Paleo-Yuppies at Work and Play - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Paleo-Yuppies at Work and Play

Fading slowly from the existential struggle,
Waving their MePhones about in protest,
They swarm to Starbuck’s for adjective coffees,
Uniformed in knee-pants and bulbous sneaks
And Chinese soccer tops with little checkmarks,
Their graduate degrees at parade rest,
And in confusion, suddenly-stalled careers
Raging against the thirty-something machine.
Not trusting anyone under forty,
They rustle their foam cups and resumes’
Instead of suspicious Democrats,
And demand promotions and Perrier.
They mourn pinstripes and leather briefcases,
And the old floppy disc of yesteryear,
And fumble their PowerPoint Presentations
Tho’ once they illuminated the world
With colored markers on glossy whiteboard.
They no longer play games on a Commodore
Or rock to neo-Carib fusion jazz;
Their Rush is Right baseball caps are now filed
In trays of antique curiosities
Beside the moldering hippie stuff shelved
In an adjunct of the Smithsonian
Where curricula vitae go to be eaten
By a computer virus named Vlad.
Now, as the sun sets on Ferris Bueller’s day,
They count and verify their MeBook friends –

They did not change the world, not at all, but
The world changed anyway, and without them,
And in the end they love neither Jesus
Nor The Force; like Eve, they bow to an Apple.

Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Paleo-Hippies at Work and Play

Having withdrawn from the existential struggle,
Surrendering their arms and protest signs,
They muster in Denny’s for the Senior Special
Uniformed in knee-pants and baseball caps
And Chinese tees that read “World’s Greatest Grandpa,”
Hearing aids and trifocals at parade rest,
And quadrupedal aluminum sticks
Raging against the oxygen machine.
Not trusting anyone over ninety,
They rattle their coffee cups and dentures
Instead of suspicious Nixonians,
And demand pensions, not revolution.
They mourn classmates dead, not The Grateful Dead.
They do not burn their Medicare cards
Tho’ once they illuminated the world
With their flaming conscription notices.
They no longer read McKuen or Tolkien
Or groove to ‘way-cool Peter, Paul, and Mary;
Their beads and flowers are forever filed
In books of antique curiosities
Beside a butterfly collection shelved
In an adjunct of the Smithsonian
Where manifestos go to be eaten
By busy mice and slow-pulsing fungi.
As darkness falls they make the Wheel, not love

They did not change the world, not at all, but
The world changed anyway, and without them,
And in the end they love neither Jesus
Nor Siddhartha, but only cable t.v.

Saint Garden Gnome - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Saint Garden Gnome

An obscure barefoot friar in Italy
Long labored in the Perugian sun,
Heaped rocks upon rocks, and then other rocks,
Up to a wavery roof of broken tiles,
Repairing with his bleeding hands God’s church

Then, better known – it wasn’t his fault – this friar,
With others in love with Lady Poverty,
In hope and penance trudged to far-off Rome
To offer there his modest Rule of life,
Repairing with his mindful words God’s Church

Along the delta of the steaming Nile
He waved away the worried pickets, crossed
Into the camp of the Saracens
Preaching Christ to merciful Al-Kamil,
Offering with a martyr’s heart God’s Faith

Saint Francis is depicted in fine art
In great museums and in modest homes -
And you can find him too, down at Wal-Mart,
Between the plastic frogs and concrete gnomes.

A Lady and Her Two Knights - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

A Lady and Her Two Knights

For their Nona and Papaw

Three young adults walking along to Mass
Pals from childhood, arms around each other,
Laughing, and pausing briefly for a mama-picture -
For them, even October is their spring

And in this springtime of their lives they offer
All of their happiness to Our Lord Himself,
All together Ad Altare Dei,
To God who giveth joy to their youth1

Three friends laughing, taking the morning air:
Two knights honored to escort their lady fair

1paraphrased from the Missale Romanum of 1962

A Dachshund Among the Leaves - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

A Dachshund Among the Leaves

For Liesl-the-Wonder-Dachshund, of Happy Memory

A merry dachshund yaps, and leaps for leaves
Wind-strewn across the still-green summer grass
As Autumn visits briefly, and looks around
To plan his festive moonlit frosts when soon
Diana dances across November’s skies.

Old and Unselected Poems - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Old and Unselected Poems

Pale, penciled scribblings, old bits, old notes
Forgotten drafts in old books shelved away
And lines painfully worked out during lectures
About Napoleon’s painful hemorrhoids

And the declensions of those Latin nouns
Which with their verbs Omnis Gallia divisit
Or something like that, forgotten long ago -
But not
             her hair
                          her voice
                                         her smile
                                                         her eyes

Others cannot write to her happy theme -
She writes herself as iambs in a dream

About Windows Creator Update - a caution

Apologies, but about Windows Creator Update...

My two-year-old laptop was NOT happy with Windows Creator Update with regard to functionality and the clarity of the screen images.  I was able to uninstall, but there are residual buttons that won't go away.  You might want to check with your I.T. person before accepting Windows Creator Update into your machine.

Again, apologies for being off-task.

Hitler's Panties - column

Mack Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

Hitler’s Panties

Someone has purchased Adolf Hitler’s undies for $6,700.  And let the people say, “Eeyewwwww.”

The buyer’s name has been kept unmentionable, and one understands why: a collector of fanboy unmentionables is a candidate for a room next to the fellow who is convinced he is Napoleon.

Dear Leader’s bvds apparently were misplaced in the laundry in an Austrian hotel in 1938.  Imagine being the room service guy who had to explain how he misplaced Der Fuhrer’s drawers.  Someone kept them as a souvenir of good times, and they were recently sold at an auction in Maryland.  This classy ‘n’ sassy delicate (gentle cycle only) is usually not the sort of thing that appears on Ebay.

Importing Hitler’s you-know-whats into the USA must have been amusing – how would the customs label read?

Boxers? Or briefs?

Boxers.  There is an “AH” embossed on the garment, but no little swastikas, fasces, double lightning bolts, or Winnie-the-Pooh characters.

One imagines those quiet evenings at home with Wolfie and Eva Braun, roasting civilizations in the fireplace and whispering sweet Nazi-ings to each other while accoutered in their loungewear.

There was that awkward occasion when AH discovered that EB kept a poster of a topless Josef Stalin in her boudoir, but they made it up when EB giggled that AH’s ‘stache was much ticklier than JS’s.

Did Stalin lounge about the Kremlin in his longIvans ‘way into the wee hours listening to The Andrews Sisters records and autographing death warrants?

But maybe the old boy was a bit more risqué, something in sync with “The Volga Boatmen’s Thong.”

One wonders if there is a market for General Tojo’s no-nos.

Or a Mussolini bikini.

Mao Tse Dung’s Long March Xuans.

Ah, well, we’d better keep this shorts…uh, short.

-30-

The Saunter of the Penguins - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The Saunter of the Penguins

Across our lives the Penguins saunter along:
The Odyssey, The Ministry of Fear
Parade’s End, Penrod, To a God Unknown
Ragged with study, stained with tea and beer

Saint Augustine’s Confessions, Whitman’s Leaves
Tennyson, Wordsworth, The Alexiad
Monsignor Quixote, Wooster and Jeeves
And Yevtushenko – he was quite the lad!

Dog-eared and all crinkly, Scotch-taped with age -
Each Penguin is a wise, eternal sage

"Have You Seen Ken Burns' Latest Television Show?" - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

"Have You Seen Ken Burns’ Latest Television Show?"

No, I was in the play. I didn’t like it.
The plot, setting, and characterization
Were all wrong, and the clumsy denouement
Was poorly written and acted.
                                                   “Macbeth.”

War profiteers from John Wayne to Ken Burns
Have claimed my illegal war for their own
"Hell hath no fury like a non-combatant"
Beyond that, the VA is ashamed of me

So, thanks, but no. I'm good. Bitter, but good
For I was in the play. I didn’t like it.

Alexander Pushkin and the Poker-Playing Dogs - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Alexander Pushkin and the Poker-Playing Dogs

We can have our Pushkin, all thinky and sad
And our poker-playing pups, cheating at cards
Ruslan and Ludmylla dancing on ice
At the Houston airport Holiday Inn

Did Pushkin paint the poker-playing pups
Or carve tetrameters while in his cups?
That green baize poker table, a samovar
And the Big Giant Head, who needs an ace

We can have our Pushkin, all thinky and sad
And too those kitschy dogs, being real bad!

Decorating a Mansion - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Decorating a Mansion

Let be set out a wooden crucifix
Of indifferent and artless workmanship
Upon a table where the lamplight falls
In yellow circles on a book or two,
And sheets of paper and a quirky pen.

Let be set up a surplus Navy bunk
With mattress and blanket, and pillow too,
If Brother Guestmaster has them to hand,
Luxury enough for merciful sleep,
Or combat desperate against fearful dreams.

Let be set into the wall a hook or nail
To serve the office of a wardrobe there,
Burdened with little but perhaps too much:
A decent habit for the liturgies,
A worn-out coat, a hat against the sun.

Let be set into the cell an exile,
A man of no reputation at all,
Unnoticed in the streets, unseen, unknown,
But who delights in anonymity,
Here in this palace in Jerusalem.

Fragments in a Fragmented Season - weak and stupid not-really-a-poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Fragments in a Fragmented Season

Neither a cyber-warrior nor a cyber-worrier be

But is this flower a patriotic flower?

The nation that never had much use for me
Except to send me to an undeclared war
Is suddenly broken

Was I playing with the puppies when the revolution began
        And so didn’t notice?

“Take It Down!” someone scrawled on a statue in New Orleans
        Dear New Orleans: Saint Joan of Arc was never a Confederate

Dear Canada: Do you really want to be a republic?

The vice-president takes shelter within his armored hair, and is silent

The Real Knees of Irving, Texas

Think about a Wal-Mart employee taking a knee during the morning Wal-Mart chant

It’s the Russians, no doubt

Chess ratings are up

Everything’s an Orwellian Two-Minutes’ Hate now. Even the hours and seconds are outraged

“Your attitude’s been noticed, comrade.” - House Warden to Yuri in Doctor Zhivago

Maybe the Republic will be in better shape next season.

Waiting for our Masters to Grow Up - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Waiting for our Masters to Grow Up

The barbarians who lord it over us
Thunder denunciations at each other
On whether they should kneel or stand to flags or balls
And with whom they should be photographed

Some swagger in government, in suits and ties
Some swagger with buckles binding their foreheads;
Like schoolboys they compare the size of their…purchases
And bubble themselves with fawning courtiers

As ever, we workers, savers, writers, readers
Must be the grownups - unlike our leaders

Our Lady of Walsingham - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Our Lady of Walsingham

O how beautiful is Our Lady Queen!
Queen of our hearts and hopes, to her we pray,
Sweet Empress over forest, down, and dene ,
And happy Sunrise over the pilgrim’s way

O let us crown Our Queen with leaf and flower
Gathered this morning in the dawnlit dew
For we in this island are Her true dower
Pledging our faith with thorn and rose and yew

She gives us Her feast day, cool and quiet and green -
O how beautiful is Our Lady Queen!

There is No Such Thing as an Unloaded Gun - column

Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

There is No Such Thing as an Unloaded Gun

Recently the news spoke of a little child searching through her grandmother’s purse for candy. Ordinary this would be an “awwwwwwww…” moment, reminding of us how our grandmothers spoiled us over the protests of our parents.

Instead of candy, the child found her mee-maw’s pistol. It discharged. The child is dead.

Many questions follow: since the grandmother carried a firearm, why did she violate every teaching on gun safety? And further, why did she feel the need to carry a firearm at all? Was she afraid of other women?

No, almost surely she was afraid of males (one cannot call them men) who violate every teaching of scripture and civilization in menacing women.

We can all do better.

My old daddy (he visited France, Belgium, and Germany 1944-1945) taught that the first rule of gun safety is that there is no such thing as an unloaded gun. And then a series of Navy and Marine Corps instructors taught me the same.

Now of course a gun sometimes is loaded; otherwise, there would be no Bambi for supper. But when there is no Bambi about, unload the gun. Then fear that it is loaded.

In Viet-Nam one of the most common causes of GSW (gun shot wounds) was the mishandling of weapons. Although every Marine and sailor was taught / coached / urged / re-taught firearms safety, after a few months of carrying and cleaning firearms daily, many of the lads became careless.

We didn’t need the VC; Yankee-Doodle carelessness killed a lot of the lads.

The teaching that there is no such thing as an unloaded gun is a psychological truth necessary for our survival. Even the sharpest of us misplace our car keys, forget hair appointments, and fail to notice that the date on the inspection sticker has expired. No one is perfect.

When transporting a gun, unload it, and then fear that it is loaded.

When crossing a fence, unload the gun, and then fear that it is loaded.

When storing a gun, unload it, and then fear that it is loaded.

When climbing the Bambi-stand, unload the gun, and then fear that it is loaded.

Fit a lock to the trigger of a gun, and then fear that it might fire anyway – because it can.

A six-shooter is a five-shooter, no matter how much the manufacturer brags about the safety features. Never, never, never, never, never leave the hammer resting on all those clever safety gates, because beneath all that gim-crackery is a bullet that can kill.

Never, never, never, never, never leave a round up the spout of a semi-auto, no matter how often John Wayne did it. You ain’t John Wayne. Heck, not even John Wayne was John Wayne. Marion Michael Morrison was a cinema actor, okay? He never made the first day of military or police training.

Respect the firearm, because the firearm doesn’t give a rat’s rear end about you.

There is no such thing as an unloaded gun.

There is no such thing as an unloaded gun.

There is no such thing as an unloaded gun.

-30-

A Rocket from the Colonial Office - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

A Rocket from the Colonial Office

Colleagues,

If you are receiving this email, your
Syllabus for your course(s) is not showing
On the )/ webpage under House Bill
2504. This is a state law with

Which we must be in compliance. If you have
Not uploaded your syllabus for each
Course that you teach, you need to get that task
Completed now. The task was supposed to

Have been completed by September 5,
According to a previous email
Reminder – this is actually your third
Reminder. If you need help completing

This aspect of your responsibilities,
Please let me know if you have uploaded
Your syllabus already, but if it
Is not showing, we may need to contact

IT for assistance. Thank you for your
Dedication to /)/) College.

And Just How Did the Cow Eat the Cabbage? - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

And Just How Did the Cow Eat the Cabbage?

The question was answered in a cafe at noon:
The cow ate the cabbage with an ordinary spoon

Thank you for your kind attention.

20 September 1870 - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

20 September 1870

Like vultures hovering over the faithful dead
The rank red rags of base repression hung
Upon the blast-breeched walls of captive Rome;
The smoke of conquest fouled the ancient streets
While mocking conquerors marched their betters
At the point of enlightened bayonets
To the scientific future, murdering those
Who bore themselves with quiet dignity.

False, sinister Savoy sneered in disdain
At ancient truths, this costumed reprobate
Who played at soldier once the firing ceased,
And claimed Saint Peter’s patrimony on
The corpses of the merely useful who
With today’s slogans fresh upon their lips
At dawn advanced upon the remnant walls
So thinly held by the last legionaries

And thus befeathered fat Vittorio
Was given his victory by better men
On both sides there, their corpses looted by
The pallid inheritors of Progress.
The son of a Sardinian spurred his horse
Along the streets to take enforced salutes,
And to the Quirinal by a passage broad,
And finally to the Ardeatine Caves.

"Maccabees, and all that Mess" - poem (from a disputation overheard in a cafe)

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

“Maccabees, and all that Mess”

Antiochus declared himself to be
Epiphanes – a god unto himself
And persecuted suffering Israel
With pagan images and fire and death

The blood of martyrs Mattathias moved
And all his sons, hammers chosen by God
To cleanse the Temple of all perfidy
And through eight days rededicate the world

But now

Dismissed by the café theologian
As merely “Maccabees, and all that mess”