The Beginning of Etiquette - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

The Beginning of Etiquette

Don’t lapse into low-prole defensiveness
About getting the settings properly spaced
Such is important, but for elegance
Just start with your heart; the rest falls into place

Don’t forget the napkins, set the plates so
Upon the tablecloth with its delicate lace
Silverware all in an orderly row
And never, ever neglect to say grace

Honor your guests and give thanks to God:
Anything less would be lacking and odd

Daf Yomi - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Daf Yomi

The daily Daf Yomi will not make me
A better Jew; I am not a Jew at all
And Talmud is not a fashionable therapy
For it is not a therapy at all

Then why subscribe to a daily study page?
For much the same reason as one takes breath
Or turns aside to see a Burning Bush
Or wonders at that Voice whispering at night

The daily Daf Yomi will not make me -
I turn aside to read it because it burns



community@myjewishlearning.com

https://www.tabletmag.com/jewish-life-and-religion/ritual-and-observance/296538/daf-yomi-288-siyum-final

A Full Moon, a Vapor Trail, and a Star - MePhone Photograph 1.9.2020

A Full Moon, a Vapor Trail, and a Star - a happy poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

A Full Moon, a Vapor Trail, and a Star

The night is disturbed – there will be storms tomorrow
Wild wind, wild rain, tornado watches and warnings
The air has been warm and dark and heavy all day
And now grim clouds are massing for a rally

But suddenly the moon breaks free of them
Of wind, of clouds, of earth, of limitations
And joined by a vapor trail and a star
Sails a silent journey for all of us

The night is disturbed – there will be storms tomorrow
But know that soon the moon will sail us to

Our hearts’ desires

The President will Lie to the American People at Eleven - an unhappy poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

The President will Lie to the American People at Eleven

In illo tempore:

When President Eisenhower spoke on the radio
We stopped everything, and listened to him
He was the President, and spoke the truth
He was the President, and could do no other

When President Kennedy spoke on the tv
We stopped everything, and listened to him
He was the President, and spoke the truth
He was the President, and could do no other

In diebus nostris:

And now when a president speaks at all
We assume that he is lying again, and will do no other

Finding Iran on a Map - weekly column

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Finding Iran on a Map

“Teheran moves fast – everywhere I went, Iran.”

-a very old wheeze

The ambush question is asked: Can you find Iran on a map? (https://morningconsult.com/2020/01/08/can-you-locate-iran-few-voters-can/)

Someone who asks you a trivia question has first looked it up himself (the pronoun is gender-neutral), of course, just to score a transient feeling of superiority over at The Old Men’s Corner.

Quick, find Bessarabia on this blank map. Ha. Thought so. You dummy. You don’t even know where Bessarabia is. And you think you’re so smart.

Morning Consult says that a third of American voters can’t find Iran on a map.

Well, really, do you want to find Iran on a map?

If so, just take out your MePhone, type in “Iran,” and you’ll find maps and statistics and the fascinating history of Persia / Iran, one of the oldest countries in the world.

A greater challenge for American voters is finding their local voting booth. Only about 50% of the electorate vote in presidential elections, while only a few, lonely souls, like tormented characters in a novel by Dostoyevsky, vote in local and school board elections, which are far more important.

If you read anything about the geography, history, and culture of Persia, even on a Wickedpedia site, you will probably know more about the reasons for conflict than our leaders.

A good place to begin with the modern history of Iran is: http://origins.osu.edu/article/frenemies-iran-and-america-1900. There are reasons why Iran, Britain, Russia, and the USA have such complex love-hate relationships.

There are, by the way, lots of now middle-aged Americans who were born in Iran in happier times.

Pictures of life in pre-revolutionary Iran are easily sourced. This site is typical:

https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-5103795/Fascinating-photos-Iran-1979-revolution.html

By the way, there is no draft, hasn’t been since 1973, and there will never again be a draft. Young men (not women) still must register, and no one seems to know why.

Finally, feel free to challenge me to find Bessarabia on a map. I did look it up, but now I have forgotten.

-30-

Sunlight on the Floor of the Flying J - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Sunlight on the Floor of the Flying J

“Light breaks where no sun shines”

-Dylan Thomas

To get to the floor light starts with the sun
About 92 million miles from here
Eight minutes
Unless a photon wrecks along the way
And everyone must wait for a cosmic tow

Sunbeams slant silently across the sky
And in formation past our coffee cups
So fast
Down past our table, and ever more down
Until they land on the freshly-mopped tiles

I take a picture of the sunlit floor
Because I am so easily amused

Light is fun

Doorbell Spy Cameras of Omnipresent Spookery - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Doorbell Spy Cameras of Omnipresent Spookery

“Be seeing you.”

-Patrick McGoohan, The Prisoner

Electric eyes and subtle microphones
Click and glow in anticipation of crimes
Against the sanctity of packages and porch
By trespassers (sometimes my dearest friends)

Beyond the nightly possums, Bob the Cat
Deedra’s little Tuxedo, squirrels, and raccoons
We humans mostly see and hear each other
So I must learn to mind what I do and say

We need no baleful elves upon bookshelves -
We pay a fee to spy upon ourselves!

But the Magi Did Arrive - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

But the Magi Did Arrive

We can’t be sure when the Magi arrived
Or where
                       But if they hadn’t arrived at all
They still would have arrived because they began
Even if their bones in the desert disappeared

We can’t be sure of the meanings in their gifts
Or why
                       But if they had been stolen
The gifts would still have been given anyway
Because the Magi gave themselves to Him

We can’t be sure of most things, only of the journey
And the journey always leads to where He is

Feast of the Epiphany (which is not about Epiphany) - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
From 2006:

Feast of the Epiphany

Grey days recede into dreary, drizzling dusks
Baptismal rains across the windows slip
And even the candlelight is not proof
Against the gathering gloom of heartfall

Shakespeare leans uncertainly on the shelf
And agonizes over his writer’s block
Milton is writing yet another tract
On faith while smoking Players cigarettes

Warnie and Jack are out for a brisk walk
And Tollers is busy correcting proofs
Under a yellow puddle of lamplight
Bleak Spenser in his grief Kilcolman weeps

We all hold castles abandoned and burnt
Friendships grown mouldy, squabbles unresolved
Walks not taken, rough drafts uncorrected
Pipes gone quite out, cups of tea gotten cold

Has it been that long since I saw you last?
Come in; I’ll put the kettle on for tea
Just leave your coat and brolly by the door
Come sit by the fire; come, and talk with me

Old Men Rattling Their Made-in-China Forks of War - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Old Men Rattling Their Made-in-China Forks of War

For us lads of eighteen they ought to have been mediators and guides…

While they continued to write and talk, we saw the wounded and the dying.

-Remarque, All Quiet on the Western Front, p. 11

The old men rattle their made-in-China forks
And, yes, their dentures too, gumming stern death
Upon the breakfast special with war-like barks
Killing sausage and treason with their coffee-breath

Their stereotypes fly like missiles in the mist
By-Gods and f-bombs and quotes from Patton
Blasting targets that don’t even exist
Imaginary machine guns rat-a-tat-tattin’

“All these here snowflakes, they oughta go!”
The waitress asks, “Another cuppa joe?”

A Box of Tissues in the Top, Right-Hand Desk Drawer - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

A Box of Tissues in the Top, Right-Hand Desk Drawer

Every good teacher keeps a box of tissues in reach
(The bad ones don’t)
For adolescents racketed in tears
For adolescence bracketed by fears

One must not, dare not hug a hurting child
(Oh, fashionable fear!)
But a tissue is safe, and gentle words
And after school a tissue-silent prayer

Every good teacher keeps a box of tissues in reach
And kindness too

Celebrating Talmud - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Celebrating Talmud

How could it be otherwise?
For even as the Temple burned
Our teachers gathered
     Their thoughts
     Their notes
     And us
And made the Mishna and the Gemera
Our Temple in exile

No Dead Bodies on the Lawn, Please - a poem for the new year

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

No Dead Bodies on the Lawn, Please

There are no dead bodies on the lawn at dawn
So the new year is beginning well enough
No worse than last year at least, when each day
Featured on the calendar of disappointments

There are no dead hopes on the lawn at dawn
The air is cool, the overcast is low
Early-morning silence promises peace
And squirrels are frisking in the front-yard oaks

There are no dead dreams on the lawn at dawn
But both the day and the year are new – just wait

Smoking a Ziggurat on New Year's Even - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Smoking a Ziggurat on New Year’s Eve

Young men are attacking an embassy
Advancing with their cell ‘phones and their bodies
Against the American ziggurat
Spiraling pointlessly into the sky

Its Babel-gridded steel and plastic towers
Babbling babble out into the world
Of Keyboard Kommandos on little screens
Rattling loudly their geriatric tweets

Our fearless president knows about war
For he has been watching Patton again

Early Hours are Best - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Early Hours are Best

The early hours are best

For waking up before the sun has risen
For kindling a fire against the morning frost
For making coffee to celebrate the light
For stretching out a yawn in happiness

The early hours are best

For greeting the ikons next to the stove
For watching sunbeams slip across the floor
For coaxing colors into dressing for the day
For chancing fresh new possibilities

The early hours are best

For thinking and remembering this truth:
That every morning is Eden again

Is the Catholic Church Dead? - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Is the Catholic Church Dead?

Did you see the beautiful young people singing before
The smoking wreckage of Notre Dame? They live

They are more powerful in their quiet singing

than the shrieking Antis
than the bellowing Communists
than the scribbling Jack Chicks
than the posturing Napoleons
than the strutting Hitlers

The young people live
Song by song and stone by stone they rebuild Notre Dame

They have lived
They live
They will live

The Great California Earthquake of Seismic Doom - rhyming doggerel

Lawrence Hall
mhall4614@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

The Great California Earthquake of Seismic Doom

Some are fearful that California will sink
Into the Pacific, into the drink
It’s a matter of time; they’re on the brink!

Ignoring the obvious reality
California will be high and dry, you see -
‘Tis the rest of us who will slide into the sea!

"Dropping Students During Jenzabar Conversion" - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

“Dropping Students During Jenzabar Conversion”

A memorandum like a corpse bobs up
A memorandum from a year ago
The final term when I was keepin’ school
In a little college before it closed

I never asked what a Jenzabar was
Nor yet to what it might convert, or if
It is something to which someone converts
(I was raised a Methodist, after all)

But that last term I dropped the syllabus
And gave the young the 18th century

Mrs. Willane Wright's First-Grade Class - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

Mrs. Willane Wright’s First-Grade Class

When we started Little Lost Bobo
I couldn’t read
And when we finished
I could

I don’t know how it happened
No one knows how reading happens
It’s magic
And there is magic everywhere