Friday, November 20, 2020

Barney Fife! Thou Shouldst be Living at this Hour - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

 

Barney Fife! Thou Shouldst be Living at this Hour

 

-as William Wordsworth did not say

 

Police chiefs are costumed as admirals these days

Or as generals, with medals and eagles and stars

Peaked caps and polished boots, more Patton than Patton

In stern command of parking-lot plywood lecterns

 

Their trousers are crisply pressed, as are their frowns

And all their seams line up with military precision

Each gold and silver button polished as befits

Leaders formidable to civilization’s foes

 

And thus they appear, gloriously attired

Explaining to their people why they’ve just been fired

 

 

(I admire police - beat cops, the proper coppers - but the resume’ builders who rise to high office and dress up like Hohenzollern postal clerks are another matter.)

 

Thursday, November 19, 2020

A Miracle of Second Sight - weekly column

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

A Miracle of Second Sight

 

Sight is a miracle. Sight restored is even more so.

 

Last week I had occasion to drive a friend to his ophthalmologist in Lake Charles, Louisiana.

 

I was worried about the sudden deterioration in eyesight (he seemed to be calmer about it, but then he is quietly devout and a better man than I), and grew more worried as the afternoon wore on in the doctor's waiting room, but finally he appeared. The ophthalmologist had made a diagnosis and performed the unplanned laser surgery then and there,

 

We drove away, my friend in those funny black plastic eyeshades, and searched out road coffee for the drive back to Texas.

 

The first chain fast-food place we found still wore its building sign but was wrecked and boarded up.

 

The second place, the same.

 

The third was a hit, although we had to navigate around a truck and crew lifting up a new sign. That’s what you see in Lake Charles this autumn, the restoration of signs, along with continued cleanup. Lake Charles is still a mess after two major hurricanes this summer, with wreckage everywhere, street signs gone, houses blasted and empty, shops blasted and empty, work crews and volunteers along some streets, nothing along others. 

 

As we sat at a window table with our coffee I noticed that my friend’s eyes were no longer dilated, and suggested that he try to read something. So he lifted his paper cup to his eyes and with great joy read a famous text of our time, “Warning. Contents may be hot.”

 

And my friend’s eyesight grew better by the minute. Wonderful!

 

When I walked him into the opht…hmmm…eye doctor’s office he could not see. When he walked out three hours later he could.

 

Miracle. Laser surgery. Miracle. Ophthalmologist. Miracle.

 

A humorous bit is that on the way my friend was remonstrating with me for missing turns: "Can't you see the sign? I can't see the signs, but I'm blind!"  In the event, I could not see the road, street, and advertising signs because most of them had been blown away by the hurricanes and some had not yet been restored.  Our conversation, then, was much like the two elderly gentlemen on a train in a Jeeves and Wooster story:

 

1st Gent: "I say, is this Wembley?"

 

2nd Gent: "No, this is Thursday."

 

1st Gent: "So am I - let's have a drink!"

 

Life is good.

 

Peace,

 

-30-

What I Found While Cleaning a Faeries' Well - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

What I Found While Cleaning a Faeries’ Well

 

Perhaps it was because I cleared the vines

The ancient vines, with tools of iron, of steel

And traced the circles of the well’s lost lines

With my unhallowed hands, by touch and by feel

 

Or that I wore my boots, or forgot my prayers

To the White Lady said to haunt this place

Or whistled secular songs, careless airs

Until the dusk, when I came face-to-face…

 

I have lived to tell of this wildest of adventures

I found on the lichened stone – a set of dentures

 

 

Despite my disapproval of exposition:

 

Until we became Roman and respectable, my Celtic and English ancestors made offerings at sacred wells associated with pixies and fairies and a mysterious White Lady, or Sheela na Gig.

 

I regret that the old well in my yard, the surviving structure from an old farmstead, is probably not a sacred well, or at least no more than any other well. While I was cleaning away the English ivy (which in English folklore binds lovers), I found on the edge of a brick a denture plate from years ago.

 

When I have finished cleaning the well, covering it with a sturdy concrete disc for safety, and topping it with a wrought-iron arch, I will add a crucifix.

 

I hope the resident Sheela / White Lady won’t mind.

 

Wednesday, November 18, 2020

Only my Friend has his Vision Again - poem

 

A Loss of Vision

 

As we grow older we grow honester,

that's something.

 

-Yevtushenko, “Zima Junction”

 

I drove a friend to his ophthalmologist

When I walked him into the office

He could perceive only light and shadow

After we left, some four hours later

 

He could read the fine print on his McDonald's coffee cup

 

Miracle. Laser surgery. Miracle.

 

The McDonald's was our third place to try

For coffee; the first two chains were empty and wrecked

Lake Charles is still a mess after hurricane-curses

This summer, with wreckage everywhere, street signs gone

 

Houses blasted and empty, shops blasted and empty

Work crews along some streets, silence along others

 

Dear Leader never bothered to notice

The new Dear Leader won't bother to notice

They send our children overseas to bomb people

And build them new infrastructure and then

 

Bomb everything again

 

We are trying to be good Americans

Our golf-course presidents and

Keyboard-kommando generalissimos

And feeble Merovingian Congress

 

Fist-bump each other

 

Only my friend has his vision again

Tuesday, November 17, 2020

Puerile Political Doggerel, with Apologies to Dogs

 

Puerile Political Doggerel, with Apologies to Dogs

 

How bad does a candidate have to be

                                      To lose to Mr. Trump

How bad does a candidate have to be

                                      To lose to Mr. Biden

For four long years our country

                                      Has decayed in a dump

For the next four years

                                      I might go into hidin’

Doing the Laundry (too thrilling) - poem

 

Doing the Laundry

 

Doing the household laundry is rather fun

The old roundy-go-thump washing machine

Roundy-go-thumps in time to the dishwasher

While the electric dryer waits patiently

 

Someday I will have a clothesline again

And summer days and summer sun will love

My shirts and towels so sweetly dry that they

Will want to fly away on the summer breeze

 

And when the clothes have been folded away

The sun will want to come inside to play

Monday, November 16, 2020

And the Maps and Charts of Your Soul - poem

 

And the Maps and Charts of Your Soul

 

Maps help us navigate the land

Charts help us navigate the sea

All of them, when drawn out by hand

Are works of art, as you well see

Sunday, November 15, 2020

Her Brief Candle - poem

 

Her Brief Candle

 

“Do we all holy rites…”

 

-Henry V, IV.viii.118

 

Her candle was too brief

 

But she was here

And she gave us joy

 

Conventionalities are no good now:

We are all stricken in the loss of a child

A happy child, in whom we are forever blessed

Today and forever, in happy remembrance

 

But still, it hurts

She’s not here now

 

Are we asking too much

That she should be?

 

No

 

Because if she were here

She would give meaning to our feeble words

 

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

Saturday, November 14, 2020

You Do Not Prune an Apple Tree - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

You Do Not Prune an Apple Tree

 

You do not prune an apple tree, oh, no

You must become one with the apple tree

With saw and loppers, not unlike a surgeon

An especially conscientious one

 

The intrusions of vines must be excised

And the cancerous rubbish growths pulled away

Dead limbs must be diagnosed and sawn down

And the poor weeping ends tended with love

 

You tell the tree to take the winter off

And call you first thing in the coming spring

Friday, November 13, 2020

Cafe' Renee' - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

 

Café’ Renee’

 

Listen very carefully; I shall say this only once.

 

-Michelle of the Resistance

 

Café Renee’ is still open in Nouvion

Close to the coast, except when it isn’t

In a petit monde of possibilities

Even when the outside world is going wrong

 

Let us find a table close enough to hear

Lieutenant Geering and Colonel von Strom

Whispering conspiracies about paintings and plots

Until Madame Edith screeches out a song

 

Renee’ brings us a cognac as always

And we know the fun is about to begin

 

 

Thursday, November 12, 2020

Another Lockdown? - weekly column

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Another Lockdown?

 

Another lockdown?

 

We haven’t been unlocked from the first one.

 

Masks are still required – and rightly so – as are social distancing, sheets of clear plastic in all businesses, health questions before appointments, those menacing little plastic temperature guns that gatekeepers aim at our foreheads, hand sanitizer, anti-viral aerosols, ventilation, and the good hygienic practices our parents and teachers taught us.

 

I live beneath the approach to Houston Intercontinental, and I can sit outside in the fresh autumn air in the evenings and remark on the now rare experience of seeing an airplane made brilliant in the hidden sun as it descends with its manifests of people hoping to find their hearts’ delight at their journey’s end.

 

The multi-named virus is real. The spouse-person and I can count two friends and some twelve acquaintances who have died from it in our rural county.

 

But the denials continue and the masks do not.

 

The afternoon casualty lists on the local news always end with words to the effect of, “All but one had pre-existing conditions.”

 

The slackers.

 

Some reporters have a gift of making it sounding Darwinian, as if the dead were somehow at fault.

 

Some 60,000 young Americans were killed in Viet-Nam (my frame of reference; I’m old) – no one ever thought to add, “but most of them had pre-existing conditions.”

 

There are few communities who haven’t lost some of their finest young men and women in the numerous undeclared wars so beloved of our governments for generations. Yet not even the most callous presidents and the mostly harmless members of Congress have attempted to calm the families of the dead with assurances (or accusations?) of pre-existing conditions.

 

If the remains of your child or young friend are returned home from some Whodumbideawasthisistan, there would be no comfort to the family in the chaplain saying, “but she had a pre-existing condition.”

 

But the perhaps 250,000 killed by the CV (or whatever it’s being called this month) are dismissed almost casually with the sneaky deflection of, “well, most them had pre-existing conditions.”

 

Everyone has a pre-existing health condition; there are no perfect physical specimens. 

 

The reality is that refrigerated trailers aren’t lined up at hospitals because of pre-existing conditions. People aren’t set out in crowded corridors or tents on oxygen or ventilators  because of broken legs, measles, ‘flu, colds, migraines, appendicitis, or hurt feelings.

 

They’re dying of the CV.

 

So put away the ego and the ideologies.

 

Go to work and wear your mask.

 

Wash your hands. Often.

 

Keep your distance.

 

Mind your coughing.

 

Take your temperature.

 

Slather on the hand sanitizer.

 

Keep MeeMaw and PawPaw alive.

 

Keep your children alive.

 

Keep yourself alive.

 

Peace.

 

-30-

The Cliche' is to Say That We Didn't See It Coming - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

 

The Cliché is to Say That We Didn’t See It Coming

 

A happy child, cuddling one of her pets -

That’s the picture they used for her obituary

 

We didn’t see it coming

Tuesday, November 10, 2020

for Remembrance Day / Veterans' Day - poem

 

Something About Life

 

“Live.  Just live.”

 

-Yuri in Doctor Zhivago

 

The plane lifted, and the cheering was wild

And then pretty quickly the pilot said

“We are now clear of Vietnamese

Territorial waters.”  There was joy,

Even wilder cheering for most, and quiet

Joy for a few.  For me, Karamazov

To hand, peace, and infinite gratitude.

“I’m alive,” I said to myself and to God,
“Alive.  I will live, after all.”  To read, to write,

Simply to live.  Not for revolution,

Whose smoke poisons the air, not for the war,

Not to withdraw into that crippling self-pity

Which is the most evil lotus of all,

But to live.  To read, to write.

                                            But death comes,

Then up the Vam Co Tay, or now in bed,

Or bleeding in a frozen February ditch;

Death comes, scorning our frail, feeble, failing flesh,

But silent then at the edge of the grave,

For all graves will be empty, not in the end,

But in the very beginning of all.

A Catechism of Brokenness - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

A Catechism of Brokenness

 

The celebrant breaks the Body in two

The Body is broken

The celebrant is broken

The communicant is broken

 

Only the Word is whole: “This is My Body…”

 

The celebrant breaks the Body in two

That it may be shared

Broken again

And shared further along

 

Only the Word is whole: “This is My Body…”

 

The Celebrant breaks the Body in two

That in the sequenced brokenness

In all the little broken Pieces

One-ness may come

Monday, November 9, 2020

The Geometry of Intersectionality - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

The Geometry of Intersectionality

 

1. Crossroads

 

Intersections aren’t crossroads, you know

Where you can choose to stop a while and talk

With a man walking some other way in life

And learn something over a borrowed cigarette

 

2. Intersections

 

At intersections you never meet anyone

It’s all about obedience to lights and signs

And painted arrows in the road that seem

To point everywhere except where you want to go

 

3. Stop-for-awhile signs

 

There are stop signs in life. You have to stop

But then you go – a stop sign isn’t forever

Sunday, November 8, 2020

What Went Ye into the Casino to See? - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

What Went Ye into the Casino to See?

 

Shootings at a Las Vegas Casino

 

-news item

 

What went ye into the casino to see -

A numbered mandala spinning truth on red

A James Bond manque in a cartoon tee

A tatted Sylvia Trench wheezing a joint?

 

What went ye into the casino to see -

A clapped-out Toyota cruising the drag

Mysterious encounters behind the Denny’s

Getting lucky in the Lucky 7 Motel?

 

Does a man learn at last what life really means

Choking in blood among the slot machines?

 

 

Cf. St. Matthew 11:7

Saturday, November 7, 2020

Theology of the Garden Bench - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Theology of the Garden Bench

 

God’s good, green earth is holy, and must be reverenced

As an act of His Creation, a work of His hands

And of His breath, His singing into being

This glorious epiphany in which we live

 

Our little children live close upon the earth

Laughing and tumbling through the summer grass

With kittens and puppies as their happy playmates

Sweet Eden’s innocence echoed in them all

 

And we with our weary, creaky old bones

Repose like royalty on an old wooden bench

 

And give thanks

Friday, November 6, 2020

Daddy, What Were You Doing When the World Changed Forever? - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

 

What Were You Doing When the World Changed Forever?

 

The world will change today – that is a cinch

Newspaper drama by the column inch

The vote count is over; we’ve come to the clinch

 

And I, in peace – I built a garden bench

Thursday, November 5, 2020

Guy Fawkes Day - an App Payment for the Guy?

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Guy Fawkes Day - an App Payment for the Guy?

 

Remember, remember a good fifth of plonk

Elections, tantrums, and plot

I see no reason

This autumn season

Why this year should not be forgot!

Wednesday, November 4, 2020

Someone Said There's an Election Going Around - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Someone Said There’s an Election Going Around

 

In much work there shall be abundance: but where there are many words, there is oftentimes want.

 

-Proverbs 14:23

 

This autumn morning I have a fence to mend

Fence. As in fence. Concrete footings, wooden planks

The rotten bits to be cut out and replaced

No metaphors will be harmed in this repair

 

Later I will harvest the last of the sunflowers

Drooping now in the fullness of life’s end

No longer following the sun, only the earth

Soon to be seeds for the winter squirrels and birds

 

Someone said there’s an election going around

Fine, fine, but the grapevines need pruning down