mhall46184@aol.com
Janus Laughs
Old Janus surely laughs at our mistakes
In thinking that the world begins again,
That pages turned in calendars and books
Reduce mysteries into measurements
Sunday, December 31, 2017
Janus Laughs - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Old Janus surely laughs at our mistakes
In thinking that the world begins again,
That pages turned in calendars and books
Reduce mysteries into measurements
mhall46184@aol.com
Old Janus surely laughs at our mistakes
In thinking that the world begins again,
That pages turned in calendars and books
Reduce mysteries into measurements
Saturday, December 30, 2017
Man Screams at Trump Robot Doll - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Just why would anyone scream at a doll?
A Disney doll in the Hall of Presidents
Apped up to creak and speak, but not to hear
(For even human presidents don’t listen)
So yelling safely at a dummied-down
Emmanuel Goldstein 1 of wires and wax
Is not unlike protesting a doorknob
Or verbally abusing a thermostat
Poor old rebel dude – is this all he’s got?
Whatever he feels he is, he’s surely not
1 1984
mhall46184@aol.com
Man Screams at Trump Robot Doll
-news item
Just why would anyone scream at a doll?
A Disney doll in the Hall of Presidents
Apped up to creak and speak, but not to hear
(For even human presidents don’t listen)
So yelling safely at a dummied-down
Emmanuel Goldstein 1 of wires and wax
Is not unlike protesting a doorknob
Or verbally abusing a thermostat
Poor old rebel dude – is this all he’s got?
Whatever he feels he is, he’s surely not
1 1984
Friday, December 29, 2017
The Beggar at Canterbury Gate - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
The beggar sits at Canterbury Gate,
Thin, pale, unshaven, sad. His little dog
Sits patiently as a Benedictine
At Vespers, pondering eternity.
Not that rat terriers are permitted
To make solemn vows. Still, the pup appears
To take his own vocation seriously,
As so few humans do. For, after all,
Dogs demonstrate for us the duties of
Poverty, stability, obedience,
In choir, perhaps; among the garbage, yes,
So that perhaps we too might live aright.
The good dog’s human plays his tin whistle
Beneath usurper Henry’s1 offering-arch
For Kings, as beggars do, must drag their sins
And lay them before the Altar of God:
The beggar drinks and drugs and smokes, and so
His penance is to sit and suffer shame;
The King’s foul murders stain his honorable soul;
His penance is a stone-carved famous name
Our beggar, then, is a happier man,
Begging for bread at Canterbury Gate;
Tho’ stones are scripted not with his poor fame,
His little dog will plead his cause to God.
1 Henry VII, who built the Cathedral Gate in 1517, long after the time of Henry II and St. Thomas Becket
mhall46184@aol.com
The Beggar at Canterbury Gate
The beggar sits at Canterbury Gate,
Thin, pale, unshaven, sad. His little dog
Sits patiently as a Benedictine
At Vespers, pondering eternity.
Not that rat terriers are permitted
To make solemn vows. Still, the pup appears
To take his own vocation seriously,
As so few humans do. For, after all,
Dogs demonstrate for us the duties of
Poverty, stability, obedience,
In choir, perhaps; among the garbage, yes,
So that perhaps we too might live aright.
The good dog’s human plays his tin whistle
Beneath usurper Henry’s1 offering-arch
For Kings, as beggars do, must drag their sins
And lay them before the Altar of God:
The beggar drinks and drugs and smokes, and so
His penance is to sit and suffer shame;
The King’s foul murders stain his honorable soul;
His penance is a stone-carved famous name
Our beggar, then, is a happier man,
Begging for bread at Canterbury Gate;
Tho’ stones are scripted not with his poor fame,
His little dog will plead his cause to God.
1 Henry VII, who built the Cathedral Gate in 1517, long after the time of Henry II and St. Thomas Becket
Thursday, December 28, 2017
Hitler's Ride is for Sale - column
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
One of Hitler’s sets of wheels, a ‘way-happenin’, straight-eight 1939 Mercedes 770K Grosser convertible, is up for auction in Arizona next month. You might want to drop by Scottsdale and kick a few tires.
Some features might still be under warranty. There is some slight damage from Vladimir Putin bench-pressing it.
Next year’s model will be made in China.
One imagines Hitler and Stalin, who were BFF until they began tiffing in June of ’41, drag racing along their demarcation line through Poland.
The big Mercedes was a good car for its time, but wasn’t a match for the American Studebaker. Or the Sherman.
Hitler’s car features armored glass and panels, which makes it just the thing to cruise American cities these days. The convertible top makes catching some rays as easy as strudel.
There is no mention of how many miles to the gallon, kilometers to the liter, or broken treaties to the leader.
The Mercedes Grosser doesn’t come with a sound system, and the radio is A.M. and with only one station, Radio Berlin. You might find a retro-fit at Montgomery Ward’s Electric Avenue. Siriusly.
There is no backup camera because anyone that close just didn’t need to be there, so tough keks.
Inside the glove compartment is a 1943 catalogue of Eva Braun’s spring clothing line. She was quite the designer. And her perfume – “When It’s Air-Raid Time in Heidelberg #6” – was a blast. There is also a road map showing the quickest routes home from Stalingrad, a fan letter from the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem, a Margaret Sanger fan magazine, and a picture of Ernst Rohm in a swim suit. More than just friends?
No doubt some guy will ask the seller if he will take a post-dated check: “Like, I don’t get paid until next week, like, you know, but I’m good for it; like, you can ask anyone around here who knows Ol’ Skeeter. Yeah, like, they’ll go ‘Yeah, Ol’ Skeeter’s good for it, like, you know.’”
“So what will you give me on this Ford Fiesta for a trade?”
Hitler was certainly a guy for our time – he was a teetotaler, a non-smoker, and a vegetarian, and sported some quirky face-fuzz. Outfit him in some knee-pants and a Che’ tee-shirt and he’d fit right in the queue at a coffee house in Seattle.
And his car – simply to die for.
But who would want that thing?
mhall46184@aol.com
Hitler’s Ride
One of Hitler’s sets of wheels, a ‘way-happenin’, straight-eight 1939 Mercedes 770K Grosser convertible, is up for auction in Arizona next month. You might want to drop by Scottsdale and kick a few tires.
Some features might still be under warranty. There is some slight damage from Vladimir Putin bench-pressing it.
Next year’s model will be made in China.
One imagines Hitler and Stalin, who were BFF until they began tiffing in June of ’41, drag racing along their demarcation line through Poland.
The big Mercedes was a good car for its time, but wasn’t a match for the American Studebaker. Or the Sherman.
Hitler’s car features armored glass and panels, which makes it just the thing to cruise American cities these days. The convertible top makes catching some rays as easy as strudel.
There is no mention of how many miles to the gallon, kilometers to the liter, or broken treaties to the leader.
The Mercedes Grosser doesn’t come with a sound system, and the radio is A.M. and with only one station, Radio Berlin. You might find a retro-fit at Montgomery Ward’s Electric Avenue. Siriusly.
There is no backup camera because anyone that close just didn’t need to be there, so tough keks.
Inside the glove compartment is a 1943 catalogue of Eva Braun’s spring clothing line. She was quite the designer. And her perfume – “When It’s Air-Raid Time in Heidelberg #6” – was a blast. There is also a road map showing the quickest routes home from Stalingrad, a fan letter from the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem, a Margaret Sanger fan magazine, and a picture of Ernst Rohm in a swim suit. More than just friends?
No doubt some guy will ask the seller if he will take a post-dated check: “Like, I don’t get paid until next week, like, you know, but I’m good for it; like, you can ask anyone around here who knows Ol’ Skeeter. Yeah, like, they’ll go ‘Yeah, Ol’ Skeeter’s good for it, like, you know.’”
“So what will you give me on this Ford Fiesta for a trade?”
Hitler was certainly a guy for our time – he was a teetotaler, a non-smoker, and a vegetarian, and sported some quirky face-fuzz. Outfit him in some knee-pants and a Che’ tee-shirt and he’d fit right in the queue at a coffee house in Seattle.
And his car – simply to die for.
But who would want that thing?
-30-
Rachel, Weeping for Our Children - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
No soldiers come, with glaring eyes, with death
To drag our children out into the road
To thrust away their lives into the dust
With pilum, gladius, or manly fist
No Romans as advisors standing by
Amid obscenities, curses, and screams
A fog of witness for that old excuse:
It’s all about the quality of life
Confusion now persuades with soft, soft breath
And therapists come, soothingly, with death.
mhall46184@aol.com
Rachel, Weeping for Our Children
From an idea suggested by Kelly Rogers
No soldiers come, with glaring eyes, with death
To drag our children out into the road
To thrust away their lives into the dust
With pilum, gladius, or manly fist
No Romans as advisors standing by
Amid obscenities, curses, and screams
A fog of witness for that old excuse:
It’s all about the quality of life
Confusion now persuades with soft, soft breath
And therapists come, soothingly, with death.
Wednesday, December 27, 2017
The Desperate Princewives in Toronto - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
On Christmas eve a lineman hoists herself
Far up into the blowing ice to mend
The power that keeps our children warm at night
While waiting for good Santa Claus to come
On Christmas Day a cop patrols the streets
Alone against snipers with ‘47s
Keeping us safe while we grumble about cops
She’s left her children with her mom to watch
The morning after Christmas another mom
Jump-starts her ten-year-old car so she can drive
The slushy streets to her shift at Dairy Queen
For her career ladder at the deep fryer
In a studio in Canada two men
Well-guarded by their secret services
Well-fed, well-dressed well-chauffeured in their ‘zines
Escorted, piloted, guided, scripted
Express their happiness that working folk
Are wealthier and healthier than ever
mhall46184@aol.com
The Desperate Princewives in Toronto
On Christmas eve a lineman hoists herself
Far up into the blowing ice to mend
The power that keeps our children warm at night
While waiting for good Santa Claus to come
On Christmas Day a cop patrols the streets
Alone against snipers with ‘47s
Keeping us safe while we grumble about cops
She’s left her children with her mom to watch
The morning after Christmas another mom
Jump-starts her ten-year-old car so she can drive
The slushy streets to her shift at Dairy Queen
For her career ladder at the deep fryer
In a studio in Canada two men
Well-guarded by their secret services
Well-fed, well-dressed well-chauffeured in their ‘zines
Escorted, piloted, guided, scripted
Express their happiness that working folk
Are wealthier and healthier than ever
Tuesday, December 26, 2017
Children Visiting for Christmas - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
“No! I mean no! Don’t make me get out of
this chair! No! In or out! No! Be inside or
outside! No! Don’t touch that! No! I said no!
No! No candy before lunch! No! Okay, but
No more! No! I said no and I mean no!
I mean no! No! Don’t make me get out of
this chair! No! In or out! No! Onnnne…Don’t make me
Go to two! Don’t touch that! No! I said no!
Onnnne…! I mean it this time! I said no! No!
No! Don’t make me get out of this chair! No!”
“No, YOU! No! You can’t make me! No! No! No!
I want outside! No! I want inside! No!
No! I don’t have to! No! You can’t make me!
No! But I want it! Don’t tell me no! No!
I tell YOU no! You can’t tell ME no! No!
No! You can’t make me! No! No! No! No!
I want outside! No! I want inside! No!
No! I don’t have to! No! You can’t make me!
No! But I want it! Don’t tell me no! No!
I tell YOU no! You can’t tell ME no! No!”
mhall46184@aol.com
Children Visiting for Christmas – a Tragedy in Two Parts
I. A Mother to Her Child
“No! I mean no! Don’t make me get out of
this chair! No! In or out! No! Be inside or
outside! No! Don’t touch that! No! I said no!
No! No candy before lunch! No! Okay, but
No more! No! I said no and I mean no!
I mean no! No! Don’t make me get out of
this chair! No! In or out! No! Onnnne…Don’t make me
Go to two! Don’t touch that! No! I said no!
Onnnne…! I mean it this time! I said no! No!
No! Don’t make me get out of this chair! No!”
II. A Child to His Mother
“No, YOU! No! You can’t make me! No! No! No!
I want outside! No! I want inside! No!
No! I don’t have to! No! You can’t make me!
No! But I want it! Don’t tell me no! No!
I tell YOU no! You can’t tell ME no! No!
No! You can’t make me! No! No! No! No!
I want outside! No! I want inside! No!
No! I don’t have to! No! You can’t make me!
No! But I want it! Don’t tell me no! No!
I tell YOU no! You can’t tell ME no! No!”
Monday, December 25, 2017
Within the Octave of Christmas - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
The wan, weak winter sun has long since set
And on the edge of stars a merry fire
Sends sparks to play among the tinseled frost
That decorates the fields for Christmas-time.
Within this holy octave, happy men
Concelebrate with beer, cigars, and jokes,
This liturgy of needful merriment.
Because
The Holy Child is safe in Mary’s arms,
Saint Joseph leans upon his staff and smiles,
The shepherds now have gone to watch their sheep,
And all are safe from Herod for a time.
Our Christmas duty now is to delight
In Him who gives us joy this happy night.
mhall46184@aol.com
Within the Octave of Christmas
For Eldon Edge, Patron of Christmas Bonfires
The wan, weak winter sun has long since set
And on the edge of stars a merry fire
Sends sparks to play among the tinseled frost
That decorates the fields for Christmas-time.
Within this holy octave, happy men
Concelebrate with beer, cigars, and jokes,
This liturgy of needful merriment.
Because
The Holy Child is safe in Mary’s arms,
Saint Joseph leans upon his staff and smiles,
The shepherds now have gone to watch their sheep,
And all are safe from Herod for a time.
Our Christmas duty now is to delight
In Him who gives us joy this happy night.
Sunday, December 24, 2017
But the Animals were First - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
The ox and ass are in the Stable set
In service divine, as good Isaiah writes
A congregation of God’s creatures met
In honor of their King this Night of nights
And there they wait for us, for we are late
Breathless in the narthex of eternity
A star, a road, a town, an inn, a gate
Have led us to this holy liturgy:
Long centuries and seasons pass, and yet
The ox and ass are in the Stable set
mhall46184@aol.com
But the Animals were First
“We read in Isaiah: ‘The ox knows its owner,
and the ass the master’s crib….’”
-Papa Benedict, The Blessings of Christmas
The ox and ass are in the Stable set
In service divine, as good Isaiah writes
A congregation of God’s creatures met
In honor of their King this Night of nights
And there they wait for us, for we are late
Breathless in the narthex of eternity
A star, a road, a town, an inn, a gate
Have led us to this holy liturgy:
Long centuries and seasons pass, and yet
The ox and ass are in the Stable set
Saturday, December 23, 2017
Horseshoe, and it Crucified - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
A hoodie girl outside the truck stop leans
Against a wall, huddled against the wind
While no one’s looking, sneaking a cigarette
A vision of desperation through the windshield
She’s selling Cowboy-Jesus “for the missions”
A table of lacquered cypress crosses
But instead of the Corpus a horseshoe
A horseshoe crucified – and, too, a girl
A poor, sad girl outside the truck stop leans
She’s selling Cowboy-Jesus for some boss
Or else
mhall46184@aol.com
Horseshoe, and it Crucified
A hoodie girl outside the truck stop leans
Against a wall, huddled against the wind
While no one’s looking, sneaking a cigarette
A vision of desperation through the windshield
She’s selling Cowboy-Jesus “for the missions”
A table of lacquered cypress crosses
But instead of the Corpus a horseshoe
A horseshoe crucified – and, too, a girl
A poor, sad girl outside the truck stop leans
She’s selling Cowboy-Jesus for some boss
Or else
Friday, December 22, 2017
How we Teach our Children Hymns and Carols - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Joy to the world at Canadian Tire
And free shipping until sing of Mary
Amazon roasting on an open fire
And no payments until January
O holy night down at the shopping mall
Adeste fidelis in a traffic jam
I saw three ships in large, medium, and small
O Christmas tree buy a Pajamagram
A new Rolex watch on this silent night -
But park with your packages out of sight
mhall46184@aol.com
How we Teach our Children Hymns and Carols
“We have seen His star in the east at a 20% discount”
Joy to the world at Canadian Tire
And free shipping until sing of Mary
Amazon roasting on an open fire
And no payments until January
O holy night down at the shopping mall
Adeste fidelis in a traffic jam
I saw three ships in large, medium, and small
O Christmas tree buy a Pajamagram
A new Rolex watch on this silent night -
But park with your packages out of sight
After-Christmas Christmas - column
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
From 2010
Liturgically, Christmas begins at midnight on Christmas Eve and continues until the Feast of the Epiphany on January 6. The four Sundays before Christmas constitute Advent, not Christmas, and certainly not the dreary “Christmas Season” for so long inflicted on a suffering world. Too few understand this, and those who follow the Christian season as intended are to be found only in the history museum, between the reconstructed mastodons and the faux cavemen warming themselves at the flickering light-bulb fire behind school-trip-fingerprinted glass.
Christmas trees are nice at any time, though, and Bing Crosby singing “White Christmas,” presents, candles, decorations, cards, festive meals, happy-sad remembrances of those who now grace an even happier Table, and the liturgy on Christmas Eve.
After Christmas dinner there is sometimes a feeling that Christmas is over for another year, but in reality the season is only beginning. And this works out nicely because now one can enjoy Christmas itself, free of the sometimes unreasonable demands of the preceding month.
If the weather is fair, the kids can go outside to kick the new football – and each other, kids being kids. If not, they have plenty to do inside with new games, new books, and new toys, and the adults can have coffee and a second helping of pie, and then maybe another nibble of that turkey. No one has to go to the store for anything, and no one has to dress up for yet another do of any kind.
Yes, there is much to be said for the low expectations of Christmas afternoon.
The tree, compounded of toxic chemical waste in a country far, far away, need not be taken down anytime soon, though getting rid of the Komsomol-Operative-on-a-Shelf spying on your household and reporting any incorrect speech or behavior to Stalin-Claus is tempting.
One acquaintance concluded that the Tattle-tale-on-the-Shelf is a way of preparing American children for a life of surveillance. Once upon a time little boys and girls wanted to be cowboys and doctors and firemen and railroad engineers; now they are prepped to function as OGPU and STASI operatives: Big Elf is Watching You. Another acquaintance dismissed the Fink-on-a-Shelf as creepy, a Peeping-Tom-on-a-Shelf.
Once upon a time, little boys were made of sterner stuff, ripping off the heads of their sisters’ Barbies, but now they fear to take the Commie elf outside and dispatch him with their plastic pirate swords or Robin Hood bows and arrows. And that is if boys are now permitted plastic pirate swords or Robin bows and arrow at all: “Gee. Mom and Dad. A Greasy-Bake oven. In pink. Just what I’ve always wanted. Thanks. Wow. You shouldn’t have. Really.”
Soon enough the Epiphany will be here, and everyone will have to get down to the serious business of winter without colored lights and festive music. No matter what your shift is, you go to work in the dark and come home in the dark, and comfort yourself with the thought that at least January is not August with its merciless heat.
And then sometimes you can dig into the sofa cushions and find a chocolate candy misplaced during December’s merriment, and chocolate tastes even better in January.
If you find a plastic Easter egg from last year, well, that’s fun too, but you probably shouldn’t eat the goodies inside.
Happy, happy after-Christmas, everyone.
mhall46184@aol.com
From 2010
After-Christmas Christmas
Liturgically, Christmas begins at midnight on Christmas Eve and continues until the Feast of the Epiphany on January 6. The four Sundays before Christmas constitute Advent, not Christmas, and certainly not the dreary “Christmas Season” for so long inflicted on a suffering world. Too few understand this, and those who follow the Christian season as intended are to be found only in the history museum, between the reconstructed mastodons and the faux cavemen warming themselves at the flickering light-bulb fire behind school-trip-fingerprinted glass.
Christmas trees are nice at any time, though, and Bing Crosby singing “White Christmas,” presents, candles, decorations, cards, festive meals, happy-sad remembrances of those who now grace an even happier Table, and the liturgy on Christmas Eve.
After Christmas dinner there is sometimes a feeling that Christmas is over for another year, but in reality the season is only beginning. And this works out nicely because now one can enjoy Christmas itself, free of the sometimes unreasonable demands of the preceding month.
If the weather is fair, the kids can go outside to kick the new football – and each other, kids being kids. If not, they have plenty to do inside with new games, new books, and new toys, and the adults can have coffee and a second helping of pie, and then maybe another nibble of that turkey. No one has to go to the store for anything, and no one has to dress up for yet another do of any kind.
Yes, there is much to be said for the low expectations of Christmas afternoon.
The tree, compounded of toxic chemical waste in a country far, far away, need not be taken down anytime soon, though getting rid of the Komsomol-Operative-on-a-Shelf spying on your household and reporting any incorrect speech or behavior to Stalin-Claus is tempting.
One acquaintance concluded that the Tattle-tale-on-the-Shelf is a way of preparing American children for a life of surveillance. Once upon a time little boys and girls wanted to be cowboys and doctors and firemen and railroad engineers; now they are prepped to function as OGPU and STASI operatives: Big Elf is Watching You. Another acquaintance dismissed the Fink-on-a-Shelf as creepy, a Peeping-Tom-on-a-Shelf.
Once upon a time, little boys were made of sterner stuff, ripping off the heads of their sisters’ Barbies, but now they fear to take the Commie elf outside and dispatch him with their plastic pirate swords or Robin Hood bows and arrows. And that is if boys are now permitted plastic pirate swords or Robin bows and arrow at all: “Gee. Mom and Dad. A Greasy-Bake oven. In pink. Just what I’ve always wanted. Thanks. Wow. You shouldn’t have. Really.”
Soon enough the Epiphany will be here, and everyone will have to get down to the serious business of winter without colored lights and festive music. No matter what your shift is, you go to work in the dark and come home in the dark, and comfort yourself with the thought that at least January is not August with its merciless heat.
And then sometimes you can dig into the sofa cushions and find a chocolate candy misplaced during December’s merriment, and chocolate tastes even better in January.
If you find a plastic Easter egg from last year, well, that’s fun too, but you probably shouldn’t eat the goodies inside.
Happy, happy after-Christmas, everyone.
-30-
Thursday, December 21, 2017
Never Trust a Guy Who Irons His Jeans - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Strong canvas is the stuff of adventure
Like a cowboy lassoing horses wild
It captures the ocean’s galloping winds
And to even wilder ships harnesses them
Strong canvas is the stuff of manly work
Defense against fierce cactus and desert dust
Loops for the hammer, pouches for the nails
Sacred vestments anointed with sweat and dirt
A good man works hard, and says what he means
But never trust a guy who irons his jeans
mhall46184@aol.com
Never Trust a Guy Who Irons His Jeans
Strong canvas is the stuff of adventure
Like a cowboy lassoing horses wild
It captures the ocean’s galloping winds
And to even wilder ships harnesses them
Strong canvas is the stuff of manly work
Defense against fierce cactus and desert dust
Loops for the hammer, pouches for the nails
Sacred vestments anointed with sweat and dirt
A good man works hard, and says what he means
But never trust a guy who irons his jeans
Wednesday, December 20, 2017
Love in the Corner Booth - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
His ducktail haircut from 1957
Fading to white, her voice without makeup
Sharing scripture verses and something about
Her latest operation and her miseries
Outside along the row of pickup trucks
A green-haired waitress smokes a cigarette
The fuzz of her Harley-Davidson coat
Pressed flat for love against the window glass
They’ve got a sale on tires down at Wal-Mart
Along the four-lane Christmas passes by
mhall46184@aol.com
Love in the Corner Booth
Somewhere along US 96
His ducktail haircut from 1957
Fading to white, her voice without makeup
Sharing scripture verses and something about
Her latest operation and her miseries
Outside along the row of pickup trucks
A green-haired waitress smokes a cigarette
The fuzz of her Harley-Davidson coat
Pressed flat for love against the window glass
They’ve got a sale on tires down at Wal-Mart
Along the four-lane Christmas passes by
Tuesday, December 19, 2017
A Conversation about Whiteness - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Wedding dresses, clouds in a summer sky
Those new tenny-runners in junior high
The towels the Navy issued all of us
Liquid Paper™ for covering typos
Wild geese winging the seasons, moved by God
The much-prayed pages in MeeMaw’s Bible
A sidewalk made playground with colored chalk
A blank page in the typewriter positioned
Ready, waiting for the next Langston Hughes
To write about rivers, or about…you
mhall46184@aol.com
A Conversation about Whiteness
Wedding dresses, clouds in a summer sky
Those new tenny-runners in junior high
The towels the Navy issued all of us
Liquid Paper™ for covering typos
Wild geese winging the seasons, moved by God
The much-prayed pages in MeeMaw’s Bible
A sidewalk made playground with colored chalk
A blank page in the typewriter positioned
Ready, waiting for the next Langston Hughes
To write about rivers, or about…you
Monday, December 18, 2017
Why do We Write? - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
If we accept that art helps us reveal
The hidden structures of the universe
As beauty transcendent in color and form
Harmonious truth in music, word, and dance
Then choosing sides in old men’s deadly games
Is merely empire-building, trunkless legs2,
And focusing upon our hurts and harms
Is but a dark Endorian3 conceit
If we build art in love, not for ourselves,
But for all others, we live beyond all time
1 Prince Myshkin in The Idiot
2 Shelley, “Ozymandias”
3 1 Samuel 28
mhall46184@aol.com
Why do We Write?
“Beauty will save the world.”1
-Dostoyevsky
If we accept that art helps us reveal
The hidden structures of the universe
As beauty transcendent in color and form
Harmonious truth in music, word, and dance
Then choosing sides in old men’s deadly games
Is merely empire-building, trunkless legs2,
And focusing upon our hurts and harms
Is but a dark Endorian3 conceit
If we build art in love, not for ourselves,
But for all others, we live beyond all time
1 Prince Myshkin in The Idiot
2 Shelley, “Ozymandias”
3 1 Samuel 28
Sunday, December 17, 2017
Saint Mary Magdalene's Recycled Mobile 'Phone - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Her ‘phone was passed on to a parish priest
But they forgot to change the numbers and so
Her client-base kept telephoning him
At night, when the moon and the johns were full
“Confessions on Friday evening at seven”
Didn’t ring-a-ding anyone’s ding-ding
Maybe the lonely men in lonely rooms
Remembered then what their dear mamas said
And maybe they didn’t – life falls apart
Both in the street and at the Airport Inn
(predicated on a real event)
mhall46184@aol.com
Saint Mary Magdalene’s Recycled Mobile ‘Phone
Her ‘phone was passed on to a parish priest
But they forgot to change the numbers and so
Her client-base kept telephoning him
At night, when the moon and the johns were full
“Confessions on Friday evening at seven”
Didn’t ring-a-ding anyone’s ding-ding
Maybe the lonely men in lonely rooms
Remembered then what their dear mamas said
And maybe they didn’t – life falls apart
Both in the street and at the Airport Inn
(predicated on a real event)
Saturday, December 16, 2017
The World in Your Hands - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
A little bead between your fingers slips
And then another, and another yet
Linked with a bit of cord, in corde1 linked
Like planets all in rhythm with their sun
Each bead is our created world in small:
Each ocean a baptism, each island a hope
Each wind a prophecy whispering to
An exiled people waiting for the dawn
And for your fiat mihi to that Light
A little bead between your fingers waits
I 1n corde - "in the heart" from "In corde Iesu," "in the heart of Jesus"
2 Fiat mihi - St. Luke 1:38
mhall46184@aol.com
The World in Your Hands
A little bead between your fingers slips
And then another, and another yet
Linked with a bit of cord, in corde1 linked
Like planets all in rhythm with their sun
Each bead is our created world in small:
Each ocean a baptism, each island a hope
Each wind a prophecy whispering to
An exiled people waiting for the dawn
And for your fiat mihi to that Light
A little bead between your fingers waits
I 1n corde - "in the heart" from "In corde Iesu," "in the heart of Jesus"
2 Fiat mihi - St. Luke 1:38
Friday, December 15, 2017
"Dear Valued Customer" - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
Dear Valued Customer:
Old Hearth & Home Mutual Bank & Trust
Is changing its name to Cosmos Banking
And now to Financial Solutions Inc
And tomorrow to New Heritage Bank
Same familiar faces, same great service
A broader range of personalized products
Because, neighbor, you’re still our good neighbor
(We’ll need two kinds of identification)
But that’s enough bank sign-changing for now -
We’re all out of two-sided Velcro® tape
mhall46184@aol.com
“Dear Valued Customer”
Dear Valued Customer:
Old Hearth & Home Mutual Bank & Trust
Is changing its name to Cosmos Banking
And now to Financial Solutions Inc
And tomorrow to New Heritage Bank
Same familiar faces, same great service
A broader range of personalized products
Because, neighbor, you’re still our good neighbor
(We’ll need two kinds of identification)
But that’s enough bank sign-changing for now -
We’re all out of two-sided Velcro® tape
Thursday, December 14, 2017
Hobo Jungle - poem
Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com
It’s a jungle out there – across the road
A hoodie-man carrying a shopping bag
A turn, a thought, a blink, a pause – he’s gone
Like the silent lynx, disappeared among the trees
The stock market is up, the woods are dark
Beyond the lights, the refuge of lost men;
The old folks spoke of hobo jungles back when
Along the tracks, not near an office block
Beyond the glass, beyond the walls, beyond:
It’s a jungle out there – across the road
mhall46184@aol.com
Hobo Jungle
It’s a jungle out there – across the road
A hoodie-man carrying a shopping bag
A turn, a thought, a blink, a pause – he’s gone
Like the silent lynx, disappeared among the trees
The stock market is up, the woods are dark
Beyond the lights, the refuge of lost men;
The old folks spoke of hobo jungles back when
Along the tracks, not near an office block
Beyond the glass, beyond the walls, beyond:
It’s a jungle out there – across the road
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