Thursday, April 13, 2017

Maundy Thursday - Mass of the Last Supper - poem

Maundy Thursday – Mass of the Last Supper

“Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang”
-Shakespeare

The air is thurified – the incense given
Our Lord upon His birth is fumed at last;
The censer’s chains, clanking like manacles
Offend against the silence at the end of Mass

Supper is concluded; the servants strip
The Table bare of all the Seder service:
Cups, linens, and dishes, leaving in the dark
An Altar bare, prepared for sacrifice

In Gethsemane the flowered air is sweet
But iron-heeled caligae offend the night

The Luna Moth - poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

The Luna Moth

The moon does not in fact wax anything,
She does not wane; she simply ever-is;
She rules the softly-sung, soft-summer nights,
A willing queen, and willingly obeyed.
The luna moth, her winged votary,
Clings to indulgent oaks of their kindness,
Their moon-sent goddess from another world,
And strangely robed and crowned in lunar green,
Pheroming softly for some other moth
To come perform with her those rituals
Of love illogical, of sacrifice;
For all a luna moth can do is live
A summer week or so, but in those hours

She loves

In lunar beauty, strangely eternal
Who needs a dying luna moth?
                                                       We do.

Wednesday, April 12, 2017

Sean Spicer Never Metaphor He Didn't Like - doggerel

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Sean Spicer Never Metaphor He Didn’t Like

Walk back those Spicerian goosesteps, dude
(And while you’re there, unblame the Russians)
Similes using Hitler are always rude
And now you’ll suffer Tweeter concussions

Cops will drag you away from your lectern
Like that screaming fellow aboard the plane
And make each reportorial neck turn
Heads swiveling to see where you’ve left your brain

Blame everything on the Russians? You bet!
It must be true; it’s on the GossipNet

Monday, April 10, 2017

Whack-a-Cabinet Secretary - doggerel of the meanest sort

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com



Whack-a-Cabinet Secretary

The New Children’s Game for Old Children

One pops up; someone whacks him down
Two more pop up; we can only frown
After the third, we take the hint:
We have no stable government

Does Anyone Sing the National Anthem These Days? - poem (kinda / sorta)

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

This began as a criticism of overproduced, hammy, look-at-me, as-arranged-by interpretations of the National Anthem. It deteriorated. I blame the Russians.

Does Anyone Sing the National Anthem These Days?

Because Francis Scott Key was all about Who-Whoa-Whoa and Yay-Yay-Yay

A minute or so of recorded music
Over-produced in that insta-emo style
Then followed by “Whoa whoa yay oh yay whoa
Whoa yay yay yay whoa oh yay whoa whoa whoa

Whoa yay oh yay whoa whoa yay yay yay whoa
Oh yay whoa whoa whoa whoa yay oh yah
Yay whoa whoa yay yay yay whoa oh yay whoa
Whoa whoa whoa yay oh yay whoa whoa yay yay

Yay whoa oh yay whoa whoa whoa yay yay
It’s all about me-me-me-me-me-meeeeeeeeeeemeeeeeeeeeeeemeeeeeeee!”

Followed by –

Baseball: “Play ball!”

Racetrack: “Gentlemen, start your engines!”

Rodeo: “Gentlemen, start your cattle!”

The federal government’s Outer Continental Shelf oil & gas Lease Sales
Close: “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s open your sealed bids!”

School: “Teachers, start your sophomores.”

Austin, Texas City Council: “And now Comrade Muffin Snort-Ponsonby,
BA, MA, MEd, Chair Emerita of the Travis County Sensitivity League, will chant
her original composition, “Spiritual Wind-Song Ode to Comrade Stalin.”

Sunday, April 9, 2017

Palm Sunday in Egypt - poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Palm Sunday in Egypt
9 April 2017

Revelation 20:4

Poor bleeding Egypt, Mother of martyrs
Whose sands receive the gift of sacred blood
Almost without an end: the Apostle Mark,
Saint Katherine, and even on this day:

A child in the narthex scampering about
Although his mother told him to behave
A man waiting for a friend, passers-by
Someone hoping that the sermon is short

O may they now with Christ enter into
Golden Jerusalem, now and forever

Buy a Pepsi for Syria in the Tonkin Gulf While Rockin' to Radio Gleiwitz - column

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Buy a Pepsi for Syria in the Tonkin Gulf While Rockin’ to Radio Gleiwitz

Last week (if anything on the news is true), our president sent 59 cruise missiles to fall upon an air base in Syria. The next day (if anything on the news is true), Russian and Syrian warplanes were again operating out of that air base. Each cruise missile (if anything on the news is true) costs close to a million dollars. Given that and the expenses of operating warships, American workers - because who else can pay taxes? - gave up maybe a hundred million dollars of their Churchillian blood, toil, tears, and sweat to damage a few buildings on an airbase in another country.

Why?

Has Syria invaded the U.S.A.? Has Syria threatened to invade the U.S.A.? Is Hitler hangin’ by the pool at Assad’s palace?

Syria, which has not been a nice place to live since the French Mandate of 1923-1946, suffers a civil war among, according to New York magazine (http://nymag.com/daily/intelligencer/2014/10/guide-groups-fighting-iraq-and-syria.html), the Assad government, ISIS, The Kurdish People’s Protection Movement, Jabhat al-Nusra, Khorasan Group, Al Quaeda, Islamic Front, Free Syrian Army, Hezbollah, Peshmerga, Russia, the United States, and others, all shifting their alliances and allegiances without any sense of pattern.

According to the New York Times (https://www.nytimes.com/2017/03/09/world/middleeast/us-troops-syria.html) there are perhaps 800 American soldiers, Marines, and sailors (Navy Corpsmen serve with the Marines) in Syria.

I don’t know why they are there, and I don’t know what they are expected to accomplish with the Assad government, ISIS, The Kurdish People’s Protection Movement, Jabhat al-Nusra, Khorasan Group, Al Quaeda, Islamic Front, Free Syrian Army, Hezbollah, Peshmerga, and Russian soldiers and airmen.

In a not irrelevant aside, Christianity has existed in Syria since before Saint Paul fell off his horse on the road to Damascus. Of all the combatants in Syria, only Russia has expressed a desire to protect the surviving Christians there.

This nation can’t even keep the peace in Chicago, which is much smaller than Syria.

Last week we all saw photographs. But of what? Were children gassed? Were adults gassed? By whom? With what? Says who? From what nation’s stocks of poisons? Were the toxins those WMD that Saddam had and then didn’t have and then hid in Syria? Were they from Libya?

Does no one in our government and media remember the Gleiwitz incident on the border between German and Poland on 31 August 1939?

How about the Gulf of Tonkin incident on 2-4 August 1964?

Or Article 1 of Section 8 of the Constitution?

Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

A catalogue of questions does not constitute and effective narrative, but neither does it constitute a basis for a war, and nothing constitutes a basis for war without a declaration of war by our increasingly Merovingian Congress, who will investigate a baseball team but not stand up for the Constitution.

This week two young friends, kids I watched grow up, are off to join the Marines. And good for them. But their commander-in-chief is a man who avoided Viet-Nam because of a heel spur. Have you noticed the limp? The former Secretary of State (who also never made the first day of recruit training) also expressed enthusiasm for sending our young men and women to war in Syria, but since she was not elected, what difference does it make?

On the day after the cruise missiles fell upon a Syrian air base a local television station broadcast informal interviews with some young Syrian men idling and smoking huqqas in a Syrian restaurant in Houston. I did not record the broadcast, so I could be wrong in this, but I do not remember that any women were present. Maybe they were rockin’ to some heavy tunes on Radio Gleiwitz with Bill O’Reilly or Bill Clinton.

The young Syrian men expressed their gratitude that the United States bombed their country, but are disappointed that this nation has been dilatory in bombing those Syrians that these Syrians did not like.

So here’s another question: why are healthy young American men fighting in Syria while healthy young Syrian men are sitting on their dead (huqqas) in Houston, Texas?

-30-

Saturday, April 8, 2017

Well Done, Thou Good and Faithful Cat - poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Well Done, Thou Good and Faithful Cat

for Calvin

Yes, surely there will be another cat
But not this Cat, not this Big Orange Dust-Mop
Lounging “with abs of steel and sex appeal”
At his window, hungry for hummingbirds

Or lurking there behind that door to swat
His Sarah, who served as his household staff,
For failing to render due obeisance
To him, the superior MagnifiCat

Dear Calvin –

For now, farewell, until that better World,
O happy, leaping, loving childhood friend

Friday, April 7, 2017

Fifty Shades of Cruise Missiles - poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Fifty Shades of Cruise Missiles:
The Night of 6 April 2017

The news appears on the glowing telescreen:
“50+ Missiles Aimed at Syria”
The typeface set in a lurid shade of red
With a flashing cartoon police-car light

And because I was walking in the fields at dusk
I am still armed for a war against age
With a walking stick propped inside the door
Proof against nothing but instability

Useless against missiles or poison gas
I had better go to bed with a good book

Thursday, April 6, 2017

Poetry - Why must There be Iambs? - poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Poetry - Why Must There be Iambs?

Iambics are the sky through which words fly
Formations sweeping all five seasons across
In order royal and in right service to
The aspirations of all noble youths

For verses built without a careful plan
Fall but as clutter on a wasted page
Their meanings and intents broken apart
And lost (like sophomores between each class)

Free verse is only an unanswered why:
Iambics are the sky through which dreams fly



(none o’ yer godless trochees or dithyrambs, eh!)

Wednesday, April 5, 2017

Make Hope America and Again Great Change - poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Make Hope America and Again Great Change

Slick runway haircuts and bribery gowns
Armored tank-mobiles and gun-guarded walls
And condescending slogans that mock the poor
Just like those once-every-four-years flannel shirts

They investigate each other back and forth
Always holding hearings but never hearing
The sigh of a waitress counting her tips
Gas for her twenty-year-old Ford Focus

The Party-proud sneering at her trailer park
Where dreams live only on cable tv

Tuesday, April 4, 2017

All Change at Zima Junction - poem



Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

All Change at Zima Junction

For Yevgeny Yevtushenko, 1932-2017

Everyone changes trains at Zima Junction
Changes lives; nineteen becomes twenty-one
With hardly a pause for twenty and then
Everyone asks you questions you can’t answer

And then they say you’ve changed, and ignore you
The small-town brief-case politician still
Enthroned as if she were a committee
And asks you what are you doing back here

And then you go away, on a different train:
Everyone changes trains at Zima Junction

“I went, and I am still going.”1


1Yevtuskenko: Selected Poems. Penguin,1962

Sunday, April 2, 2017

April is Poetry Month - and aTribute to Yevgeny Yevtushenko - column, 2 April 2017

Mack Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

April is Poetry Month – Let Slip the Dogs of Iambic Pentameter

Yevgeny Yevtushenko, one of the bold young poets of the 1960s, died this week at the age of 84.
When I returned from Viet-Nam I bought for 75 cents a new copy of the Penguin Modern European Poets edition of Yevtushenko: Selected Poems at the airport in San Francisco. I had read many short stories by Anton Chekhov and Solzhenitsyn’s “The Incident at the Krechetovka Station” (an English translation of The Gulag Archipelago was several years away), and was working through Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov. I had begun to understand that Tolstoy was a hairy-airy old proto-hippie, but I hadn’t enough history to understand Yevtushenko at the time. I had no idea what Babi Yar was, and of course poetry just can’t be translated.

Russian words can be rendered only approximately into English words – and the other way ‘round – by someone equally at home in both languages, but, still, the emphases, the rhythms, the subtleties of language will be lost. Imagine, for instance, trying to translate “Well, I’ve got friends in low places” into another language. What, exactly, does “well” mean? What kind of friends? Those few close ones among whom there are almost no secrets? Co-workers? The Saturday-morning coffee-shop pals? Are the friends mention in the poem / song airline pilots and navigators? Unemployed steelworkers? Two welders, a dentist, and a CPA who play country music on the weekends? What are “low places?” Is “low” rendered as altitude or attitude?

So I didn’t understand much of Yevtushenko. After a few years’ study, including my own indiscriminate reading, I did. Without some basic knowledge of Russian history one cannot understand what a bee-slap in the collective (so to speak) faces of Stalin and his successors some of Yevtushenko’s poems were.

Just why Yevtushenko wasn’t “disappeared” is a matter of speculation. Some of his peers accused him of being a government stooge, but his poetry was not obedient to the censors. The line “Don’t tells lies to the young” is a typical Yevtushenko rebuke to the Soviet government. Had Stalin lived beyond 1953, Yevtushenko would not have; he would be a footnote lost in an unmarked mass grave, like Osip Mandelstam, Lydia Chukovskaya, Nikolay Punin, and thousands of others.

That edition of Yevtushenko: Selected Poems is still available; Amazon.com.pretty.much.owns.the.planet.com lists it from several sources from $3 to $50.

The ragged copy I bought in the long-ago – ragged because I finally read it, and have re-read it many times - is beside me on my desk as I type this. The filler on the back cover reads “Yevgeny Yevtushenko is the fearless spokesman of his generation in Russia. In verse that is young, fresh, and outspoken he frets at restraint and injustice…”

Except for that forbidden “he” – one person is now “they” on the orders of our own soviet censors – that fifty-year-old blurb could be pretty much the advertising copy for any new book of scribbles.

But Yevtushenko was real. “Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord…”

-30-

Jesus Via PowerPoint in the Parish Hall - poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com


A Meeting in the Parish Hall

To the arrhythmia of mostly futile clicks on a hand-held gadget

No food or drinks in game room can someone
Please get the lights no not there over there
PowerPointlessness uh-oh can someone
Please get the lights okay I’ve got it now

Uh-oh oh wait these slides are all mixed up
Can someone get the lights again okay
I’ve got the sound now hospitality
Ministers what does “Eucharist” mean

Foam-cup coffee penitential folding chairs
No cell phones please dear God why am I here

+Yevgeny Yevtushenko

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.cokm

+Yevgeny Yevtushenko

Yevgeny Yevtushenko died today.  The Penguin Modern European Poets edition of Yevtushenko: Selected Poems was the first book I bought upon returning from Viet-Nam, in the airport in San Francisco.  That paperback is on the desk beside me as I type.


"Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and make perpetual Light to shine upon him."

Saturday, April 1, 2017

Yes, Lady-in-the-Back-With-Your-Arms-Folded-in-Disapproval - poem



Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Yes, Lady-in-the-Back-With-Your-Arms-Folded-in-Disapproval

“Excuse me. Excuse me. Could I ask a question?
Okay, I’ve got a question actually I’ve got
Two questions okay maybe it’s one question
I don’t mean to interrupt or anything

“Ha ha but sometimes us old folks don’t understand
So well ha ha but about what you said about
Just now what was it oh yes now I remember:
When I was young back in the stone ages

“Ha ha we were taught one way and right now
You’re telling us this way and that’s not right…”

Friday, March 31, 2017

A Reception Perception: Deception - poem



Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

A Reception Perception: Deception

Hi how are you so good to see you again
Do try this cheese dip we’re so going to miss
You around here you have such a gift for
Lighting up a room well golly I haven’t

Seen you in so long how are the kids doing
A grandchild really rotator cuff surgery
I remember when you first came to work here
Yes but God always has a plan you know

Has it been so long oh my time sure flies
Hi how are you so good to see you again

Thursday, March 30, 2017

Get Your Free Navy Seal Flashlight Now - poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

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Don’t want any Real Americans to know
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Look like a real GENUINE Navy Seal ™ ®
Confuse the Deep Illuminati ™ ® with
Your secret Navy Seal ™ ® Decoder Ring
Let’s not forget your Navy Seal ™ ® Duct Tape

MAKE AMERICA (and Shanghai) GREAT AGAIN
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Wednesday, March 29, 2017

The Revolution is a Corpse - poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

The Revolution is a Corpse

The revolution is a stinking corpse
And spreading béarnaise sauce all over a corpse
While chanting “It’s alive!” doesn’t make it so
Because a revolution can never live

Artists are never revolutionaries
Because artists work up the good and true
From the foundation of creation
While revolutionaries obey diktats

Rearranging a corpse is never art
And revolution is always a corpse

Tuesday, March 28, 2017

Electromagnetic Lust - poem

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

Electromagnetic Lust

They wander about, each connected device
Talking to other connected devices
Looking into each electronic soul
In which no secret can ever reside

They speak of batteries and images
Of apps, restarts, resets, and memory
Measured by quantity of something-bytes
Each in electrical love with itself

They wander about, each connected device
Wishing to be free of its human host