A Baton, But No Orchestra - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

A Baton, But No Orchestra

Majestic in their yellow-painted shields
Imperious trumping traffic lights command
Through glares of green and red, and garish orange
Obedience in all the traffic below

How sad - there is no traffic to command
Though once there was, before the lordly lights
Were lifted up: a little town was here
With pharmacies, feed stores, hardware, and cafes

And a movin’-picture show. All gone now.
And then the state put up the traffic lights

Be Strong in Your Pixies - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Be Strong in Your Pixies

For a Young Artist, Musician, Scientist, Poet, and Philosopher

Be strong in your Pixies, for some will say
That you are wasting your time on fantasy
When you should be laboring hard all day
As servant to some old master’s machinery

Be strong in your Pixies, yes, even when
You are all grown up, and have a great career
Dream still again each magic forest and glen
And keep your Pixie-knowledge close and clear

Be strong in your Pixies, and sometimes glance
Back to that moonlit realm, where Pixies dance

Singing a Poem into Being - well, a poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Singing a Poem into Being

          The cold told a tale to me
          the rain suggested poems
                    another tale the winds brought
                    the sea’s billows drove;
                    the birds added words
                    the treetops phrases

-The Kalevala, I, “In the Beginning” 1

We’re born to light and water and earth and air
Yet most of my life I cared little for verse,
But somehow words have become wonderful,
Even beloved because poetry -

- Poetry takes the chaos (or apparent chaos?)
Of life, and gently sings it into meaning
Through line, stanza, meter, and metaphor,
Shapes it, loves it, and makes it beautiful.

Poetry is like baptism, perhaps,
Or painting, sculpting, drawing, making music,
Or digging and setting a post-hole just right,
Helping set one’s perceptions of reality just right

And it is beautiful




1 The Kalevala. Elias Lonnrot. Trans. Keith Bosley. An Oxford World’s Classics Paperback. OUP. New York. 1989.

Impaired Walking in the Turning Lane - poem

Lawrence Hall, HSG
mhall46184@aol.com

Impaired Walking in the Turning Lane

A tall old woman, still vigorous and strong
Striding along in the center lane at dawn
Talking to some people who weren’t there
And they who were not there were talking to her

And the police came; they talked to her too
While gently and politely seating her
In the most comfortable chair they could offer
“Please mind your hands and feet, ma’am,” they said

Upon us all she smiled, a lady that day,
Who commanded those young men to drive her away

Capturing Your Authentic Voice - poem

Lawrence Hall, HSG
mhall46184@aol.com

Capturing Your Authentic Voice

I tried to capture my authentic voice
My inner voice, my true-something-me-ness
But the little booger is elusive
And free it remains, wild and free, to this night

So I deploy an inauthentic voice
An outer voice, only maybe it’s not;
Perhaps it’s an Hegelian dialectic
A voice cobbled together from castoffs

On a sale-table down at Goodwill, I found
A gently-used voice – so how do I sound?

This Little Town, Where Nothin' Ever Happens - poem

Lawrence Hall, HSG
mhall46184@aol.com

This Little Town, Where Nothin’ Ever Happens

So Bubby said that on graduation night
He and Jamby was gonna leave the gym
Toss their rented caps and gowns to some friends
Rev up their Harleys, and leave forever

This little town, where nothin’ ever happens

They had made their plans, you see, real good plans
They’d pack what they needed in their saddle bags
And thunder night and day to Florida
Because there was good jobs waitin’ in Florida

Away from this town, where nothin’ ever happens

They wasn’t gonna stop except for gas
Gas and eats and beer and the American road!

WHOOOOOOOOOOOOOO-EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

They wasn’t gonna really stop until
Their front wheels touched the cold Atlantic

Not like in this town, where nothin’ ever happens

                                                     But they didn’t.

And next year Bubba rolled
His pickup on that curve next to the school

This little town, where nothin’ ever happens

O Kaypro II, Where Have You Gone? - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

O Kaypro II, Where Have You Gone?

Articles on how to write always feature
Pictures of old Underwoods, and maybe
A cup of pencils to the side, and some flowers
In a vase, wilting symbolically

One longs to sees images of an Apple II
Or maybe a TI994A
A battered Radio Shack TRS80
Cursors flickering in defiance

A Magnavox Videowriter, loading slow -
The 80s had their Nobel dreams too, you know

Dear Famous Name Brand Software: - poem

Lawrence Hall, HSG
mhall46184@aol.com

Dear Famous Name Brand Software:

I regret to inform you that I am terminating
Your employment with my computer.
Several months ago you began failing
In your duties; your performance was poor
And sometimes you left work without notice.
Last week you didn’t show up at all.
You refused to be repaired and you refused
To be re-installed, and so I am letting you go.

This week you have taken to sending me notes
That you are the default program and wish
To resume your duties. I must tell you
That I have hired a Mr. Freeware, who
Shows up every day and does the work well.
Not only does he work, he works for free.
I would not have met him had you not failed,
And so, you see, it’s really your own fault.

You need not ask for a reference.

Sincerely,

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Our Catholic Soup Kitchen - poem (of sorts) (With an Explanatory Note)

Lawrence Hall, HSG
mhall46184@aol.com

Our Catholic Soup Kitchen

a HOME credible THE BISHOP accusation ADMINISTRATION is PARISHES one MINISTRIES that, SCHOOLS after RESOURCES review SAFE ENVIRONMENT of EMPLOYEES reasonably CAREERS available, CONTACT US relevant MAKE A GIFT information BISHOP’S FAITH APPEAL in LOVE AND JUSTICE consultation AFRICAN AMERICAN MINISTRY with CATHOLIC CHARITIES the PLANNED GIVING Diocesan CHANCELLOR Review OFFICE OF CONSTRUCTION Board HISPANIC MINISTRY or CAMPUS MINISTRY other CRIMINAL JUSTICE MINISTRY professionals, STEWARDSHIP AND COMMUNICATIONS there YOUTH MINISTRY is FINANCIAL SERVICES reason MODERATOR OF THE CURIA to MAKE A GIFT TO THE CAPITAL CAMPAIGN believe SOCIAL MEDIA POLICY is FAMILY LIFE MINISTRY true VOCATIONS

The soup today is not what it could be;
We’d better search out the old recipe



An Explanatory Note:

The poem as written fails, which is my fault (perhaps I have lapsed into fuzziness from reading too much Leonard Cohen), so here is a bit of exposition:

The words in small print are a quote from the Bishops of Texas (long may they wave), generated by some in-house scrivener, about what constitutes a "credible accusation." "Credible accusation" is not a title in civil, criminal, or canon law, and it appears to be some sort of Article 58 (cf. Solzhenitsyn's The Gulag Archipelago), a means whereby anyone is guilty because he has been accused. It stinks.

Also stinky is the behavior of some few priests and religious.

Anyway, I pulled the quote from a diocesan web site, and scattered among it in LARGE TYPE categories from that site. I stirred 'em all up in a soup because the matter of paedophilia and the bishops' responses seem to be a soup, making it difficult for a "good simpleton" (cf A Canticle for Leibowitz) like me to understand

May God have mercy on us all.

Super-Servile Sunday - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Super-Servile Sunday

O sink not down in that corrosive couch,
Docile before the Orwellian screen
That regulates the lives of the servile,
Dictating dress and drink, demeanor, dreams

Declare your independence from the sludge
Of vague obedientiaries who drowse
Away their empty lives in submission
To harsh, diagonal inches of rule

Poor weaklings chanting tainted tribal songs
In chorus hamsterable, huddled, heaped,
While costumed in their masters’ liveries,
And feeling little while thinking even less,
The very model of the State’s non-men

Predictable and dull, submissive ghosts
Crowded, herded in cosmic cattle chutes,
Reflected in dim, noisy nothingness

But you, O you, be not of them, but be
A wanderer in the moonlight, one known
To God, there in His holy solitude

Little Schlomo and His Life Jacket - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Little Schlomo and His Life Jacket

No one ever figured out how Schlomo
Got off the ship with his life jacket

But there he was on the pier among the crowd
Sitting sadly on his little brown suitcase

And wearing a life jacket from the ship
With "Orinoco" stenciled across it

A sailor in a white uniform wanted it
But Schlomo would not take it off

A policeman in a blue uniform wanted it
But Schlomo would not take it off

Schlomo's father told him he wanted it
But Schlomo would not take it off

And on the bus ride through the city
Schlomo would not let go of it

And for weeks Schlomo wore his life jacket

In the park
In the dark

In his schule
In his school

Until one day in the park on the little river's bank
He took it off
He threw it in
It promptly sank

Then said to himself, our little Schlomo,
"I knew some how - it was time to let go."



Note: I disapprove of exposition, but I will violate my own rule in the matter: 1. I am not Jewish. 2. I have not recently thought about the tragedies of the refugee ships in the 1930s. 3. Little Schlomo, with his paperboy's cap, his dark coat, his shorts, his scuffed shoes, and his lifejacket appeared in a dream last night and I don't know why, but here he is. I hope he will return.

A Famous Cleaning Lady Will Retire at the End of the Month - poem

Lawrence Hall, HSG
mhall46184@aol.com

Breaking News:

A Famous Cleaning Lady Will Retire at the End of the Month

I hope I have been an inspiration
To the masses, to the humble people
Who go each day from their humble condos
To their humble jobs on the ski slopes of America

The humble artisans who humbly toil
On the balance beams and the practice fields
The humble laborers in the swimming pools
Who sacrifice so much for the rest of us

The humble commons who want my autograph
And little girls who want to be like me, me, me

Old People Yelling into Their MePhones at the Book Store - lines ripped from life

Lawrence Hall, HSG
mhall46184@aol.com

Old People Yelling into Their MePhones at the Book Store

“YEAH!...YEAH!...I’M AT TH’ BARNES AND NOBLE…YEAH?...
I SAID I’M AT TH’ BARNES AND NOBLE!!!!...YEAH!…
THE SHADES!…YEAH, THE SHADES!…I MEASURED THE SHADES!…
YEAH!...OH, YEAH, HE’S A DARLING!...I SAID HE’S A DARLING!!!...

YEAH!...A DARLING!...SO LEVERAGE THE PRICE!...YEAH!...
LEVERAGE THE PRICE THEY AIN’T GOT NOTHIN’ YOU DON’T
SO YEAH LEVERAGE THE PRICE!...SO THEN SHE SAID
THAT HE SAID THAT SHE SAID!...I SAID THAT SHE SAID

THAT SHE SAID THAT...I’M AT BARNES AND NOBLE!..
YEAH!...BARNES AND NOBLE…SO LIKE I SAID THAT…!!!!

Creation and an Alarm Clock - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Creation and an Alarm Clock

Dixitque Deus: Fiat lux. Et facta est lux.

-Genesis 1:3

We call this hour pre-dawn; but it is not;
Just as we do not call this hour post-night
It is not pre-anything; it is itself
With not-yet-light that is given in peace

The creatures of the night have gone to bed
The creatures of the day are not yet up
And so there is mist and silence and you
As prayers of beingness offered at dawn

As prayers on the morning of Creation -
Before the alarms alarm and the buzzers buzz

Amelia Earhart Has Been Found (Again) - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Amelia Earhart Has Been Found (Again)

Amelia Earhart has been found again
Steve Jobs is locked away in a hidden vault
There’s gold aboard Der Fuhrer’s secret train
Which is buried beneath an earthquake fault

Albino monks inspire Trump’s every plan
The Queen is one of The Lizard People
The Pope belongs to the Ku Klux Klan
(His 666 is on every steeple)

Satan is aboard an unmarked U.N. jet -
It must be true; it’s on the GossipNet!

For a Friend Who Died in the Night - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Like an Autumn Leaf

O may her life close like a leaf that falls
And laughs in falling at its happy end
Air-dancing through a sky of Dresden blue
Sun-sliding sideways in a blithesome breeze

Soft-singing in a sweet sinopian sun
Who smiles grandfatherly on each blest leaf
Remembering its spring, and summer too
Pushed from the wood after the last fell frost

To grow from mother-tree and taste the air
In that Apollonian sun of youth
To work and play in Saturnian summer
And then to glow in ripe Pomona’s dusk

In celebration of all life, and then
At last to leap into eternity




Of your mercy please pray for the repose of Beverly Jean.

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

The Lovers of Cherbourg - poem

Lawrence Hall, HSG
mhall46184@aol.com

The Lovers of Cherbourg

In memory of Michel Legrand

Young lovers have from time to time made promises
On midnight docks before the troopships sailed
On dripping railway platforms censed in steam
At bus stops and on glassed-in airport ramps

Young lovers have from time to time made promises
And pledged them in their letters with kisses sealed
And cancelled politicians upside down
Then posted to a world that is not yet

Young lovers have from time to time made promises -
If it takes forever, we will wait for them

Monastery Over the Garage: A Canticle for a Rented Room - poem

Lawrence Hall, HSG
mhall46184@aol.com

Monastery Over the Garage: A Canticle for a Rented Room

You fling your hurting soul against old walls
Those peeling walls presume to fling it back
A wood-roach scuttles across your hopeless hopes
Through cigarette-ashes of eternity

The wreckage of the past a pile of books
The bleakness of the now a cheap tv
Unheard in the humming of electric strips
Unholy unpostolic poverty

There is no insulation against tomorrow
But the Poly-Perk blesses your cup of sorrow

Just Before Dawn, So Technically It's Not a Midnight Knock - rhyming doggerel

Lawrence Hall, HSG
mhall46184@aol.com

Just Before Dawn, So Technically It’s Not a Midnight Knock

We are the F.B.I.; we beat and yell and roar

But it’s okay –

We are not SMERSH pounding upon your door

Our Demographic Issues - poem

Lawrence Hall, HSG
mhall46184@aol.com

Our Demographic Issues

Someday our mouldering bones will grace the walls
Of a museum’s scientific display
And little Martians will play through the halls
Ignoring us on their school’s field-trip day

Our zygomatic bones in exasperation
Attempt to roll (but, sure, cannot) because
We are extinct, a disappeared nation
Your skull and mine won’t even have jaws

And so the Beothuk on the opposite shelf

Will ask

“Well, European, are you finally over yourself?”