mhall46184@aol.com
A Comprehensive review of Netflix’ The Last Czars
The Grand Duke says “f**k”
The Czar says “s**t”
Rasputin is a schmuck
There’s not much more to it
Wednesday, July 10, 2019
A Comprehensive Review of Netflix' THE LAST CZARS
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
The Grand Duke says “f**k”
The Czar says “s**t”
Rasputin is a schmuck
There’s not much more to it
mhall46184@aol.com
The Grand Duke says “f**k”
The Czar says “s**t”
Rasputin is a schmuck
There’s not much more to it
Tuesday, July 9, 2019
The King's Royal Wax Seal - adventures in plumbing
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Some seals are applied to signatures and such
Ratifying the documents of abbots and kings
Applied with dignity, a royal touch
From carven images or profiled rings
And then there are seals as toilet bowl rings
Beneath the throne, a regal crown of wax
One of the kingdom’s many needful things
Restraining with dignity certain personal acts
The throne upon which His Majesty, um, sits
Unsealed it came, and gave the plumber royal fits
mhall46184@aol.com
The King’s Royal Wax Seal
Some seals are applied to signatures and such
Ratifying the documents of abbots and kings
Applied with dignity, a royal touch
From carven images or profiled rings
And then there are seals as toilet bowl rings
Beneath the throne, a regal crown of wax
One of the kingdom’s many needful things
Restraining with dignity certain personal acts
The throne upon which His Majesty, um, sits
Unsealed it came, and gave the plumber royal fits
Monday, July 8, 2019
You'd Better Think but Holy Thoughts - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
You’d better think but holy thoughts, old man
Attend to your Bible and your daily prayers
Ignore those bare feet prancing in the sand
This summer day is soft and warm - and theirs
Sweet leggy girls in shorts or flippy skirts
They pause and chat before muscled young lads
It’s not with you that any of them flirts
For you remind them only of their dads!
You’d better think but holy thoughts, old man
And ignore the pretty girls all lithe and tan
(If you can…)
mhall46184@aol.com
You’d Better Think but Holy Thoughts
You’d better think but holy thoughts, old man
Attend to your Bible and your daily prayers
Ignore those bare feet prancing in the sand
This summer day is soft and warm - and theirs
Sweet leggy girls in shorts or flippy skirts
They pause and chat before muscled young lads
It’s not with you that any of them flirts
For you remind them only of their dads!
You’d better think but holy thoughts, old man
And ignore the pretty girls all lithe and tan
(If you can…)
Sunday, July 7, 2019
You Have Mislaid Your Keys (but not your love...) - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
You have mislaid your keys, but that’s okay
I can help you find them, as you found me
Among the wreckage of my scheduled days
Unscheduled nights and, yes, unscheduled dreams
I like the way you lose your keys, the way
You stir your coffee counter-clockwise
And fiddle with the sweetener ‘til it’s right
And take a sip, and love me with your eyes
You have mislaid your keys, but that’s okay -
Before there was you, I had mislaid my life
mhall46184@aol.com
You Have Mislaid Your Keys
You have mislaid your keys, but that’s okay
I can help you find them, as you found me
Among the wreckage of my scheduled days
Unscheduled nights and, yes, unscheduled dreams
I like the way you lose your keys, the way
You stir your coffee counter-clockwise
And fiddle with the sweetener ‘til it’s right
And take a sip, and love me with your eyes
You have mislaid your keys, but that’s okay -
Before there was you, I had mislaid my life
Saturday, July 6, 2019
We Are Always Alone - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Perhaps we are always alone, you know
Even when we breathe each other
And touch each other
We’re not each other
And life is probably better this way
For if you find fault with yourself
The blame is one
And not two
It’s much better waking up in the morning
Alone, and not being wrong about anything
mhall46184@aol.com
We Are Always Alone
Perhaps we are always alone, you know
Even when we breathe each other
And touch each other
We’re not each other
And life is probably better this way
For if you find fault with yourself
The blame is one
And not two
It’s much better waking up in the morning
Alone, and not being wrong about anything
Friday, July 5, 2019
A Tweeker Riding a Bicycle in a Thunderstorm on the Fourth of July - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
At dawn
thunder rises and lightning falls
A black spot in middle of a road
Closer and closer – a wobbling black spot
A bicyclist unaware of the gods
Slow-pedaling through a nowhere of despair
A corpse, fragments of skin still on its bones
It turns and grins, a crewman on that ship
And in its veins that rotting albatross
At dawn
grimacing through rotting-teeth breath
A wereling wobbling in existential death
mhall46184@aol.com
A Tweeker Riding a Bicycle in a Thunderstorm on the Fourth of July
At dawn
thunder rises and lightning falls
A black spot in middle of a road
Closer and closer – a wobbling black spot
A bicyclist unaware of the gods
Slow-pedaling through a nowhere of despair
A corpse, fragments of skin still on its bones
It turns and grins, a crewman on that ship
And in its veins that rotting albatross
At dawn
grimacing through rotting-teeth breath
A wereling wobbling in existential death
Thursday, July 4, 2019
A Conventional Lyric about a Toy Balloon - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Metallic blue, a star among the weeds
Along the road, pulling against its string
With the little helium left in it
But weak, unable to launch itself again
Some say the downed balloon has had its moment
That its brief joy in a birthday escape
Should be enough for any bright balloon
And now, like wise balloons, must settle down
Oh, no; just give the string a tug!
More room!
More air!
There must be another party somewhere!
mhall46184@aol.com
A Conventional Lyric about a Toy Balloon
Metallic blue, a star among the weeds
Along the road, pulling against its string
With the little helium left in it
But weak, unable to launch itself again
Some say the downed balloon has had its moment
That its brief joy in a birthday escape
Should be enough for any bright balloon
And now, like wise balloons, must settle down
Oh, no; just give the string a tug!
More room!
More air!
There must be another party somewhere!
A Chainsaw, a Printing Press, and Santa Fe - weekly column
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
A Chainsaw, a Printing Press, and Santa Fe
Now that I am gainlessly unemployed my fences are cleaner, the views are clearer, and there is an abundance of firewood stacked neatly in anticipation of winter.
A professional woodman would / wood (like that storied woodchuck) / would sneer at my little battery-powered chainsaw but, although I expected only to get a summer or two of work from it before it went off and joined the Marines or found a good job at the refinery, it is still doing well after ten years.
The original battery packed it in only a few years ago, and the several replacements have in their turns faded. The new pair of batteries I ordered on Monday arrived today.
Two days is something less than two years.
Information posted with a museum display in the Governor’s Palace in Santa Fe says that when this part of the world was New Spain an order for anything – books, harness, iron for the forge, seeds, tableware – took from two to three years to be fulfilled.
In Spanish East Texas a purchase, with payments and details, would be worked out with a merchant in Nacogdoches or San Agustin (now San Augustine). Then it would be made part of a mail run taking some weeks through the woods to the coast, perhaps at Anahuac, to be filed away there in anticipation of a ship, which might not arrive that year.
After unloading and maintenance, the ship would sail for Spain, a voyage of some months which might be terminated early by English, French, or Spanish pirates. In Spain the order, among many others, would be processed by manufacturers, wholesalers, shippers, and retailers, then to be warehoused again while waiting for a ship back to the colonies.
The prices would have been very expensive, including insurance against loss, and the buyer would have no idea when his goods might arrive, if at all.
The downside of slow communication and isolation is obvious, but there was a benefit, too: the Spanish brought their technology and their problem-solving abilities with them. When the harness needed mending there was a smith (probably not named Smith) to mend it with locally sourced leather and recycled iron. Farmers learned what seeds, including those from native plants, worked in a given environment, and from each crop store seed for the next season. Artisans fired local earths for all sorts of purposes, taking their culture and indigenous cultures and making useful and artistic wares in new ways and new styles.
As for the books, the first printing press in the New World was set up in Mexico City in 1539
(https://web.archive.org/web/20090209001307/http://reservas.net/alojamiento_hoteles/mexicocity_monedastreet.htm). Mexico City is a long way from both Santa Fe and East Texas, but it’s a lot closer than Spain.
Still, while one admires creativity, problem-solving, and hard work, there is much to be said for the good young man delivering books and made-in-China batteries in a big brown truck.
-30-
Mhall46184@aol.com
A Chainsaw, a Printing Press, and Santa Fe
Now that I am gainlessly unemployed my fences are cleaner, the views are clearer, and there is an abundance of firewood stacked neatly in anticipation of winter.
A professional woodman would / wood (like that storied woodchuck) / would sneer at my little battery-powered chainsaw but, although I expected only to get a summer or two of work from it before it went off and joined the Marines or found a good job at the refinery, it is still doing well after ten years.
The original battery packed it in only a few years ago, and the several replacements have in their turns faded. The new pair of batteries I ordered on Monday arrived today.
Two days is something less than two years.
Information posted with a museum display in the Governor’s Palace in Santa Fe says that when this part of the world was New Spain an order for anything – books, harness, iron for the forge, seeds, tableware – took from two to three years to be fulfilled.
In Spanish East Texas a purchase, with payments and details, would be worked out with a merchant in Nacogdoches or San Agustin (now San Augustine). Then it would be made part of a mail run taking some weeks through the woods to the coast, perhaps at Anahuac, to be filed away there in anticipation of a ship, which might not arrive that year.
After unloading and maintenance, the ship would sail for Spain, a voyage of some months which might be terminated early by English, French, or Spanish pirates. In Spain the order, among many others, would be processed by manufacturers, wholesalers, shippers, and retailers, then to be warehoused again while waiting for a ship back to the colonies.
The prices would have been very expensive, including insurance against loss, and the buyer would have no idea when his goods might arrive, if at all.
The downside of slow communication and isolation is obvious, but there was a benefit, too: the Spanish brought their technology and their problem-solving abilities with them. When the harness needed mending there was a smith (probably not named Smith) to mend it with locally sourced leather and recycled iron. Farmers learned what seeds, including those from native plants, worked in a given environment, and from each crop store seed for the next season. Artisans fired local earths for all sorts of purposes, taking their culture and indigenous cultures and making useful and artistic wares in new ways and new styles.
As for the books, the first printing press in the New World was set up in Mexico City in 1539
(https://web.archive.org/web/20090209001307/http://reservas.net/alojamiento_hoteles/mexicocity_monedastreet.htm). Mexico City is a long way from both Santa Fe and East Texas, but it’s a lot closer than Spain.
Still, while one admires creativity, problem-solving, and hard work, there is much to be said for the good young man delivering books and made-in-China batteries in a big brown truck.
-30-
Wednesday, July 3, 2019
If God is Love, Why Does He Permit Software Developers? - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
We are against the death penalty, and so
Of thoughtful caritas one recommends
Life sentences with no chance for parole
(And endless-loop re-runs of Lost in Space)
For
1. The manufacturers of this new computer
2. The famous software company who couldn’t
Program their ***es out of a pay toilet
3. And the electronics chain who replies
To emails with “Dear Valued Customer”
And vaporous words which say nothing at all
And now may Olivetti Underwood
Have mercy upon their polluted souls
mhall46184@aol.com
If God is Love, Why Does He Permit Software Developers?
We are against the death penalty, and so
Of thoughtful caritas one recommends
Life sentences with no chance for parole
(And endless-loop re-runs of Lost in Space)
For
1. The manufacturers of this new computer
2. The famous software company who couldn’t
Program their ***es out of a pay toilet
3. And the electronics chain who replies
To emails with “Dear Valued Customer”
And vaporous words which say nothing at all
And now may Olivetti Underwood
Have mercy upon their polluted souls
Tuesday, July 2, 2019
Cold Showers and Pure Thoughts for Clean-Minded Youth - frivolity
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Cold showers did not work; they only made
Me want to cuddle up with someone warm
mhall46184@aol.com
Cold Showers and Pure Thoughts for Clean-Minded Youth
Cold showers did not work; they only made
Me want to cuddle up with someone warm
Monday, July 1, 2019
A Re-Post for Canada Day - God Bless Canada
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
And, O! Wasn’t he just the Jack the Lad,
A’swellin’ down the Water Street as if –
As if he owned the very paving stones!
He was my beautiful boy, and, sure,
The girls they thought so too: his eyes, his walk;
A man of Newfoundland, my small big man,
Just seventeen, but strong and bold and sure.
Where is he now? Can you tell me? Can you?
Don’t tell me he was England’s finest, no –
He was my finest, him and his Da,
His Da, who breathed in sorrow, and was lost,
They say, lost in the fog, among the ice.
But no, he too was killed on the first of July
Only it took him months to cast away,
And drift away, far away, into the mist.
Where is he now? Can you tell me? Can you?
I need no Kings nor no Kaisers, no,
Nor no statues with fine words writ on’em,
Nor no flags nor no Last Post today:
I only want to see my men come home,
Come laughing home at twilight, boots all mucky,
An’ me fussin’ at ‘em for being’ late,
Come laughing home at twilight.
mhall46184@aol.com
Come Laughing Home at Twilight
Beaumont-Hamel, 1916
And, O! Wasn’t he just the Jack the Lad,
A’swellin’ down the Water Street as if –
As if he owned the very paving stones!
He was my beautiful boy, and, sure,
The girls they thought so too: his eyes, his walk;
A man of Newfoundland, my small big man,
Just seventeen, but strong and bold and sure.
Where is he now? Can you tell me? Can you?
Don’t tell me he was England’s finest, no –
He was my finest, him and his Da,
His Da, who breathed in sorrow, and was lost,
They say, lost in the fog, among the ice.
But no, he too was killed on the first of July
Only it took him months to cast away,
And drift away, far away, into the mist.
Where is he now? Can you tell me? Can you?
I need no Kings nor no Kaisers, no,
Nor no statues with fine words writ on’em,
Nor no flags nor no Last Post today:
I only want to see my men come home,
Come laughing home at twilight, boots all mucky,
An’ me fussin’ at ‘em for being’ late,
Come laughing home at twilight.
Sunday, June 30, 2019
The Yellow Dairy Barn and the State of Texas Milk Inspector - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
My father painted his dairy barn yellow
Maybe because he found some bargain paint
Then came along the inspector fellow
With his clipboard, and he said that yellow ain’t
Legal, that dairy barn paint had to be white
My father had The Book, and from it he read
That a dairy barn’s color only had to be light
“Well, I’ll find something else,” the inspector said
He found a fly speck on an old cow bell -
May Texas milk inspectors just go to (Newark)
mhall46184@aol.com
The Yellow Dairy Barn and the State of Texas Milk Inspector
My father painted his dairy barn yellow
Maybe because he found some bargain paint
Then came along the inspector fellow
With his clipboard, and he said that yellow ain’t
Legal, that dairy barn paint had to be white
My father had The Book, and from it he read
That a dairy barn’s color only had to be light
“Well, I’ll find something else,” the inspector said
He found a fly speck on an old cow bell -
May Texas milk inspectors just go to (Newark)
Saturday, June 29, 2019
Twenty Kerenskys Passing in Review - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Kerenskys marshaled in two ordered lines
Unsure exactly how to stand, to pose
Merry banter, backpats, handshakes, and smiles
A show, a glow of Party unity
And then – a hiss, a strike, a spit, a spat
Atop the tomb in sixty-second bursts
Comrade against comrade, a free for none
The audience applauds the bloody fun
Who is the Trotsky, and who the Stalin, then;
Who will die in exile, and who will win?
mhall46184@aol.com
Twenty Kerenskys Passing in Review
“No doubt they’ll sing in tune after the revolution.”
-Kamarovsky in Doctor Zhivago (film)
Kerenskys marshaled in two ordered lines
Unsure exactly how to stand, to pose
Merry banter, backpats, handshakes, and smiles
A show, a glow of Party unity
And then – a hiss, a strike, a spit, a spat
Atop the tomb in sixty-second bursts
Comrade against comrade, a free for none
The audience applauds the bloody fun
Who is the Trotsky, and who the Stalin, then;
Who will die in exile, and who will win?
Friday, June 28, 2019
Served on a Tectonic Plate - rhyming couplet
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
I ate my lunch on a tectonic plate
It drifted away - my dessert is late!
mhall46184@aol.com
Served on a Tectonic Plate
I ate my lunch on a tectonic plate
It drifted away - my dessert is late!
Thursday, June 27, 2019
Is Your Bible Communist? - weekly column
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
26 June 2019
The Washington Post, not everyone’s favorite news source, is suffering Aunt Pittypat vapours over the possibility that bibles in this country may soon be unaffordable. And they suggest that this is President Trump’s fault:
https://www.washingtonpost.com/religion/2019/06/21/bible-tax-christian-publishers-warn-that-china-tariffs-could-lead-costly-bibles/?utm_term=.937a3bcb329e&wpisrc=nl_faith&wpmm=1
According to the Post, mega-publisher HarperCollins (sic), a Borg that has absorbed many old and famous American publishers into its continuum, also owns Thomas Nelson and Zondervan, said to be the largest publishers of bibles. HarperCollins (sic), under its Thomas Nelson and Zondervan labels, has many or most of its bibles printed in that garden of freedom and brotherhood, Communist China.
Given the proposed tariffs, according to the Post, the prices of our Communist-made bibles could rise 25%.
Christianity Today (https://www.christianitytoday.com/ct/2014/october/bible-made-in-china.html) and Publishers’ Weekly (https://www.publishersweekly.com/pw/by-topic/industry-news/religion/article/80555-bible-tax-threatens-christian-publishers.html) concur.
Two ironies come to mind. The first is the matter that Communist China, a persecutor of Christians (but, to be fair, Communists persecute everyone, especially other Communists), is a significant printer of Christian books.
China is a Communist nation. Communism is an obscene evil. Communism denies the dignity of the human individual and his freedom to live, think, study, speak, write, sing, compose, believe, play, pray, create, travel, or enjoy the work of his own hands without the permission of the state. As T. H. White says of the collective state in his allegorical Book of Merlyn (sic), everything not forbidden is compulsory; everything not compulsory is forbidden.
Communism, which is also the source of Nazism and Fascism, is the ideology which in one century pretty much halted some 10,000 years of human progress. Communism has destroyed many great and ancient nations with the attendant deaths of millions of human beings, the displacement of millions more, and the catastrophic loss of languages, literature, art, music, architecture, monuments, history, and faith. In sum, Communism is the ultimate expression of genocide.
And Communists print our bibles for us.
The second irony is that the publishers who deprive American craftsman of jobs by outsourcing the printing of books to a Communist collective seem to suggest that this is somehow Mr. Trump’s fault.
Look, President Trump is not my main man. I don’t like him. But I don’t like him because of what he himself says and does, not because of what someone else (The Washington Post comes to mind) says about him. Certain American publishers, not Mr. Trump, shifted American jobs to a terrorist state long before he was elected.
I don’t know if Mr. Yuge Deal would have outsourced printing work to China; the idea of Trump Enterprises printing bibles seems unlikely. But then, the idea of Communists printing bibles seems even more unlikely.
So where was your bible printed? “Published in…” means nothing more than where the head offices are. “Printed in…” – now that is what tells you where the book was printed.
And it is important.
Mhall46184@aol.com
26 June 2019
Is Your Bible Communist?
The Washington Post, not everyone’s favorite news source, is suffering Aunt Pittypat vapours over the possibility that bibles in this country may soon be unaffordable. And they suggest that this is President Trump’s fault:
https://www.washingtonpost.com/religion/2019/06/21/bible-tax-christian-publishers-warn-that-china-tariffs-could-lead-costly-bibles/?utm_term=.937a3bcb329e&wpisrc=nl_faith&wpmm=1
According to the Post, mega-publisher HarperCollins (sic), a Borg that has absorbed many old and famous American publishers into its continuum, also owns Thomas Nelson and Zondervan, said to be the largest publishers of bibles. HarperCollins (sic), under its Thomas Nelson and Zondervan labels, has many or most of its bibles printed in that garden of freedom and brotherhood, Communist China.
Given the proposed tariffs, according to the Post, the prices of our Communist-made bibles could rise 25%.
Christianity Today (https://www.christianitytoday.com/ct/2014/october/bible-made-in-china.html) and Publishers’ Weekly (https://www.publishersweekly.com/pw/by-topic/industry-news/religion/article/80555-bible-tax-threatens-christian-publishers.html) concur.
Two ironies come to mind. The first is the matter that Communist China, a persecutor of Christians (but, to be fair, Communists persecute everyone, especially other Communists), is a significant printer of Christian books.
China is a Communist nation. Communism is an obscene evil. Communism denies the dignity of the human individual and his freedom to live, think, study, speak, write, sing, compose, believe, play, pray, create, travel, or enjoy the work of his own hands without the permission of the state. As T. H. White says of the collective state in his allegorical Book of Merlyn (sic), everything not forbidden is compulsory; everything not compulsory is forbidden.
Communism, which is also the source of Nazism and Fascism, is the ideology which in one century pretty much halted some 10,000 years of human progress. Communism has destroyed many great and ancient nations with the attendant deaths of millions of human beings, the displacement of millions more, and the catastrophic loss of languages, literature, art, music, architecture, monuments, history, and faith. In sum, Communism is the ultimate expression of genocide.
And Communists print our bibles for us.
The second irony is that the publishers who deprive American craftsman of jobs by outsourcing the printing of books to a Communist collective seem to suggest that this is somehow Mr. Trump’s fault.
Look, President Trump is not my main man. I don’t like him. But I don’t like him because of what he himself says and does, not because of what someone else (The Washington Post comes to mind) says about him. Certain American publishers, not Mr. Trump, shifted American jobs to a terrorist state long before he was elected.
I don’t know if Mr. Yuge Deal would have outsourced printing work to China; the idea of Trump Enterprises printing bibles seems unlikely. But then, the idea of Communists printing bibles seems even more unlikely.
So where was your bible printed? “Published in…” means nothing more than where the head offices are. “Printed in…” – now that is what tells you where the book was printed.
And it is important.
-30-
When Dogs Don't Wanna be Dogs - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
When Dogs Don’t Wanna be Dogs
You send the pups outside to play
This so-soft, sunny summer day
The yard is big and safely fenced
A paradise nicely condensed
And there the dogs have cats to chase
Bugs to eat, and each other to race
Soft rubber toys to squeak and chew
Bowls of water and dog-food stew
And naps to take beneath oak trees
Tummies up in the soft, soft breeze
And yet –
As soon as you have let them out
Then all they seem to do is pout
Unhappy with their vast estate
They glare at you and seem to hate
They hate the cats, they hate their toys
You have denied them all their joys
They bark and scratch at all the doors
They’re kinda cute – like sophomores
mhall46184@aol.com
When Dogs Don’t Wanna be Dogs
You send the pups outside to play
This so-soft, sunny summer day
The yard is big and safely fenced
A paradise nicely condensed
And there the dogs have cats to chase
Bugs to eat, and each other to race
Soft rubber toys to squeak and chew
Bowls of water and dog-food stew
And naps to take beneath oak trees
Tummies up in the soft, soft breeze
And yet –
As soon as you have let them out
Then all they seem to do is pout
Unhappy with their vast estate
They glare at you and seem to hate
They hate the cats, they hate their toys
You have denied them all their joys
They bark and scratch at all the doors
They’re kinda cute – like sophomores
Wednesday, June 26, 2019
Breaking the Dress Code - a weak, two-line wheeze, hardly a poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
We broke at last the secretive dress code
With an Enigma machine from Singer
mhall46184@aol.com
Breaking the Dress Code
We broke at last the secretive dress code
With an Enigma machine from Singer
Tuesday, June 25, 2019
A Scientific Afterlife - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
What scientific wreckage is buried now
Beneath a chiseled granite sentiment?
Our clapped-out bones and flesh are not enough
To satisfy The Way That Things Work Now
Maybe our eyeglasses will hit the dirt
Along with dental fillings and dyed hair
Pacemakers with their batteries in place
Still firing dutifully after the peace
That now surpasses all understanding
With God (complete with medical branding)
mhall46184@aol.com
A Scientific Afterlife
What scientific wreckage is buried now
Beneath a chiseled granite sentiment?
Our clapped-out bones and flesh are not enough
To satisfy The Way That Things Work Now
Maybe our eyeglasses will hit the dirt
Along with dental fillings and dyed hair
Pacemakers with their batteries in place
Still firing dutifully after the peace
That now surpasses all understanding
With God (complete with medical branding)
Monday, June 24, 2019
System Errors - Please know that I did format these scribbles appropriately...
...Something or someone is making a mess of it all.
What is Poetry? - rhyming couplet (Something is botching the formatting)
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Poetry is a language that
Is not prose. Nor is it a hat
mhall46184@aol.com
What is Poetry?
Poetry is a language that
Is not prose. Nor is it a hat
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