”

So - once upon a wolf there was a time
When errant lopes lupined about in rhyme
And mooned beneath the lonely, silvery howl
And rabbited frights with each savage vowel

One night a little lost was boyed in the wood
And wolved into the wandereds’ neighborhood
The wolfiest hunger of all cried “A boy!”
And all the other replies wolved “Oh, joy!”

And then they ate him. Wolves, eh.

Choosing Sides at Kursk - poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Choosing Sides at Kursk

At a railway junction great powers meet
To blacken the earth with a generation
Of young musicians, mechanics, physicians
Electricians, farmers, painters, and poets

And the philosopher who loves to fish
Ground into blood and screams and scraps of flesh
By the future which some have seen, and works
For the dress-uniform closed loop of power

So choose a side which is no side; you must
Choose a side choose a side fratricide

                                                               No

Greeting Card Verse - poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Greeting Card Verse

There is nothing wrong with greeting card verse:
Noses are red, some types of whales are blue
Two woods diverged in a yellow road, so what
Is any of that to me or to you?

A man must find a verse that fits his needs -
Archly obscure thick homilies preening
To poly spec for the cause of the day
Couched in cool cant neither pretty nor true

Are but ISBN numbers on file

And

Sometimes ya want to smile, crocodile!

But Why Should Someone Save the Date? - poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

But Why Should Someone Save the Date?

But, really, why should someone save the date?
Would it be lost in Dante’s darksome wood
like a poor soul in search of salvation,
or lost in the 1950s tonight?

In what would someone save the date? One thinks
Of piggy banks, Prince Albert cans, jelly jars
Old coffee cans buried beneath a tree
Or an ice tray in the cold Frigidaire

One is unlikely to misplace a day
A week, a month, except in a tired cliché

Jackboots - poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Jackboots

Exactly what are jackboots, eh? Tell me.
Well, jackboots were designed by this guy, Jack,
You see, because jacksneakers didn’t work
And jackloafers were out of the question

Jack wanted a boot everyone could hate
Even though they didn’t know what it was
And so anyone you don’t like wears jackboots
You polish them nicely with vitriol

Available at finer shops everywhere
And you’re a Facist…Facsit…Fascist, dude!

An Older Liturgy for Vespers - poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

An Older Liturgy for Vespers

The Vestal hearth is now a microwave
No mysteries or flames within it glow;
The kitchen table now is the altar, set
With old familial Lares and Penates:

Pepper and salt shakers of dime-store design
Flanked by a tray of paper napkins which
The children simply will not use, a spoon,
A morning coffee cup not put away

Even so -

When the mill whistle blows, and school lets out
An ancient liturgy will be renewed

Nocturne About is Fair Play - poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Nocturne About is Fair Play

Lyrics and sonnets and ballads and odes
All fade into the page at dusk when dusk
Begins to chill and a poetry book
Is now but a silent accessory

The ice has faded from one’s drink; a cat,
As sly as the stars, arises to slink
around the assortment of weathered lawn chairs
And their assortment of humans at peace

With an evening of low expectations
Beyond a falling memory of a rhyme

Saint Blaise - poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Saint Blaise

Waiting in line to have body parts blessed
Is probably a good idea, and throats
Are more accessible than pancreases
(Or are they pancreai?). A brain-blessing

Might be an even better idea, although
A small priest could not, would not reach so high
Hands, shoulders, elbows, noses, ear lobes too
So in the end (but blessing that might be

Entirely inappropriate) you see

Even so

Let us be blessed in all humility

Habakkuk on a Letter Jacket - poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Habakkuk on a Letter Jacket

We’ve yet to see a quote from Habakkuk
Glittered and glued onto a run-through sign
Or embroidered on a letter jacket -
1:11 comes to mind, or 2:7

How curious it is to write some lines
of scripture to be trampled into scraps
of paper and glitter and glue near to
the concession stand and the marching band

Or wear them as a fashion accessory

And

We’ve yet to see that quote from Habakkuk

Cats are Iambic Pentameter - poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Cats are Iambic Pentameter

Light-footed cats are nature’s iambics
Each subtle feline step unstressed to stressed
Across a lawn, a counterpane, a heart
As a tail-twitching cat ballet, all grace

But dogs are four-beat Anglo-Saxon1 lines
Galumphing heavily and clumsily
Across a moor, a sleeping-bag, a heart
As a tail-wagging country reel (gone bad)

Soft-footed cats are nature’s iambics
And dogs are four-beat Anglo-Saxon lines

1Old English Anglo-Saxon (approx. fifth-twelfth century). Applies to four-stress hemistichal alliterative verse, e.g. Beowulf.

- Stephen Fry, The Ode Less Travelled: Unlocking the Poet Within

The Seven Habits of Highly Defective People - poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

The Seven Habits of Highly Defective People

If sleeping late, not making up the bed
Eating an unbalanced breakfast too fast
(coffee in one hand, cold compress on the head)
Rehearsing the day’s first whiny complaint

Dressing in haste, with no purpose in sight
And no life-goals beyond Saturday night
Washing and brushing all too carelessly
Constitute a defective personality

Then let us celebrate frivolously
This wonderfully defective liberty

Executive Orders - poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Executive Orders

Why are there no executive orders for joy
Edicts commanding merriment and fun
Memos requiring bare feet on summer days
White papers on folding paper airplanes?

Take now an oak-tree leaf, and thereupon
Write with soft, happy whisperings your hopes
And post it on the evening breeze with love
To sail beyond the softly-singing stars

Let us bring to each other each other
and let be signed executive orders for joy