Saturday, April 30, 2022

Mercenaries Off Down That Road - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Mercenaries Off Down That Road

 

Their medic got killed and I was sent

To stabilize their wounded and ignore their dead

And mind my own business in all other things

Because they weren’t who we were

 

Someone said that they were C.I.A.

And they were okay to me; didn’t talk much

Our C.O. told me to stay away from them

After the unmarked dust-off lifted away

 

I got to thinking that the war I was assigned

Shouldn’t have been any of my business either

Friday, April 29, 2022

Two Little Girls Grew Up Here - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Two Little Girls Grew Up Here

 

Two little girls grew up here in this happy place

Trees and lawns and puppy dogs and peace

From sandals and shorts to graduation gowns -

Sometimes when gardening I find their little treasures:

 

A plastic watch face whose bright colors remain

The broken handle from a toy teacup

A cap pistol with a rusted mechanism -

I don’t know what belonged to my own child

 

Or to that little girl from long ago

Who, when she was grown, drank herself to death

When a Government Goes Bust(ier) - doggerel

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

When a Government Goes Bus(tier)

 

Representative Cawthorn with his big old gun

Representative Cawthorn in his lingerie

North Carolina voted him their Number One

But as for us we’ll vote some other way

Wednesday, April 27, 2022

To be Released from Prison Tomorrow - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

To be Released from Prison Tomorrow

 

Tomorrow his mother and his little girl

Will meet him at the gate and take him home

No more white suits and big boondocker boots

No wire, no bells, no lining up for counts

 

Yes, all of us congratulated him

We cheered, we wished him well, we said a prayer

Prisoners and volunteers and a passing guard

We clapped his back and said goodbye to him

 

Al took his hand; he looked at him and spoke

The sternest, wisest, kindest words of all:

 

“I never want to see you here again.”

Tuesday, April 26, 2022

The Stopping Power of the American Incel - Angry Rhyming Doggerel

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

The Stopping Power of the American Incel

 

“I’m giving all my grandchildren AR rifles.”

 

-my brother-in-law

 

And if my nieces and nephews fire their guns

To kill their classmates or some passers-by

Or maybe the neighbors’ little pre-school sons

They’ll still love the Second even as they fry

 

The killings in our streets we continue in jail:

Electrocution, drugs, shooting, or gassing

Or maybe by hanging – note how they choke and flail -

And the Ballcap Church will bless their passing

 

We’re such a shining city on our high hill

Compensating for our loser-ness with each patriotic kill

Monday, April 25, 2022

We Can't Cash in Our Chips Because We Don't Have Any Chips - weekly column, 24 April 2022

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

We Can’t Cash in Our Chips Because We Don’t Have Any Chips

 

For much of human existence technology was based on wood. A few thousand years ago metallurgy kicked in with bronze and small amounts of crude iron, but the primitive techniques and limited fuel meant that we were still The Wood People. Not until the 19th century did a sort of dialectic of coal, iron, steel, and steam make the industrial revolution possible.

 

Petroleum for fuel, chemicals, fertilizers, and a catalogue of plastics later enhanced industry and thus civilization. When I consider the debris on my old wooden desk I see books in a row made from wood and glue and chemicals, pens made from plastic and chemicals, scissors of steel and plastic, screwdrivers of wood and plastic, and a lamp made from steel, plastic, glass, and a bulb combining electricity and odd metals. The computer on which I type is made mostly of plastic with some few metal parts and microchips.

 

I don’t understand microchips at all, but without them we would not have computers, MePhones, clever little watches, thermostats, radios, Orwellian telescreens, credit cards, and hundreds of other devices as we know them now.

 

Without microchips we would have no military defense, no radar, no air travel, no electricity, no cars, no industry, no medical care, no economy, and no food, and so of course this nation has surrendered almost all the manufacturing of microchips to countries who don’t like us.

 

In the past few weeks numerous news articles have discussed the recycling and even theft of microchips from older devices so that we can have newer devices because we don’t make chips ourselves and can’t buy them.

 

Apparently most microchips can be programmed and reprogrammed for all sorts of purposes, and thus – I read it on the InterGossip so it must be true – some car manufacturers are buying new and used household appliances in order to recover the microchips for making their cars go.

 

If your car has developed a shimmy and a shake don’t worry; it’s the rinse cycle.

 

That burglar on your security camera (which also needs microchips) might be the president of General Motors whose dead-on-the-line Cadillacs need some Whirlpool microchips to make them varoom, varoom.

 

Shady characters on street corners whisper, “Hey, buddy, wanna buy a thermostat? Like new, I promise.”

 

We can truthfully say that in the past we didn’t need microchips. This nation ran railroads and drilled oil wells and built interstates and generated electricity and designed jet planes and dug coal with slide rules, pencils, paper, thoughts, machine tools, and skilled, muscled hands. That might have been a better way of doing things – after all, no North Korean or Chinese Communist could lurk behind a little glowing screen on the other side of the planet and program a Baldwin steam locomotive to self-destruct.

 

I don’t know about microchips, but I do know that Communist China is quietly but busily colonizing Africa (they call it their Belt-and-Road Initiative, which sounds ever so much nicer than imperialism) and expanding its newer-than-new Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere to the Solomon Islands. Australia is next.

 

Chanting “Learn. To. Code.” and arguing about rainbow flags in Disney World won’t help.

 

-30-

Gang Activity - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Gang Activity

 

It wasn’t about the motorcycles

It was never about the motorcycles

The motorcycles were never a problem

It was about the Fall of Man

Sunday, April 24, 2022

Fifty Shades of Community College Night Class - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Fifty Shades of Community College Night Class

 

She was always early, sat in the front row

A middle-aged lady trying for nursing school

She had to take English 1301

Everybody did, but they were cool, you know

 

She was reading a book, Fifty Shades of Grey

I conversationally asked her, “Is it good?”

And conversationally she replied, “It is”

It was very popular by the end of May

 

The old ladies found the book full of pants-down treats -

I was the only one excited about John Keats

Saturday, April 23, 2022

Shelter in Place - poem

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Shelter in Place

 

“Go inside your houses, please. All these people will be taken care of.”

 

-Police Commander in Doctor Zhivago

 

Blue and red lights flicker across the face

Of the rigid black-clad police commander

Whose admiral’s stars all shiny and bright

Are meant to reassure us that we are safe

 

Blue and red lights flicker across the night

Front yards now blue now red now blue now red

The curious from their houses now blue now red

Like corpses discolored in the summer’s heat

 

Blue and red lights flicker across the wraps

Of a world heaved into an ambulance


Friday, April 22, 2022

Mr. Bossy-Pants Tells Us How to Live - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Mr. Bossy-Pants Tells Us How to Live

 

“I’m an idea man, Chuck; I get ideas....”

 

-Michael Keaton as Bill in Night Shift

 

He never planted a garden or mowed a lawn

There are no trees near his apartment house

His household garbage goes straight to the curb

In unrecycled thick black plastic bags

 

He sees his SUV as only his due

But wants bicycles for the rest of us

And keeps his air-conditioning comfy-cool

He flies first class to teach us clean-air truths

 

He makes a bludgeon of the term “organic”

And profits thus from others’ moral panic

Thursday, April 21, 2022

Goodbye, Spooky Old Shopping Mall - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Goodbye, Spooky Old Shopping Mall

 

I’m only here for the restrooms, foul as they are

Employees Must Wash Hands

At the end of corridors which end in corridors

Darker and narrower as they go along

Empty spaces, empty stores, emptiness

 

Someone is sleeping on a decorative bench

No Firearms / Prohibido Portas Armas De Fuego

Outside a nail salon that closed years ago

And a bookstore that closed years ago

And a boutique that closed years ago

 

The geriatric mall-walkers have arrived

Hide Your Merchandise and Lock Your Car

The few remaining stores don’t open ‘til ten

Wednesday, April 20, 2022

"Wimbledon to Ban Russians" - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

“Wimbledon to Ban Russians”

 

-News Item

 

Tchaikovsky, thus, is forbidden to go

Akhmatova is well and sternly gated

No one will greet Dostoyevsky, oh, no

Tolstoy missed his train (some are elated)

 

Bulgakov won’t be there at center court

Nor yet his Margarita on her broom

Tsvaetaeva will certainly miss all the sport

Gogol will watch on tv in his hotel room

 

And is there a point to any of this

Except for a popular boo and hiss?

Tuesday, April 19, 2022

After Fifty Year's It's Time to Change the Linen - very short poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

After Fifty Years It’s Time to Change the Linen

 

One does not wish to live in a culture where crowds

Have persuaded themselves that “Imagine”

Is worthy of the hearing

Monday, April 18, 2022

I Did Not Leave the Local A.M. Radio Station - doggerel

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

I Did Not Leave the Local A.M. Radio Station –

The Local A.M. Radio Station Left Me

 

-As President Reagan did not say

 

The guys on the local talk radio used to be fun

Witty and charming, with good stories to tell

Through example, narrative, joke, and pun

They really made the early morning swell

 

But of late they’ve withered into the stereotype

Of geezery, wheezery, close-minded old men

Whose sole purpose now is to grump and groan and gripe –

They’re somewhere to the right of Original Sin!

 

Since all they do now is but scorn and scoff

I begin my day with the radio off

Sunday, April 17, 2022

Ukrainian Children Can't Do This Just Now - weekly column, 17 April 2022

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Ukrainian Children Can’t Do This Just Now

 

While on errands last Saturday I saw something marvelous: little children in spontaneous play. They were not organized in teams nor had they been set a goal or purpose by others. They were barefoot and in jeans and tees, and were happily playing about in the mucky water of a roadside ditch. Their only toy was an old bucket.

 

The two basic activities could be clearly clearly in the few seconds it took to drive by.

 

The first activity was carried out by a little boy making a little girl squeal in mock terror by holding a frog or a minnow to her face.

 

The second activity was the little girl dishing out retribution by taking the bucket and sloshing the little boy with water from the ditch.

 

Merriment ensued among all present.

 

And, really, what better sport on a Saturday?

 

There was surely retribution at home by moms and dads: “Why are you all wet!?” and “Get those muddy clothes into the washing machine and go bathe! How many times have I told you...!?” But, gosh, what happy memories for the kids, who someday will in their turn fuss at their own kids for the very same offenses remedied only by detergent and bath soap.

 

Yes, there are many reasons not to play in muddy ditches: bacteria, snakes, bacteria, snapping turtles, bacteria, pesticide runoff, bacteria, broken glass, bacteria, and on and on. Children should not play in muddy ditches.

 

Ukrainian children must sometimes hide in muddy ditches, but it’s not the same thing at all.

 

Still, it’s somehow reassuring that in our increasingly complicated, dangerous, and electronicalized world there are moments of the same gloriously messy childhood play that our ancestors, all the way back to the Garden, indulged in.

 

There are no leagues for unstructured play, no teams, no uniforms, no scores, no officious adults with clipboards, no grades, no fund-raisers, no meetings, no media drama, and no bullet points for resumes’. Those will come later; for now, let’s have a little merry chaos.

 

Childhood is more joyful and more meaningful when not filtered through little Orwellian telescreens. Minnows and mud and fireflies and silly songs around a campfire at night are much better.

 

-30-

Children Playing in a Roadside Ditch on Holy Saturday - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Children Playing in a Roadside Ditch on Holy Saturday

 

Happy children playing in a roadside ditch

Barefoot and laughing in shorts and tees

A boy grabbing up a frog to frighten the girls

A girl sloshing the boys with a bucket of muck

 

They pause to peer through a magnifying glass

A worm or a minnow the passerby can’t see

Because to adults, as with many things

The waterways of Fairyland are closed

 

Happy children playing in a magic fountain

Just as we did when we were very young

Saturday, April 16, 2022

Send Them Your Dawn, O Lord - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Send Them Your Dawn, O Lord

 

We repudiate Putin and all his works

And all his pomps and all his engines of death

And all his malignant servile orcs

Who crucify humanity with lies

 

We are both Marys, Nicodemus, Joseph of Arimathea

We bring the holy bodies of the sacrifice

To Your Garden Tomb; we await Your dawn

Baptizing with our tears this darkest night

 

We have nothing to offer in our desolation

Only our murdered children and blighted lives

Our brothers and sisters in Moses and Christ

Our mothers and fathers who were disappeared

The neighbor boy who played his tunes too loud

The pharmacist who tried to stop a tank

          With her fists

The traffic cop who gave us speeding tickets

MeeMaw in the bombed-out nursing home

Our cousins in the bombed-out railway station

Our brothers, they say, in some bombed-out trench

Ambulance drivers, nurses, physicians, technicians

Farmers, janitors, electricians, schoolgirls

Teachers, bankers, cleaners, grocery clerks

A woman cooking thin soup over a fire

Abandoned little house pets fighting over

A severed hand in the center of the road

 

Send them Your dawn, O Lord, Your Easter dawn

Send them Your dawn, O Lord, at long last - 

                                                                        dawn


Friday, April 15, 2022

We Have No Enemies Among the Dead - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

We Have No Enemies Among the Dead

 

For the Young Crew of the Moskva

14 April 2022

 

Eternal Father, strong to save,
Whose arm hath bound the restless wave...
O hear us when we cry to thee
For those in peril on the sea

 

           -The Navy Hymn

 

Proud admirals and presidents rattle their medals

 

The young - in screams among burst steam lines die

Explosions and darkness and seawater and hatches sealed

The bulkheads blown, there is no up, no down

Only pain and horror and throat-torn shrieks

 

Proud admirals and presidents jing-aling their medals

 

Training manuals, pocketknives, and comic books

Naughty pinups, letters from Mom, wrenches, and boots

Toolboxes, ball-point pens, and coffee cups

Fall with the young deep down into the sea

 

Proud admirals and presidents dazzle the room with their medals

 

Mothers and fathers grieve in emptiness

Our Leaders caution them to mind their attitude

 

Proud admirals and presidents – to Hell with their medals

Thursday, April 14, 2022

A Man with a Broom - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

A Man with a Broom

 

Leaving his broom in the corridor

He came into class and sat for a while

He was worried about anger management

He had shot up a nightclub after all

 

That was after his brother was murdered there

He gets out in twelve days, and he is worried

He has passed over half of his life in prison

He hasn’t seen his son in over nine years

 

He said he has learned to place God first

Some of it might be true

Wednesday, April 13, 2022

Flute Solo Through a Scratchy Record - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com 

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

poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

 

Flute Solo Through a Scratchy Record

 

From a tiny speaker in a tiny radio

From a broadcast fifty miles away

From a scratchy record some fifty years old

From the lips of a flutist no longer alive

 

An artist whose parents and teachers long ago

Spoke of embouchures and possibilities

Of lessons for however many dollars each

Saved from a job down at the shop or mill

 

And from the people, hardworking and strong

Someone worked those lives into a song