Lawrence Hall
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Tryptophan Dreams
after Thanksgiving Dinner
(channeling our inner Dorothy Parker)
Sleepy now, from excess of meat and cup
But unlike the poor turkey, we will wake up!
Friday, November 26, 2021
Trytophan Dreams after Thanksgiving Dinner - poem
Thursday, November 25, 2021
Autumn is Life Writing its Autobiography - poem
Lawrence Hall
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Autumn is Life
Writing its Autobiography
Autumn is not the end of summer, nor yet
Is autumn the beginning of winter; it is
Itself. Autumn is not between anything
Autumn is the culmination of seasons
The seed that slept beneath winter’s cold death
Arose in spring, a resurrection of itself
And grew its summer strength through work and sweat
And in September finished, and mopped its brow
Surveying all its cosmography
Autumn is life writing its biography
Wednesday, November 24, 2021
Face Masks and Hippie Hymns - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Face Masks and
Hippie Hymns
At Mass I breathe behind and through a mask
My custom still, one of the paper-faced few
Although one might with some good reason ask
If it serves much purpose in a crowded pew
Each humid exhalation clouds the lens
Of my eyeglasses so I can’t even read
But I’m sure I know how each lesson ends
Needless to say I’ve memorized the Creed
And to mask those sandwich hymns:
I make hidden faces when the soloist croons
Another of those awful hippie tunes
(Has anyone told the music
director that the 1960’s are over?)
Tuesday, November 23, 2021
Book Reviewers Promote Freedom by Giving Orders - poem
Lawrence Hall
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Book Reviewers Promote
Freedom by Giving Orders
“Obey me and be free!”
-Number Six in the Free for All episode of The
Prisoner
The irony of the imperative in most reviews
Is to make a command that the reader must heed
Keeping in chains the literary muse:
You must read this must-read which you need to read
(now back to weaving
tapestries of this and that)
Monday, November 22, 2021
The Number of the Beast is .556 - poem
Lawrence Hall
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
The Number of the
Beast is .556
“This is my rifle. There are many like it”
Because they fall off assembly lines everywhere
Probably even in the Khyber Pass
And frankly, son, you don’t need the damned thing
A rifle is not your friend; it is a mechanical thing
A rifle is an engine of destruction
It is made for killing your fellow humans
The last one alive wins madness and guilt
You never made the first day of boot camp
(neither
did John Wayne)
You need to know what John Wayne never knew:
A .556 disintegrates a child
A .556 vaporizes your soul
A variant:
The Number of the
Beast is .556
“This is my rifle. There are many like it”
Because they fall off assembly lines everywhere
Probably even in the Khyber Pass
And frankly, son, you don’t need the damned thing
A rifle is not your friend; it is a mechanical thing
A rifle is an engine of destruction
It is made for killing your fellow humans
The last one alive wins madness and guilt
You never made the first day of boot camp
(neither
did John Wayne)
You need to know what John Wayne never knew:
A .556 disintegrates a child
A .556 vaporizes your soul
If you
finish recruit training and A.I.T.
And
have your orders in hand
then I’ll listen
But
if you come back
you’ll not want to talk
Sunday, November 21, 2021
Giving Thanks for all Our Thanksgiving - weekly column, 21 November 2021
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Giving Thanks for
all Our Thanksgivings
For a child Thanksgiving is sort of like Christmas only
without any toys. It’s interesting enough: lots of relatives come to dinner,
and there’s turkey and “the good china,” but without Santa Claus and toys it’s
not that big a thing.
Thanksgiving is also probably not a big thing among the
First Nations.
The absence of toys and their distraction makes Thanksgiving
a time when a child can more easily focus on the behavior of the adults in his (the
pronoun is gender-neutral) life.
For one, there is always an uncle, sometimes a
grandfather, who is convinced that everyone at the table is eager to hear about
his latest symptoms and diagnoses.
Another helping of irritable bowel syndrome, anyone?
And there comes a Thanksgiving when the child realizes
with a shock that some of the adults he has loved all his life don’t really
like each other, or that an aunt or uncle who was here last year is “visiting
friends” this year, and that topic is not mentioned further.
A painful moment is the remembrance of a beloved MeeMaw
or PawPaw who was laughing and joking around the table last year and is now in
Heaven with Jesus. And, yes, we spare a moment for happy memories and an
awareness of the transitoriness of life.
The matter of the children’s table is awkward. A little
kid loves it – it’s a rare occasion when the children sit together as a peer
group with somewhat less adult supervision than usual. An occasional crepe-y
arm hands across more turkey or rolls, and that’s close enough.
At the age of twelve or so a kid perceives that the
children’s table now reflects a lower social status. A girl cousin of the same
age gets to sit at the adult table and the boy is stuck with the rug-rats and
an admonition to “watch” them.
Humiliation.
After the dessert, when the adults are enjoying their
coffee and the heart-valve replacement stories arc through the air in one
direction while the hip-transplant narratives are flying the other way, the
young ‘uns can escape outside (“Don’t forget your coats!”). The little ones
fling leaves and little plastic balls around, and the older ones share school stories
and, perhaps, confess an attraction to a cute girl or guy in the sophomore
class.
Once upon a time a child would never have left the table
without asking the appropriate parent or grandparent for permission to do so.
The last time this occurred was in Gatineau, Canada in 2005. The occasion was
read into Hansard at the next Parliament.
And again, once upon a time a child would never have
rejected the turkey, ham, several kinds of dressing, sweet potatoes, mashed
potatoes, new potatoes, rolls, biscuits, pecan pie, apple pie, and other
wonderful gifts of food prepared by loving hands with a plaintive cry of, “Can
we go to town for pizza?”
Nor would an adult have asked about vegan options.
Such would have been dismissed as ungrateful by those who
grew up hungry during the Depression and the Second World War.
But that generation is mostly gone now, and with them the
core of that post-war world of industry, optimism, thrift, progress, a new
openness among peoples, and wonderful hopes for the future.
For them, simply to have survived and now at last to have
work and enough food to eat would have been among their many reasons for giving
thanks.
We do well to remember that, and to give thanks for them.
May your Thanksgiving be a happy one!
-30-
An Empty Cross - poem
Lawrence Hall
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
An Empty Cross
An empty cross?
There is no empty cross
Fragments of bone and flesh forever stain
The spikes, the wood, the cross, the bloody cross
Is not a cute designer collectable
An empty cross?
There is no empty cross
His crucifixion takes away our sins
But the bloodstains remind us
It was our sins that drove the spikes into Him
An empty cross?
There is no empty cross
There won’t be, not until the last day of all
Saturday, November 20, 2021
Renegades - poem
Lawrence Hall
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Renegades
They sell themselves as precious Renegades
Two ossified establishment millionaires
As desperately cool as Nehru jackets
But don’t you fail to mind their copyrights
Renegades
Trademarks, podcasts, deluxe signed editions
They’re, like, authentic ‘n’ stuff, for a price
In carefully edited openness
They feel your pain and your credit card
Renegades
They wear suit coats with their collars open
How awesomely workin’ class hip is that!
Renegades
Friday, November 19, 2021
Thanksgiving Dinner at the Children's Table - poem
Lawrence Hall
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Thanksgiving Dinner
at the Children’s Table
Thanksgiving is Christmas without any toys
And you get stuck at the children’s table
For more years than is strictly necessary
Because some extra old people show up
The uncle who has a diagnosis story
For every course, including the pies and cakes
Another helping of irritable bowel syndrome?
And the auntie who tries to hush him up
The cute second cousin you never met before
She’s your age but gets to sit at the Big Table
(And after her first glance she never looks
at
you again)
Thursday, November 18, 2021
Thanksgiving Essentials are out of Stock - poem
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Thanksgiving Essentials are out of Stock
-Thus saith
the news
A house, a book,
a dog, a good warm coat
A job, a ride, a
friend, someone to love
A dream, a hope,
a plan, coffee with you
A family around
the table, something to eat
And gratitude - all
the essentials are in stock
Wednesday, November 17, 2021
Upon Reading Bulgakov's THE MASTER AND MARGARITA - poem
Lawrence Hall
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Upon Reading
Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita
Margarita flying naked over Moscow
She might have caught a cold doing that, you know
A big ol’ cat shooting a Browning Hi-Power
He was certainly amusing for an hour
The Secret Police were like the Keystone Kops
Not to be trusted even with traffic stops
And Pontius Pilate ordering a death
Almost with every other tortured breath
There were two burnings of the Master’s book
But yet at the end someone gave it look
The Master’s book…hmmmm…
I have finished this book; I thoughtfully read it
And I must confess that I just don’t get it
Tuesday, November 16, 2021
Ten Knots along a Cord - poem
Lawrence Hall
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Ten Knots along a
Cord
A
trewe swinkere and a good was he,
Lyvynge in pees and parfit charitee
-Chaucer’s Prologue
See the plowman walking home from the fields
He plods along with the pace of centuries
There is no haste, for time hardly exists
Only the seasons, rolling like cosmic tides
And in his hand, ten knots along a cord
To count each Ave as it passes his lips
And through his heart and hopes and gratitude
His soul secure along the links of being
See the plowman dreaming home from the fields
His feet upon the earth, his head among the stars
Monday, November 15, 2021
It's Not Really an Assault Rifle 'Cause It's only Semi-Automatic - poem
Lawrence Hall
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
It’s Not Really an
Assault Rifle ‘Cause It’s only Semi-Automatic
Once upon a time there was a stupid boy
He was seventeen. Someone gave him a gun
His mumsy drove him to another state
So he could hunt other people with his gun
See the boy hunt. Hunt, hunt, hunt
And he did. Be very quiet. He’s hunting Commies
But bullies wanted to take away his gun
And the boy was sad. So he shot the meanies
Bang, bang, bang. Take that, you rascally Liberals
Empowered, empowered, empowered
He had to go to court. He began to cry
Because they took away his big bang-bang
And his mumsy cried.
But the
dead can’t cry
Smith & Wesson™ – Empowering Americans since 1852©
Sunday, November 14, 2021
Wood Stoves and Thinking About Stuff - weekly column, 14 November 2021
Lawrence Hall
Wood Stoves and Thinking
About Stuff
Every winter our old cast-iron wood heater was useful
both as a source of heat and of conversation. During the long freeze of last
winter, after we missed our flight to Cancun, the wood-burner was a necessity.
After the worst of the cold passed the good old Birmingham heater, after some
sixty years of service to several families, failed. A leg (the stove’s leg, not
mine) crumbled, which led to a cascade effect, more pieces of iron falling to
the brick base.
I bought a new stove, a small one I could afford, and friends
Gary and Mickey worked a few hours heaving the old one out and the new one in.
The most interesting part was fitting the stove pipe. Anyone who works with
sheet metal and can keep his language clean is a champion.
The guys dollied the old heater to a concrete slab out
back to replace the cheap chimenea that lasted something less than sixty years.
Later I installed a remaining stove pipe segment to the
Birmingham to help the draft and to keep more of the smoke up and away while
sitting outside. Joining this one section to the heater required precision
adjustments and careful fitting, which I skillfully and methodically
accomplished by beating the (snot) out of it with a fence post.
There was no one around to hear me speak…plainly…to it.
Friend Jake at American Firewood advised me where I could
find a small grate, and on a cold evening I lit the new stove’s first fire in
accordance with the instruction. The coating needs three different burnings for
bonding with the iron, and I’m following that carefully. I also checked the
fittings for smoke-leaks, and all is well. The new heater features a tight
glass door and a clever new way of fluing the air, which results in a very
efficient small fire that lasts for hours and whose heat lasts even longer.
Nice.
Birmingham Stove and Range Company was in business from
1902 until 1903, and made lots of different cook stoves, wood heaters, and
cast-iron cookware. One source (Birmingham Stove Company - Easy Access To Information
Company (ninan.org)) says they invented the corn-shaped cornbread skillet.
Birmingham Stove and Range did not have the cachet of, say, Vermont Castings™,
but their products were less expensive and so more common in homes and railway
stations and businesses all over America.
A properly installed wood heater is a good thing. It
provides auxiliary heat and, in case of a power failure, it would make your
house safely warm. You really do need to know something about the different
kinds of wood and how they are dried and stored, and basic physics for lighting
a fire safely. Beyond that, a wood heater does not require programming, cannot
be hacked, and does not send you annoying messages about new software.
A wood heater smells of wood, one nature’s many types of
incense, and the flames give you a center for thinking about stuff while
sitting before it with a cup of coffee as the early winter night falls.
-30-
Okay, So It's the End of the World - poem
Lawrence Hall
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Okay, So It’s the
End of the World
“What
do ties matter, Jeeves, at a time like this?”
“There
is no time, sir, at which ties do not matter.”
-P. G. Wodehouse
Okay, so what if this is the end of our world
Windblown sands where Ozymandias once ruled
Or dying like Charn in The Magician’s Nephew
Pale and sere under a fading red sun
Let us not meet it pajama’d on a couch
Videogaming upon a telescreen
And suddenly marveling that the power has failed
As a moving hand writes across the skies
If the world is going to end today
Let us dress properly for the occasion
Saturday, November 13, 2021
DeafCon 1 - nonsense
Lawrence Hall
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
DeafCon 1
She said existential
I thought she said transcendental
She said she didn’t like her dentist anyway
Friday, November 12, 2021
An Executioner Feels Bad - poem
Lawrence Hall
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
An Executioner
Feels Bad
One of the state’s executioners
Is feeling bad about what he does
He’s speaking out about PTSD
Sleeplessness and thoughts of suicide
Speaking out
Lethal drugs, poison gas, maybe firing squads
Hands as skillful as those of an abortionist
“None of us wanted to do it,” he says
But he does it. A ticket to promotion
Don’t do drugs, kids
The chief executioner gets to be a Commander
He doesn’t tell his children about his work
It’s for the children
Wednesday, November 10, 2021
Afghanistan, Graveyard of 19-year-olds - poem for Remembrance Day / Veterans' Day, first published in 2012 in THE ROAD TO MAGDALENA
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Afghanistan,
Graveyard of
19-Year-Olds
Ghosts shriek in the wind from the Hindu Kush
Falling upon the lowlands in despair
Of any reality beyond death
In the blood-sodden sands where sinks all good
Walls, monuments, souls, hopes – all blow away
In the wreckage of long-fallen empires
Their detritus trod upon by tired men
Whose graves will be the howling dust of time
And yet the empire masters will return
And leave fresh offerings, remnants of the young:
A British Enfield, a Moghul’s lost shoe,
A cell phone silent beside the Great Khan’s skull
2012, The Road to Magdalena
Maslow's Hierarchy of Nerds - poem
Lawrence Hall
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Maslow’s Hierarchy
of Nerds
Okay, I’m the nerd, not part of the hierarchy
But you are core of my hierarchy of needs
Where do I place you on the pyramid?
But I don’t place you at all – you are
You are a hierarchy of, well, you:
‘Way up around self-actualization
And definitely among belonging and love
And the base, and the peak, and the center -
You are my hierarchy of truth
You are my pyramid of love
Tuesday, November 9, 2021
I Dry My Armpits for No Man - poem
Lawrence Hall
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
I Dry My Armpits
for No Man
They gather in their thousands, the obedient, the passive
To stand submissively before their master
And wave their arms in orgasmic submission
To leather and braids and electronic erections
They gather in their thousands, the obedient, the passive
Marked with the Sign of the Capitalist Credit Card
Eager to buy their overlord’s livery
To yield themselves to his contempt for them
They gather in their thousands, the obedient, the passive
-
And cease to be
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