Streaming Forbidden Love - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Streaming Forbidden Love

So many movies on the streaming service
Advert themselves as about forbidden love
Until one wonders if there is any love
Which is not forbidden
                                           your credit card welcome

An Extraordinary Ordinary Life - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

An Extraordinary Ordinary Life

For Mrs. Tinney Davidson, The Waving Grandma

Comox, British Columbia

She lived in an ordinary house in an ordinary street
And every day she waved to children passing by
And every day the waved-at children waved back
Because a wave is a good beginning to the day

In the morning she waved the children along to school
And in the evening waved them back again home
And every day the waved-at children waved back
Just like the waves that hug a beach, with love

And then one day she went away, and waved -
And the waved-at children will wave back forever

Extraordinary!

(cf. Here and Now, CBC St. John’s, 26 April 2019)

Manic Pixie Dream Girl at a Funeral - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Manic Pixie Dream Girl at a Funeral

The manic pixie dream girl of my youth
Curving and tight, scampering along the beach
Her wild black hair flying about as she danced
Teasing all the boys with her sunlit joys

I read to her Rod McKuen by candlelight
While Joni Mitchell on the turntable mused
We played and smoked, and drank good screwcap wine
And played some more, and then she went away

And now - an old lady in a funeral home pew
And I’m not so sure of myself anymore


(“Manic pixie dream girl” is a neologism attributed to film critic Nathan Rubin)

Pascha at St. Michael's Orthodox Church - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Pascha at St. Michael’s Orthodox Church

Happy Easter / Pascha to a Russian Orthodox Friend

What sort of man sits in the silent dark
And waits for a small candle to be lit
When he could reach over and flip a switch
For the miracle of electricity

Bravely to course through the building’s wired veins
The march of progress with a touch controlled
By the hand of humanity triumphant
Over Byzantine superstition. Tell us:

What hopeful sort of man waits for the dawn,
For Light to appear from a cold, sealed tomb?

A Clerisy of One - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

A Clerisy of One

I am a clerisy of one
I argue with myself a lot
And as I speak I know I’ve won
I’m all about me, and you are not

For President of the United States - Me - weekly column

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

For President of the United States - Me

For fear of being the only American not to run for office this election cycle, I now announce that I want to serve me I mean…You The People…of this great land as your next president.

I also want the fleet of presidential jets, the garage of great big SUVs, the household staff, an armored train with great big nuclear cannons that go “BOOM!”, a bunch of helicopters, and a gold-plated toilet that lights up and plays “Hail to the Chief” when flushed, just like the Constitution says.

I solemnly swear that if you elect me as your next president I will let you little people look at all the jet airplanes, SUVs, the armored train, and the helicopters you pay for.

The Gold-Plated Toilet of The People is off-limits, though.

As your president I’m not going to ride Amtrak, carry my own suitcase, or eat in a roadside diner. I want all the goodies. I want my presidency to be a reflection of my America. And you can look at your reflection in a mirror.

As your president I will see to it that my family and my friends fly on presidential airplanes to London, Paris, Rome, Saint Petersburg, Saint Moritz, and Tokyo on shopping trips and vacations so that you can be inspired by how your tax dollars are making my buddies happy. Just like some of the previous presidents.

As your president I will bill the Secret Service for protecting me at the best rate quoted by the Deutsche Bank. After all, if those guys are going to hang around on my lawn in all sorts of weather protecting me and my family, they should pay me rent, okay? Just like the previous president.

As your president I will hang around with and pay off only those dictators with a good fashion sense. When Kim Jong Ill ditches the mousey-dung play-school outfit and learns to wear a coat and tie like a grownup, then we can talk. And no Justin Trudeau socksies, either.

As your president I will tell you what’s in Area 51. And Area 50. It stands to reason that if there is an Area 51 then there must be an Area 50. It’s so secret that you haven’t even heard of it. That’s what The Voices tell me.

As your president I will develop a national health and exercise program whose core strategy is having everyone run laps around former Governor Christie of New Jersey.

As your president I will build a big, beautiful, yuuuuge wall built around the Internal Revenue Service.

As your president I will sign an executive order banning the death penalty except for telemarketers - for them death by throwing them into a pit of ravenous dachshunds will be mandatory.

As your president I will ask Snoop Dogg and Willie Nelson to form a select committee for writing lyrics for “Hail to the Chief, and I am the Chief.”

And remember, my fellow Americans, a vote for me is a vote for, well, me.

Thank you, thank you. And don’t forget to send the Benjamins.

-30-

An Execution - Maybe the Prisoner was Already Dead - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Maybe the Prisoner was Already Dead

“...he stepped slightly aside to avoid a puddle on the path.”

-George Orwell, “A Hanging”

Evening. Maybe he was already dead
Dead long before the State boys strapped him down
And a functionary started an I.V. drip
Left arm? Or right? In a cinder-block room

Fluorescent lights

With windowed faces posted on both sides
Testaments to the protocols of death
The liturgy of falling away because
He and the lads murdered a helpless man

Fluorescent lights

He breathed. And then he didn’t. His bowels let go
And did they put a Band-Aid on the wound?

Fluorescent lights

But now

Let’s go outside and feel the wind

                                                            We live

Choking on Aspirational Hyphens - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Choking on Aspirational Hyphens

Our straw boss, now, she hyphenates her name
And there is something frightening about
Those faux dashes fastened between the nouns
Her proper nouns, as if they might slip loose

And fall onto the pages of Debrett’s
As isolated bits of DNA
Dropping their aitches and their gees, oh, please!
So tack that Burberry hyphen back again

Let no proletarian taint be seen -
Made in China becomes Fabrique en Chine

"We Will Rebuild Notre Dame Even More Beautifully" - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

“We Will Rebuild Notre Dame Even More Beautifully”

-President Macron

Your privacy is guaranteed
There’s nothing to see here, nothing
He died while trying to escape
Now, then, this might sting a little

Winning the hearts and minds of the people
A light at the end of the tunnel
Lose weight without diet or exercise
We never sell your information

Uploaded unintentionally
Oh, sure, I’ll pay you back next week

Neo-Platonic Darwinian Bird-Ness - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Neo-Platonic Darwinian Bird-Ness

The birds might say, “Oh, look at the pretty humans!
They have waited all winter for us to return!”
And so we have, like seasonal hoteliers
Inviting our guests back for their holiday

The seed-buffets on little metal trays
And little plastic houses in the trees
Bespeak our thoughtful hospitality
For little friends who live upon their wings

Now summering in nest and eave and steeple
The birds must laugh, “Oh look at the people!”

Ubi Petrus - poem (a repost for Easter Sunday)

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Ubi Petrus

For Inky and Jason

“Ubi Petrus, ibi Ecclesia”

- St. Ambrose of Milan

Where Peter was, there also was the Tomb --
Blood-sodden dreams cold-rotting in old sin,
The Chalice left unwashed, the Upper Room
A three-days’ grave for hope-forsaken men.

Where Peter is, there also should we be,
Poor pilgrims, his, a-kneel before the Throne
Of Eosian Christendom, and none but he
Is called to lead the Church to eternal Dawn.

Where Peter then will be, there is the Faith,
Transubstantiation, whipped blood, ripped flesh
A solid reality, not a wraith
Of shop-soiled heresies labeled as fresh.

Where Peter is, O Lord, there let us pray,
Poor battered wanderers along Your way.

No One Has Messed Up Good Friday Yet - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

No One Has Messed Up Good Friday Yet

All Souls’ and All Saints’ were made to disappear
Easter is bad enough with rabbit eggs
And Christmas was appropriated by The People
As a tribute to (belch) Glorious Excess

But no one has taken Good Friday away
With gifts and treats and two-for-one specials
Down at Chez Bubba’s Discount Liquor and Smokes,
And Colonial Auto Parts stays open - why not?

But while the world spins along on its way
A few eccentrics remember Him this day



I'm late with this.  I hope the Holy Saturday Hamster (who leaves omelettes for good little girls and boys) isn't miffed about it.

"Stop Crying While I'm Making Your Lives Happy! - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

An All-Purpose Holiday Behavior Modification Plan

 

(no, no, just a house I visited long ago -

I escaped as fast as I could)

She will make it a perfect holiday

(“Don’t touch those cookies! They’re for later!”)

Just like the ones on H & G TV

(“Don’t touch Santa! I’ve got him where I want him!”)

With the perfect table and decorations

(“Who moved the Easter bunny, *** **** it!?”)

Exactly like the ones in the magazines

(“Just leave the tree alone; I’LL decorate it!”)

And smiling faces all around the house

(“I expect a little cooperation around here!”)

Perfectly wrapped presents with perfect bows

(“Turn the tree…not that way…LISTEN TO ME!”

Cute Easter baskets for each little child

(“Leave those chocolates alone! you’ll ruin your lunch!”)

Marshaled prettily for a photograph

(“Oh, ****! There’s a grass stain on your church dress!”

Meemaw and Pawpaw will be proud of them

(“**** it! I told you not to play outside in your church dress!”)

The children’s table is just like a picture

(“Not yet! We haven’t even said the ****ed grace!”)

A perfect holiday, or she’ll just die -
No matter how many children are made to cry

A Load or Two of Codswallop - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

A Load or Two of Codswallop

One hears of a load of codswallop
But no one knows what a codswallop is
And only by the load, or can you buy a dollop?
And just who is in the codswallop biz?

If There is a Rebound, There Must Have Been a Bound - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

If There is a Rebound, There Must Have Been a Bound

Rebound!

I don’t understand basketball at all
Women and men run around in funny clothes
Yelling a lot while keeping a basketball
From each other in a shoe-slapping gym

Rebound!

And they yell “REBOUND!” more than anything else
And I hear each “REBOUND!” echoing about
And shoes slide-squeaking on the wooden floor
And I have no idea what any of it means

Rebound!

I only know that roundballers are tall

Beyond that

I don’t understand basketball at all

Rebound!

The Pragmatic Sanction of a Penny Candle - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The Pragmatic Sanction of a Penny Candle

Nothing is more pragmatic than a votive light
A candlelight
A little light
A prayer light

Famous News Guy Live With the Burning of Notre Dame de Paris - not exactly a poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Famous News Guy Live With the Burning of Notre Dame de Paris

Notre Dame is much more than a place of worship
iconic Notre Dame is much more than
a church icon Notre Dame is much more
than a place of Worship icon Notre Dame

is much more than a church iconic
Notre Dame is much more than a place of worship
iconic Notre Dame is much more than
a church icon Notre Dame is much more

than a place of Worship icon Notre Dame
is much more than a church iconic

The Elf-Girl, the Knight, and the Holy Grail - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The Elf-Girl, the Knight, and the Holy Grail

She giggles, soft-hidden behind the green
And summer-teases, a shimmer in the air
She peeks at him and laughs, this fairy queen
With mischief in her eyes and flowers in her hair

While through the forest glades our young, fresh knight
Must keep his path as duty to his King
She dances by him, laughing, lithe, and light
What will he have - chapel, or fairy-ring?

And while he makes his vows, she all unseen -
She giggles, soft-hidden behind the green

Seeking Sanctuary at the French Embassy - weekly column

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184

Seeking Sanctuary at the French Embassy

“...and thence to a thing that peers in at…windows…”

-C. S. Lewis, p. 99, A Preface to Paradise Lost

Julian Assange, maybe a citizen of Australia and maybe of Ecuador, but mostly a resident of his own unhappy mind, spent seven years in his safe space in the Ecuadorian embassy in London.

Ecuador recently tired of Mr. Assange (as have we all), and ejected him into the waiting arms of a few sturdy young men in civvies, who may or may not be English bobbies, and who then gave him a courtesy ride to the nearest magistrate.

Ecuador must now hire some extra cleaners to take care of the filth and the feces (not all of it the cat’s, according the the ambassador). Yes, Mr. Assange has impressed a great many people in many ways.

Mr. Assange had forgotten the first rule of betrayal - when the country of the second part has no more use for the man who has sold out the country of the first part, the country of the second part discards him. Mr. Assange and his cat and his computer have been discarded.

Mr. Assange is no journalist and no hero; he is only a nasty little creep of the sort who peers in at other people’s windows.

We are all concerned for the cat, of course.

Mr. Assange, citizen of the world, is fortunate in having violated the laws and the trust only of the United States, Sweden, Ecuador, and Great Britain. Had he gotten crossways of the Russian KGB or of North Korea’s merry maids of mayhem, he’d be deader than Robert Francis O’Rourke’s chances of table-top dancing his way to the presidency in 2020.

One must admit that Mr. Assange’s sneaking and spying and finking paid him well, giving him the mob-funding to travel all over the world until seven years ago, when he promised to appear in an English court, and instead lied his way into the care and protection of Ecuador.

Perhaps you or I could work that gig, eh? We could betray, say, Monaco or Malta, selling all their gambling secrets to the highest bidders, and then fly to England and show up at the French embassy demanding sanctuary.

I have chosen the French embassy for your consideration because it’s much bigger and nicer than Ecuador’s, which is really just a large apartment. A schemer could live there for several years as the darling of the sort of people who watch The View, don’t vaccinate their children, and believe that the British royal family are really The Lizard People from Mars. A new parasite could inspire a new generation to be untrustworthy in every way, and pose with the Dolly Llama, some leftover 1970s actresses, and a few stray dictators-in-exile for photographs of saintly fellows who stick it to The Man.

But no.

In the end, Mr. Assange is a vulgar, self-absorbed little man who used the laws of civilized nations to avoid the consequences of his violations of the laws of those same civilized nations. He has probably caused the deaths of innocents because of his loathsome behavior, and he has certain deceived a great many foolish people and cost millions of Euros, pounds and dollars to support him in his indolence. However, the laws he and his toadies scorn mean that he will not be hanged or shot. He will live a long life in a prison or psychiatric unit, grow his beard and his resentments, write a big book in praise of himself, and someday die, perhaps convinced that the water faucet in his room is up to something.

We cannot hate such a man; we can only pity him.

-30-

The Little Bighorn Battlefield Across from the Gas Station - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The Little Bighorn

A mist, but not of memories or ghosts,
And not a silent mist - a noisy one
Drifts darkly over this altar to the past
The docent pauses for each motor home

Gear-growling up the unexpected slope
Along the road from that point to this one
Well-paved and posted: fifteen miles per hour

For cell-‘phone shots where each historic death
Is marked with stones among the sunlit grass
The docent speaks of her peoples: Cheyenne,
Arapaho, Sioux, and soldier boys blue

With frequent and reflective pauses as
A Winnebago circles Last Stand Hill