Sunday, March 15, 2020
An Evening in Lent - virus-free poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Spring – it’s as if Creation begins again
Pale yellow oak pollen in little strings
From feathering leaves beginning to spread
Floats down the wind as if looking for love
The Annunciation, that quarter-day
With the Angel’s sacred Salutation
Anchors the year with equinoctial hope
Into the future, balancing the past
Dusk – and the clouds are as stones rolled away
By a soft, unseen, inexorable breath
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
An Evening in Lent
Spring – it’s as if Creation begins again
Pale yellow oak pollen in little strings
From feathering leaves beginning to spread
Floats down the wind as if looking for love
The Annunciation, that quarter-day
With the Angel’s sacred Salutation
Anchors the year with equinoctial hope
Into the future, balancing the past
Dusk – and the clouds are as stones rolled away
By a soft, unseen, inexorable breath
Saturday, March 14, 2020
"The Word of the Day is 'Surmount'" - a virus-free poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
On the Conoco gasoline pump TV
The word of the day for six months has been
“Surmount.” A pen still colors the same light bulb
And floppy-eared dogs still sniff for your drugs
In my rustic simplicity I marvel
That a gas pump has a TV at all
But the content is as repetitive
As the traffic light across from the school
A gasoline TV is a little bit presh
But I simply hope that the fuel is fresh
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
“The Word of the Day is ‘Surmount’”
On the Conoco gasoline pump TV
The word of the day for six months has been
“Surmount.” A pen still colors the same light bulb
And floppy-eared dogs still sniff for your drugs
In my rustic simplicity I marvel
That a gas pump has a TV at all
But the content is as repetitive
As the traffic light across from the school
A gasoline TV is a little bit presh
But I simply hope that the fuel is fresh
Friday, March 13, 2020
"Your Health and Safety is Important" - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Your health and safety is important your
Health and safety is important your health
And safety is important your health and
Safety is important your health and safe-
Ty is important your health and safety
Is important your health and safety is
Important your health and safety is im-
Portant your health and safety is impor-
Tant your health and safety is important –
They is?
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
“Your Health and Safety is Important”
To all the agencies, organizations, and businesses
who email us
with the same subject – predicate error
Your health and safety is important your
Health and safety is important your health
And safety is important your health and
Safety is important your health and safe-
Ty is important your health and safety
Is important your health and safety is
Important your health and safety is im-
Portant your health and safety is impor-
Tant your health and safety is important –
They is?
Thursday, March 12, 2020
Toilet Paper Supplies are Wiped Out - weekly column in the virus-time
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Toilet paper supplies are wiped out. Oh, yeah, as if no one ever made that joke before.
The other day I was crossing a parking lot when I noted a couple of suspicious characters. They were moving fast, looking around anxiously as if they were expecting an ambush or maybe planning one. And then I noticed the shopping cart top heavy with loads of toilet paper they were rushing to their car.
(Voiceover in a Lorne Greene basso profundo of doom: “It begins.”)
Once upon a time I met a retired Royal Air Force colonel who had been a young officer during the Second World War. Among other topics he mentioned that on the 3rd of August 1939 the coffee disappeared from English life almost as soon as the first sirens stop wailing.
In the USA, it’s the toilet paper.
(Soundover: an air-raid siren.)
No one has ever explained why, in a time of crisis, whether hurricanes, fuel shortages, power outages, street violence, tornadoes, or the several diseases that strike us every decade or so, the immediate response of the American people is to hoard toilet paper.
Sometime you think that if God manifested the end of the world a great many of our people would rush out to buy toilet paper.
Like the annual migrations of motivational speakers, the hoarding of the soft scented stuff is a mystery.
Perhaps many Americans build toilet-paper forts and guard them with their AR-14.2 Nuclear Assault Rifles, ready to fight off wild-eyed albino Russian paratroopers greedy for our Yankee Doodle bottles of freedom-loving hand sanitizer.
That evening I encountered a young woman who reported that she could not find any toilet paper, but happily she has a six-month-old and if her routine supply of the squeezable stuff wipes out she could shred the occasional disposable diaper for the purpose.
Let no one say that the rising generation has no problem-solving skills.
The news reports that some schools will stop classroom instruction for the next week or two, and that lessons will be sent via the InterGossip.
In a spirit of service I would like to contribute a distance-learning arithmetic problem with a real-world application:
If Mommy has 5 rolls of toilet paper in the closet and brings 12 more rolls of toilet paper home from the store, is Daddy still sitting on the couch and drinking (sody pop)?
Y’know, if I get the coronavirus thing and die I’m going to feel just plain silly.
In all seriousness, do what your health care professional (NOT Dr. Google or NP Facebook) says, take all precautions, and as the old wartime poster says, “Keep Calm and Carry On.”
Mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Toilet Paper Supplies are Wiped Out
“DON’T PANIC!!!!”
-Corporal Jones, Dad’s Army
Toilet paper supplies are wiped out. Oh, yeah, as if no one ever made that joke before.
The other day I was crossing a parking lot when I noted a couple of suspicious characters. They were moving fast, looking around anxiously as if they were expecting an ambush or maybe planning one. And then I noticed the shopping cart top heavy with loads of toilet paper they were rushing to their car.
(Voiceover in a Lorne Greene basso profundo of doom: “It begins.”)
Once upon a time I met a retired Royal Air Force colonel who had been a young officer during the Second World War. Among other topics he mentioned that on the 3rd of August 1939 the coffee disappeared from English life almost as soon as the first sirens stop wailing.
In the USA, it’s the toilet paper.
(Soundover: an air-raid siren.)
No one has ever explained why, in a time of crisis, whether hurricanes, fuel shortages, power outages, street violence, tornadoes, or the several diseases that strike us every decade or so, the immediate response of the American people is to hoard toilet paper.
Sometime you think that if God manifested the end of the world a great many of our people would rush out to buy toilet paper.
Like the annual migrations of motivational speakers, the hoarding of the soft scented stuff is a mystery.
Perhaps many Americans build toilet-paper forts and guard them with their AR-14.2 Nuclear Assault Rifles, ready to fight off wild-eyed albino Russian paratroopers greedy for our Yankee Doodle bottles of freedom-loving hand sanitizer.
That evening I encountered a young woman who reported that she could not find any toilet paper, but happily she has a six-month-old and if her routine supply of the squeezable stuff wipes out she could shred the occasional disposable diaper for the purpose.
Let no one say that the rising generation has no problem-solving skills.
The news reports that some schools will stop classroom instruction for the next week or two, and that lessons will be sent via the InterGossip.
In a spirit of service I would like to contribute a distance-learning arithmetic problem with a real-world application:
If Mommy has 5 rolls of toilet paper in the closet and brings 12 more rolls of toilet paper home from the store, is Daddy still sitting on the couch and drinking (sody pop)?
Y’know, if I get the coronavirus thing and die I’m going to feel just plain silly.
In all seriousness, do what your health care professional (NOT Dr. Google or NP Facebook) says, take all precautions, and as the old wartime poster says, “Keep Calm and Carry On.”
-30-
We Are All Post-Colonial Now - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Wearing Khakis, Dungarees, or Madras plaid
We sit over our cups of Darjeeling
discussing the poetry of Claude McKay
and the prose of Chinua Achebe
To Miz Grundy, Ideologues, Censors, and the Perpetually Outraged:
There is only frivolity here, a celebration of cultures. I repudiate ideology, identity politics, and the misuse of art as propaganda. I would enjoy hearing about your loves, your visions of beauty, you first car, and your dog, but if you're packing outrage please leave it with the deputy at the edge of town (cf. Rio Bravo).
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
We Are All Post-Colonial Now
On the Veranda, all Tickety-boo
Wearing Khakis, Dungarees, or Madras plaid
We sit over our cups of Darjeeling
discussing the poetry of Claude McKay
and the prose of Chinua Achebe
To Miz Grundy, Ideologues, Censors, and the Perpetually Outraged:
There is only frivolity here, a celebration of cultures. I repudiate ideology, identity politics, and the misuse of art as propaganda. I would enjoy hearing about your loves, your visions of beauty, you first car, and your dog, but if you're packing outrage please leave it with the deputy at the edge of town (cf. Rio Bravo).
Wednesday, March 11, 2020
666 Cases of Assault Toilet Paper - poem in the virus-time
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
I am bunker-hunkered in my secret fort
Behind its mighty walls of discount toilet paper
And prepped to fight the Russians with My Precious
AR-14.5 assault potato gun
Morally strengthened by The Turner Diaries
And The Complete Works of Jack Chick on CD
I am physically strengthened by MREs
Carefully hoarded from Hurricane Rita
Yeah, you come close and there’ll be a slaughter -
I will protect my six-pack of bottled water!
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
666 Cases of Assault Toilet Paper
I am bunker-hunkered in my secret fort
Behind its mighty walls of discount toilet paper
And prepped to fight the Russians with My Precious
AR-14.5 assault potato gun
Morally strengthened by The Turner Diaries
And The Complete Works of Jack Chick on CD
I am physically strengthened by MREs
Carefully hoarded from Hurricane Rita
Yeah, you come close and there’ll be a slaughter -
I will protect my six-pack of bottled water!
Tuesday, March 10, 2020
Trickle-Down Prosetry - not exactly a poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Trickle-
Down
Prosetry
Writing
A
Sentence
Top
To
Bottom
One
Word
On
Each
Line
Does
Not
Make
A
Poem
Your vision flies upon poetic wings
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Trickle-
Down
Prosetry
Writing
A
Sentence
Top
To
Bottom
One
Word
On
Each
Line
Does
Not
Make
A
Poem
Your vision flies upon poetic wings
Monday, March 9, 2020
All the Toilet Paper Has Been Wiped Out - poem in the virus-time
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
We are told:
For the sake of others, we must work from home.
Don’t worry about toilet paper – they’ll make more.
We must ask:
Do toilet paper workers toil from home?
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
All the Toilet Paper Has Been Wiped Out
We are told:
For the sake of others, we must work from home.
Don’t worry about toilet paper – they’ll make more.
We must ask:
Do toilet paper workers toil from home?
Sunday, March 8, 2020
Notre Dame de Purell - poem in the virus-time
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
The holy water fonts have been withdrawn
And in their places bottles of Purell
Blessing ourselves with scented alcohol
To remind us of baptismal promises
For now we must not shake each other’s hands
Don’t kiss, don’t touch (don’t even breathe too much)
Or receive Our Lord from the blessed Cup
Nor yet again receive Him on the tongue
But still, not even a bishop can stop:
The pinchings exchanged by sisters and brothers
Followed by futile shushings from their mothers!
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Notre Dame de Purell
A furore virus coronam libera nos, Domine
The holy water fonts have been withdrawn
And in their places bottles of Purell
Blessing ourselves with scented alcohol
To remind us of baptismal promises
For now we must not shake each other’s hands
Don’t kiss, don’t touch (don’t even breathe too much)
Or receive Our Lord from the blessed Cup
Nor yet again receive Him on the tongue
But still, not even a bishop can stop:
The pinchings exchanged by sisters and brothers
Followed by futile shushings from their mothers!
Saturday, March 7, 2020
Does Baby Yoda have Coronavirus? - poem early in the virus-time
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
A student with a Yoda pen 1 might write
In a Yoda notebook 2 in bed at night
($6.99 at the mall or online)
Soft sensitive thoughts about me, my, mine
A shivering child locked behind the wire
Amid the winter cold and muck and mire
Is sternly kept to a crowded workbench
Among toxic chemicals, glue, and stench
An American child, a girl or boy
Cuddles a fluffy little Christmas toy 3
A Uighur child, poor little exhausted soul
With bleeding hands cuddles
an empty bowl
1 $19.72
2 college-lined, just like at Oxford University, eh?
3 “Baby Yoda Stuffed Animal Plush with Necklace, Baby yoda mandalorain Toy The Child Soft Action Figure Birthday Children’s Day Gift Fans Collection $19.98 $19.98 $2.00 coupon applied. Save $2.00 with coupon $3.00 shipping”
(And so it is with the computer upon which this is written, and so it is with the computers on which this is read. None of us is clean.)
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Does Baby Yoda have Coronavirus?
A student with a Yoda pen 1 might write
In a Yoda notebook 2 in bed at night
($6.99 at the mall or online)
Soft sensitive thoughts about me, my, mine
A shivering child locked behind the wire
Amid the winter cold and muck and mire
Is sternly kept to a crowded workbench
Among toxic chemicals, glue, and stench
An American child, a girl or boy
Cuddles a fluffy little Christmas toy 3
A Uighur child, poor little exhausted soul
With bleeding hands cuddles
an empty bowl
1 $19.72
2 college-lined, just like at Oxford University, eh?
3 “Baby Yoda Stuffed Animal Plush with Necklace, Baby yoda mandalorain Toy The Child Soft Action Figure Birthday Children’s Day Gift Fans Collection $19.98 $19.98 $2.00 coupon applied. Save $2.00 with coupon $3.00 shipping”
(And so it is with the computer upon which this is written, and so it is with the computers on which this is read. None of us is clean.)
To God, Who Gives Joy to Our Youth - poem (a re-post, with mods, from last year)
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Introibo ad altare Dei
Ad Deum qui laetificat juvenitutem meam
You look into the mirror and ask yourself
“Who is that old man staring back at me?”
Your friends tell you you’re lookin’ good - for your age
And your uncooperative body in protest creaks
But you and all of them are wrong because
You still approach the Altar as a child
As you once were, and are, and will be forever
For God will have it so, will have you so -
Enchanted by His magic - a little boy
A little boy in Sunday shoes and shirt
Who hears his Mama whisper to him, “Don’t squirm!”
As the Mass hums through a summer morning
Until that moment when you encounter Him:
The universe spirals through its sunlit dance
Creation spins around, in, and down
Eternity circles the paten and cup
Miraculum
Eternity circles the paten and cup
Around and out and up, Creation spins
Through its sunlit dance the universe spirals
And only little children understand that
And only little children are invited
And so God gives joy to your forever-youth
And your forever-youth gives joy to God
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
To God, Who Gives Joy to Our Youth
For Reverend Raphael Barousse, OSB
Father Raph - Uncle Bubby - on His 90th Birthday
Introibo ad altare Dei
Ad Deum qui laetificat juvenitutem meam
You look into the mirror and ask yourself
“Who is that old man staring back at me?”
Your friends tell you you’re lookin’ good - for your age
And your uncooperative body in protest creaks
But you and all of them are wrong because
You still approach the Altar as a child
As you once were, and are, and will be forever
For God will have it so, will have you so -
Enchanted by His magic - a little boy
A little boy in Sunday shoes and shirt
Who hears his Mama whisper to him, “Don’t squirm!”
As the Mass hums through a summer morning
Until that moment when you encounter Him:
The universe spirals through its sunlit dance
Creation spins around, in, and down
Eternity circles the paten and cup
Miraculum
Eternity circles the paten and cup
Around and out and up, Creation spins
Through its sunlit dance the universe spirals
And only little children understand that
And only little children are invited
And so God gives joy to your forever-youth
And your forever-youth gives joy to God
Friday, March 6, 2020
A Job Interview II: As Built - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
A Job Interview II: As Built
It’s not usually this wild around here
Acronyms chaos claustrophobia
Computer access down FERPA
File boxes on the floor fluorescent lights
It’s not usually this wild around here
CWE PIA RFP see
RFQ 19.5 hours a week
Monday through Thursday CRT EMAT
It’s not usually this wild around here
No…wait…we really wish you’d change your mind…
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
A Job Interview II: As Built
It’s not usually this wild around here
Acronyms chaos claustrophobia
Computer access down FERPA
File boxes on the floor fluorescent lights
It’s not usually this wild around here
CWE PIA RFP see
RFQ 19.5 hours a week
Monday through Thursday CRT EMAT
It’s not usually this wild around here
No…wait…we really wish you’d change your mind…
Thursday, March 5, 2020
A Job Interview - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Retired, right? A little Social Security
And a meagre monthly more from the shop
Where everyone I knew left long ago
But still my name is in the books and files
And someone called, and I am wanted anew
For a part-time gig four mornings a week
My resume’ is older than my clients
Who have never worn a tie, but I’m game
For guiding and counseling the gone-astray
A little inside work for little pay
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
A Job Interview
Retired, right? A little Social Security
And a meagre monthly more from the shop
Where everyone I knew left long ago
But still my name is in the books and files
And someone called, and I am wanted anew
For a part-time gig four mornings a week
My resume’ is older than my clients
Who have never worn a tie, but I’m game
For guiding and counseling the gone-astray
A little inside work for little pay
Wednesday, March 4, 2020
"So, Basically..." - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
So, basically
Fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom
So, basically
“So, basically” is NOT the beginning of clarity
Basically so
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
“So, basically…”
So, basically
Fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom
So, basically
“So, basically” is NOT the beginning of clarity
Basically so
Tuesday, March 3, 2020
The Note on the Map Says You Are Not Here - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Maybe the map is downside up – it says
“Traveler, Kindly Note That You Are Not Here”
As an astrolabe turns back on itself
And a compass looks to that second star
Pale pages crawl across shy words that sneak
Most carefully into a telescope
Wherein great mysteries are to be felt
With a gentling ear that judges not
How beautiful the stars this moonlit day
And would you make life any other way?
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
The Note on the Map Says You Are Not Here
Maybe the map is downside up – it says
“Traveler, Kindly Note That You Are Not Here”
As an astrolabe turns back on itself
And a compass looks to that second star
Pale pages crawl across shy words that sneak
Most carefully into a telescope
Wherein great mysteries are to be felt
With a gentling ear that judges not
How beautiful the stars this moonlit day
And would you make life any other way?
Monday, March 2, 2020
A Candidate's Presidential "We" - Rhyming Couplet
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
When a candidate rolls his thunderous “we”
He doesn’t include either you or me
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
A Candidate’s Presidential “We”
When a candidate rolls his thunderous “we”
He doesn’t include either you or me
Sunday, March 1, 2020
Transfer to Mission Beach - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
A transfer to Mission Beach. Will she be there?
The transit bus passes all the old scenes
The U.S. Grant Hotel, the Navy pier
The training base with white-capped squids lined up
And on to Mission Beach, where there is no mission
Except the wooden roller-coaster and the bars
Where strangers seek out hope in others’ eyes
And finding nothing in them choogle on
Will she be there?
The long-haired girl with the dime-store guitar
A year before:
Cheap wine and cigarettes, a shabby room
With a Jefferson Airplane poster on the wall
My buddy got lucky, I didn’t, poor me
(He got the clap, I didn’t, oh, lucky me)
But early in the morning I strolled the beach
Feeling quite sorry for myself, and then
I saw a pretty girl sitting alone in the sand
Alone beneath the clouds, embracing her guitar
She was herself, I an accessory
Probably unseen, for she was herself
Working out her own hopes and mysteries
In an exile’s sweater, she was herself
The sea followed her chords, and so did I
From a shy distance in the morning cold
The seals looked at her, and at me, and splashed
Back to their singing sea, and swam away
I hadn’t the courage to speak to her
She probably wanted to be alone
With her aeolian meditations
And maybe she wrote dream-poetry too
Free-verse poetry about beach-crossed lovers
Passing in the dawn as the lights wink off
And the café up along the street opens up
With the comfort of coffee, 25 cents
And a year or so later:
The bus lets me off at the same old corner
With the mom-and-pop grocery shop below
And the empty windows in the room above
Which I rented and abandoned a year ago
And behind it the morning sand, and the sea
Sighing as it always does, for the lovers
Who never were, and who never will be
And there were only the same seals and clouds
It’s all negative capability
A transfer to Mission Beach
I returned to Mission Beach
But it wasn’t there
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Transfer to Mission Beach
A transfer to Mission Beach. Will she be there?
The transit bus passes all the old scenes
The U.S. Grant Hotel, the Navy pier
The training base with white-capped squids lined up
And on to Mission Beach, where there is no mission
Except the wooden roller-coaster and the bars
Where strangers seek out hope in others’ eyes
And finding nothing in them choogle on
Will she be there?
The long-haired girl with the dime-store guitar
A year before:
Cheap wine and cigarettes, a shabby room
With a Jefferson Airplane poster on the wall
My buddy got lucky, I didn’t, poor me
(He got the clap, I didn’t, oh, lucky me)
But early in the morning I strolled the beach
Feeling quite sorry for myself, and then
I saw a pretty girl sitting alone in the sand
Alone beneath the clouds, embracing her guitar
She was herself, I an accessory
Probably unseen, for she was herself
Working out her own hopes and mysteries
In an exile’s sweater, she was herself
The sea followed her chords, and so did I
From a shy distance in the morning cold
The seals looked at her, and at me, and splashed
Back to their singing sea, and swam away
I hadn’t the courage to speak to her
She probably wanted to be alone
With her aeolian meditations
And maybe she wrote dream-poetry too
Free-verse poetry about beach-crossed lovers
Passing in the dawn as the lights wink off
And the café up along the street opens up
With the comfort of coffee, 25 cents
And a year or so later:
The bus lets me off at the same old corner
With the mom-and-pop grocery shop below
And the empty windows in the room above
Which I rented and abandoned a year ago
And behind it the morning sand, and the sea
Sighing as it always does, for the lovers
Who never were, and who never will be
And there were only the same seals and clouds
It’s all negative capability
A transfer to Mission Beach
I returned to Mission Beach
But it wasn’t there
Saturday, February 29, 2020
PTSD on the Promenade Deck - doggerel
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Some are quarantined upon the ocean’s foam
Aboard a luxury ship trimmed all in chrome
The steward brings their meals (his name is Guillaume) –
The rest of us must die humbly, at home
1 https://thomasmorestudies.org/quotes.html
mhall46184@aol.com
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
PTSD on the Promenade Deck
“We cannot go to heaven in featherbeds.” 1
-Saint Thomas More
Some are quarantined upon the ocean’s foam
Aboard a luxury ship trimmed all in chrome
The steward brings their meals (his name is Guillaume) –
The rest of us must die humbly, at home
1 https://thomasmorestudies.org/quotes.html
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