Lawrence Hall
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Boat!
“The fares are fixed, sir.”
-Boatman to St. Thomas More in A Man for All
Seasons
If I don’t give the Boatman Charon a tip
Do I get out of going on that final trip?
Monday, November 8, 2021
Boat! - rhyming couplet
Oh, Yeah, Kids These Days - weekly column 11.7.2021
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Oh, Yeah, Kids
These Days
We can be reasonably sure that in 1939 parents in Canada
and England and the rest of the Empire and the Dominions dismissed their
teenaged children as lazy good-for-nothings without values or ambition. Kids
these days, eh?
Similarly, we can be reasonably sure that in 1941
American parents wrote off their young’uns with much the same words. Kids these
days, eh?
And that’s okay; those who survived the war dismissed
their own children as idlers and slackers (which in my case was accurate). Kids
these days, eh?
Last week a couple of sixteen-year-olds in Iowa were
arrested for murdering a middle-aged woman, and the reactions on the InterGossip
were both immediate and predictable, variations on the old “kids these days,
eh?”
First of all, the thoughtful citizen will bear in mind
the wisdom and logic in the Constitution – the two boys have been arrested, but
an arrest is only a formal accusation, not a conviction. By the Grace of God,
the InterGossip is not God, nor is it a court; it is mostly a bunch of grouchy
old people yammering.
And second, even if these two boys committed the murder,
they define nothing but their own errant behavior. They definitely do not define
a generation because, Tom Brokaw notwithstanding, a generation cannot be
defined. It can be stereotyped, but not defined. As Margaret More asks in A Man for All
Seasons, “What’s the man?” And we can add, “What’s the woman?”
Let us consider thirteen young Americans who are far more
representative of the rising generation, thirteen young Americans who were
killed last summer while serving humanity in helping refugees escape from
Taliban-controlled Afghanistan.
We have all seen the photograph of Marine Corps Sergeant
Nicole Gee cradling an infant amid the chaos at the airport in Kabul when
everything fell apart. The picture is
not a government propaganda photograph; if it were it would be of better
quality. This is just a snapshot one of her fellow Marines forwarded to
her. She sent it by email to her parents
with the words, “I love my job!”
“I love my job.”
Those may have been the last words this United States
Marine - with her hair tied back in a ponytail - said to her mom and dad.
She was only 23. Some of her fellow Marines were only 20.
Kids these days, eh?
They might have been on the same bus route with our kids.
On the 26th of August Sergeant Gee and the
others who were killed with her almost surely did not think of themselves as
great Americans; they were too busy BEING great Americans. They would
have thought of themselves as only doing their jobs in the heat and dust and violence
of Afghanistan, helping civilians escape being murdered by the Taliban.
That’s what almost all young people would do. No one
should dismiss any generation with cheap and shabby stereotypes. Your teenager and
the goofy kid next door and the pimply oaf who can’t get your hamburger order
right would risk their lives – and someday may well have to do so - to carry a
baby amid the screams and terror and dust and heat to safety and then return to
the perimeter for another child or young mother or old man or anyone who needed
their help.
That’s what these thirteen young people did.
The oldest by far was Marine Corps Staff Sgt. Darin T.
Hoover, 31, of Salt Lake City, Utah. 31
might seem old, but, yeah, he was young.
Marine Corps Sgt. Johanny Rosariopichardo, another woman
Marine, 25, of Lawrence, Massachusetts
Marine Corps Sgt. Nicole L. Gee, 23, of Sacramento,
California
Marine Corps Cpl. Hunter Lopez, 22, of Indio, California
Marine Corps Cpl. Daegan W. Page, 23, of Omaha, Nebraska
Marine Corps Cpl. Humberto A. Sanchez, 22, of Logansport,
Indiana
Marine Corps Lance Cpl. David L. Espinoza, 20, of Rio
Bravo, Texas
Marine Corps Lance Cpl. Jared M. Schmitz, 20, of St.
Charles, Missouri
Marine Corps Lance Cpl. Rylee J. McCollum, 20, of Jackson,
Wyoming
Marine Corps Lance Cpl. Dylan R. Merola, 20, of Rancho
Cucamonga, California
Marine Corps Lance Cpl. Kareem M. Nikoui, 20, of Norco,
California
Navy Hospitalman Maxton W. Soviak, 22, of Berlin Heights,
Ohio
Army Staff Sgt. Ryan C. Knauss, 23, of Corryton,
Tennessee.
Now there is a generation. They were killed in a
scene of horror by a mad bomber who chose hate instead of love. His hate killed
those 13 young Americans and wounded some 30 others who were saving lives,
and killed and wounded possibly 200 or more Afghans.
One unhappy young man chose hate. That poor (wretch) doesn’t define (poop).
But our young people chose love, the love Jesus spoke of
when he said, “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life
for his friends.”
And these young Americans gave up their lives for people
they didn’t even know.
No greater love indeed.
We have spoken of these 13, but let us remember this:
every young American in Kabul that day was saving lives – they were helping terrified
people get to the airplanes, helping them to safety.
That is also the story of just about every American
soldier, sailor, airman, Marine, or Coast Guard who ever served.
We absurd old people were once young – maybe when
dinosaurs roamed the earth – and we know that every veteran and almost every
American at some time has given up some of his own poor rations to help feed
children, given up some of his time and sleep and effort in helping those who are
hungry or displaced.
But that’s every generation’s story, to serve humanity.
The exceptions are irrelevant. Dang it, we’re good, and we don’t allow idiots
to define us.
In some way, in some place, in some time – as a soldier,
a police officer, a volunteer firefighter, a paramedic, or as a good American
civilian who stands tall when needed and helps the community in some way, all
of us serve humanity. We may not be called to carry a child to safety from
Kabul Airport or from a wrecked car or from a burning building, but we will
surely be called to help feed children or teach children in Sunday School or
kick in a little something for the Kirbyville Christian Outreach food pantry or
help out with the elementary school’s reading program.
There’s an old Army National Guard recruiting slogan that
says:
It wasn’t always easy
It wasn’t always fair
But when freedom called we answered
We were there
That’s who you are, and that’s who the kids are. Don’t
dismiss them. Don't stereotype them.
Don't underestimate them.
-30-
Sunday, November 7, 2021
Pontius Pilate and His Dog - poem
Lawrence
Hall
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Pontius Pilate and His Dog
When a
man’s worked all day in signing off
On
having any number of his fellow men
Imprisoned,
flogged, branded, imprisoned, or chained
He’s
happy to come home to his good ol’ dog
The
master whistles, his happy dog barks
Man
and beast in happy concord meet
Playfully
tussling in their mutual love
While
the servants cringe and cower in fear
What
difference if a man executes his brother
As
long as he and his dog have each other?
The curious idea of Pontius Pilate having a dog to love is in
Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita, p. 311 in the Penguin edition. The
paragraph is almost as touching as Senator Vest’s courtroom speech, “Tribute to
the Dog.”
Saturday, November 6, 2021
WHITE BREAD! I NEED SOME WHITE BREAD OVER HERE! - poem
Lawrence Hall
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
WHITE BREAD! I
NEED SOME WHITE BREAD OVER HERE!
Pancake House on Crack Street II
With a Chorus of One Cook in Need of Some White Bread
A cold and dreary morning along Easy Street
The comforts of coffee and cholesterol
The senior special two fresh eggs your way
Farm fresh bacon or sausages your way
I NEED SOME WHITE BREAD OVER HERE! WHITE BREAD!
Down-home hash brown potatoes your way
Whole wheat toast with farm fresh butter your way
Fresh brewed Colombian coffee your way
“I’ll be with you in a minute, honey, okay?”
OVER HERE! I NEED SOME WHITE BREAD OVER HERE!
There aren’t any newspapers anymore
“In a minute!” So I studied my MePhone
WHITE BREAD! I NEED SOME WHITE BREAD OVER HERE!
I don’t think the cook was yelling about me
I don’t know, of course
The beggar at the door shivered quietly
Friday, November 5, 2021
Highway 96 - Dead Dogs and Shredded Tires - poem
Lawrence Hall
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Highway 96 – Dead
Dogs and Shredded Tires
U.S. 96 is paved from north Texas to the Gulf
With fragments of dead dogs and re-capped tires
We love to let our doggies run wild and free
And save ourselves some money with unsafe tires
“That’s a big 10-4, good buddy!”
U. S. 96 is paved with articles of faith
For in spite of all the evidence we believe
WE BELIEVE! CAN I HAVE AN “AMEN!”
That a paint stripe will keep cars from hitting each
other
“I’m gonna take me a selfie!”
Corpses of rotting dogs and shredded tires -
But the dead humans are scraped up and hauled away
“Can you hear me now?”
Wednesday, November 3, 2021
Guilted to the Cemetery Next to the Sewage Plant - poem
Lawrence Hall
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Guilted to the
Cemetery Next to the Sewage Plant
The dead with charity enclosed in clay
-Henry V IV.viii.121
I did not want to go to the cemetery today
And do things with Hobby Lobby flowers
Made in China plastic $8.95
And floral foam in chemical green blocks
The streets of my youth are rubble and weeds
The woods of my youth are now trailer parks
The church of my youth is a hollerin’ place
For even they have lost all dignity
The soft wind sighs over our people’s graves
The stench from the sewage plant sweeps in waves
Election Day in Texas: Proposition 3 - poem
Lawrence Hall
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Election Day in
Texas: Proposition 3
Pastor’s gotta have his collection coming in
No matter how many of the faithful must die
Vaccination-free for Jesus and America
It’s God’s will (so no one cares when the orphans cry)
Tuesday, November 2, 2021
Putting All the Hearts Back Together - poem
Lawrence Hall
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Putting All the Hearts
Back Together
A child who takes a clock apart to see
Just how it works can easily be forgiven
Someone who takes a heart apart to see
Just how that works is justly unforgiven
Monday, November 1, 2021
The Culture Wars We've Been Hearing About - poem
Lawrence Hall
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
The Culture Wars
We’ve Been Hearing About
Corporal Keats flung himself into the trench
“It’s no good,” he gasped, lighting a cigarette
“The Free Versifiers have ta’en our outposts
We spiked our sonnets but our blank verse is lost”
“And there’s an end on’t,” cried Corporal Johnson
“You will hear thunder,” sighed Corporal Ahkmatova
“Maybe we took the wrong road,” said Corporal Frost
“Where is Yevtushenkko?” asked Corporal Tsvetaeva
“Back in Moscow, awarding himself the George Cross
And promoting himself to field marshal”
Sunday, October 31, 2021
Human Intelligence, Human Ethics (not the catchiest of titles, eh?) - weekly column 31 October 2021
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Human Intelligence,
Human Ethics
From a long-ago Christmas I still have a trio of Radio
Shack instruments in an attractive 1980s plastic case: a battery-powered clock,
a thermometer, and a hygrometer. A barometer would have been a good fourth, but
I already had one.
The Radio Shack gizmos are so old that they were made in a
free nation, Taiwan. My metal and glass barometer is an antique: it was made in
the U.S.A.
Such things have been around for hundreds of years, and
no well-appointed home or office was without them. With them a thoughtful
individual, keeping a record and working out calculations with a pencil and a calendar
from the funeral home or the feed store, could reach reasonable conclusions in
anticipating weather conditions for the next few days. In determining weather
conditions for agriculture, construction, railways, road conditions, hunting, and
other purposes these simple machines and the complex human brain were essential
For years radio and television meteorologists still employed
such devices as well as on-the-ground observations sent to them via radio or
telephone. Now, whenever the electronic hijackers permit, weather casters have
access to all this information and more via computers.
But the electronics are unreliable.
When you look at the thermometer on your porch you are
reading the numbers on that thermometer, not a message telling you what the
numbers are said to be on some other thermometer in the area. Your thermometer
might or might not in itself be reliable, and it might or might not be
positioned properly, but it is in your line of sight.
If the weather services are hacked, if the power fails,
if that far-away thermometer is down, you can still observe your thermometer.
The same obtains with your mechanical clock, your hygrometer,
and your barometer. There are no third parties between you and them – no computers,
no satellite signals, no radio waves, no electrical lines, no hackers.
Most of us, including your ‘umble scrivener, access
weather information via the television, radio, the Orwellian telescreen that
looks like a small version of the mysterious slab in 2001: A Space Odyssey,
and, increasingly, our nifty little Dick Tracy watches.
The problem is that we access weather reports and other
sorts of information only with the permission of people who don’t like us.
I type this on a little machine bearing a fine old
American name but which was made in a slave-labor camp. So was my clever
fruit-named watch, my desk lamp, the glowing electronic components which send
and receive all the household messages, the de-humidifier glowing prettily in a
corner of the room, and most everything else of recent vintage.
Chairman Xi, the Big Rocket Man, can shut it down in an
instant. So can a sixteen-year-old.
Chanting “Back. To. Basics.” is as reactionary a ballcap
slogan as “Learn. To. Code.” but between those two rigid positions there is a
logical alternative: learn and practice the basics (no one ever hacked a steam
locomotive, a slide rule, or a tube radio) and extend them into the limitless
possibilities of research and development IN THIS COUNTRY.
Until we make that happen, we are a third-world country
dependent on the whims of other nations. And that sixteen-year-old.
-30-
Visiting a Friend in his Hospital Room - poem
Lawrence
Hall
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Visiting a Friend in his Hospital
Room
For Tod
So
there you were with a tube in your arm
And a
crossword puzzle and pen in your hands
And a lovely
view of a sunlit roof
With
windblown debris whipping between the vents
An
assembly of physicians in conclave met
At the
foot of your bed to discuss your future
One of
them but a face on a telescreen -
One
thinks of The Head in That Hideous Strength
I
think of you comfortably back home tonight
An
ikon (and a brandy) on the table beside you
Saturday, October 30, 2021
The Pancake House on Easy Street - poem
Lawrence Hall
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
The Pancake House
on Easy Street
Late afternoon, we’re headed outta town
Long drive ahead, needing a cargo of
Cholesterol and caffeine for the road
And just now almost any old place will do
Some discreet exchanges in the parking lot
Hunched shoulders, cigarettes, suspicious stares
Wind blowing paper cups and ‘tater-chip bags
Across the weedy decay of civilization
But it’s warm inside and the coffee’s good
The waitress shows us a picture of her child
Friday, October 29, 2021
Algorithm, Algorithm, Algorithm, Bah, Bah, Bah - rhyming doggerel
Lawrence Hall
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Algorithm,
Algorithm, Algorithm, Bah, Bah, Bah
Parroting a trendy word is not art
So let’s stop babbling about “algorithm”
Lest we drop our readers into the lowest part
Of their 24-hour circadian rhythm
Thursday, October 28, 2021
A Moment Between Worlds - poem
Lawrence Hall
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
A Moment Between
Worlds
When I step outside to visit the stars
To gaze upon Venus and Jupiter
Who ask no questions, who make no demands
I hope to celebrate the universe in some small way
But maybe not
Coyote-wolf-dog thingies keen in the woods
And autumn cold comes creeping across the fields
There is no Grendel out there in the mist
That is, I don’t think there is, but maybe…
But maybe what?
They remind me that I am but a visitor
And that it’s time for me to go inside
Wednesday, October 27, 2021
Poor Quality Control in the Manufacture of Days - poem
Lawrence Hall
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Poor Quality
Control in the Manufacture of Days
This was another poor-quality day:
The leaves were good enough, as was the sun
But the temperature-control was out of whack
And the humidity was again all wrong
I’m calling a staff meeting in this matter
To ask why the hummingbirds left early
(I’m sure we’d all like to winter in Mexico)
And if the squirrels will report on time tomorrow
I’m not going Pollyanna with this report -
Work in the department has fallen short
Tuesday, October 26, 2021
Father Ron Croaks - poem
Lawrence Hall
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Father
Ron Croaks
We have heard the Mass sung in
beautiful Latin
We have heard the Mass sung in dull
vernacular
We have heard the Mass spoken (duller
still)
And now today we have heard the Mass
croaked
Here be allergens
Monday, October 25, 2021
Schrodinger's Bullet - poem
Lawrence Hall
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Schrodinger’s
Bullet
Is there a bullet in the cylinder?
The armorer thinks not
The assistant director thinks not
The actor thinks not
The dead…will know
Sunday, October 24, 2021
The Duchess of California and Schrodinger's Bullet - weekly column, 24 October 2021
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
The Duchess of
California and Schrodinger’s Bullet
“There is no such thing as an unloaded weapon.”
-generations of parents, drill instructors, weapons
instructors, range safety officers, company commanders, company sergeants, chief
petty officers, armorers, hunting guides, hunters, competition shooters, and law
officers
Following recent events in New Mexico we are all eager to
hear the Duchess of California give us a stern lecture on gun control and, doubtless,
global warming.
We are not likely to hear Her Grace mention the fact that
gentlemen should not shoot ladies. But perhaps a decaying society that has
concluded that murdering babies is now a social obligation will not see it that
way.
Still, in most jurisdictions even in these regressive
times, when a gentleman kills a lady with a firearm the gentleman makes at
least a brief acquaintance with whatever prize awaits him on the other side of
the door of a holding cell.
But apparently in New Mexico, the Land of Enchantment, if
the gentleman in question is special enough, a warm hug makes everything okay.
You and I weren’t there for the shooting, gentle reader, but
a number of other people were, and as of now, assuming (always a questionable
thing to do) that all of these people are correct and that the national news
reports got it right (stop laughing), then at least three people handled the
fatal revolver before the killing of an innocent woman and the wounding of an
innocent man:
1. The armorer, who set out the revolver on a table or tray
along with several other weapons (what was this – a salad bar of death?)
2. The assistant director, who removed the revolver from
the table or tray and then gave it to:
3. The actor
The actor then discharged the weapon, killing one person
and wounding another.
If – one must always say “if” – all of this is factual,
then at least three people handled the same weapon in turn and all three
assumed (there’s that assuming thing again) that the weapon was not loaded.
And some say that Americans are not a people of faith.
At least three people played a game of Schrodinger’s
Bullet with the revolver.
Schrodinger’s Bullet, analogous to Schrodinger’s Cat, is
a mental exercise in which a number of people think about whether a bullet is
in a revolver’s cylinder, but no one bothers to open the cylinder to see if
in fact there is a bullet.
As your ol’ daddy taught you, over and over, there is
a bullet. Even if you take the bullet out of the weapon, it’s still in the
weapon. The bullet is always there. If the wisest, smartest, most thoughtful,
most loving, most trustworthy man or woman you ever met tells you there isn’t a
bullet, in this matter he’s wrong. The bullet is always there.
-30-
"Parole," He Replied, "I'm Afraid of Parole." - poem
Lawrence Hall
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
“Parole,” He Replied, “I’m Afraid of Parole.”
What are you
most afraid of?
“Parole,” he
said, and the others agreed
“I don’t like it
in here; I don’t have any choices
But no one
expects anything much of me
I can’t make any
choices, so I can’t fail
“But out there –
there – I have to make choices
I have to live up
to my kid’s expectations
I have to live like
a man, show some initiative
Get up and go to
work without being told
“Most of all, I’m
afraid of letting my kid down
I might fail him,
like I did before
And that’s the
scariest thing of all”
Saturday, October 23, 2021
Ode on a Flintstones Tumbler - doggerel
Lawrence Hall
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Ode on a Flintstones
Tumbler
John Keats helped with this but refused to take any
credit. He must be modest
Thou still unmoving car of wood and stone
Forever carrying the Flintstones and the Rubbles
Off to the movies – Rock Hudson to be shown?
And a childhood half-hour of comic troubles
Heard yabba-dabbas are sweet, but those unheard
We’ll have to speak ourselves over milk and cereal
Wilma, of course, always has the last word
But we’ll contribute to the writers’ material
Fred’s feet are truth, not beauty, - but off they go
Taking us with them – so on with the show!
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