Friday, February 21, 2025

You Were Dancing Up the Lane - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches for the Colonial Office

 

You Were Dancing Up the Lane

 

In an old lawn chair I sat and dozed

And felt amber dusk sealing the day

Though I was weary and my eyes were half-closed

I heard you – you, whistling a romantic lay

 

You were skipping barefoot up the lane

Your skirt all a-dance for your heart’s desire

O Lady-Queen of our happy demesne

With flowers for me, your most devoted squire

 

I awoke, I blinked – I was all alone -

The sun had set on us, many years gone

 

But I saw you dancing up the lane…

Thursday, February 20, 2025

The Church Garage Sale - doggerel

  

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches for the Colonial Office

 

The Church Garage Sale

 

(Although the garage sale is in the parish hall because there is no garage)

 

 

A garage sale is a rebuke to us all -

The metaphysical finger having writ

Turns now from that lost Babylonian wall

And points at us as if to scribe this bit:

 

Why did you buy these masses of junk at all?

Candy-Colored Canes in the Waiting Room - doggerel

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches for the Colonial Office

 

Candy-Colored Canes in the Waiting Room

 

In the waiting room: rows of colored canes

Aluminum canes for the weak of breath and gait

For us who suffer from imbalance and pains -

We also swerve who only sit and wait

Wednesday, February 19, 2025

I Believe in Love, NOW STAY AWAY - poem

  

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches for the Colonial Office

 

I Believe in Love, NOW STAY AWAY

 

In the tiny coffee shop all the tables were full

A man kept his table to himself

And would not acknowledge anyone

Defensive behind his deep-thoughts book

 

The rest of us shared our tables and space

Exchanging greetings, pleasantries, and thanks

Passing the cream and sweeteners and napkins around

All

Except for that one poor sullen man

 

On the cover was a drawing of a Christian dove -

His book was entitled I Believe in Love

Tuesday, February 18, 2025

Graveside Service on a Blustery Day - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches for the Colonial Office

 

Graveside Service on a Blustery Day

 

“The old order changeth, yielding place to new”

 

Tennyson, Idylls of the King

 

The widower assisted to his place

Mourners in unaccustomed dresses and suits

A bible, leaflets fluttering in the wind

And gangly teens unsure what they should do

 

February clouds roiling and boiling

Even the officiant’s words are blown away

Prayers lifted into silence by the wind

They may have fallen by the gravediggers’ tractor

 

Or were blown through the leaning chain-link fence

Into the deeply darkening Grendel-woods

 

But still – in back –

                                a boy and a girl shyly touch hands

The Problems with Self-Publishing - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches for the Colonial Office

 

The Problems with Self-Publishing

 

The problems with self-publishing are self-publishers:

“Everyone just loves my book; tell me what you think

It’s about my cousin who was a Navy SEAL

And then became a millionaire and then a priest

 

“He saved the nation from nuclear warfare

In a mission so classified that we can’t talk about it

(But he told me all about it, of course)

And then he saved souls and counseled with popes

 

“My book is inspired by the Holy Spirit

So read it tonight and tell me what you think”

Has All the Gold Been Stolen from Fort Knox? - doggerel

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches for the Colonial Office

 

Has All the Gold Been Stolen from Fort Knox?

 

Elon Musk encouraged to crack open Fort Knox and audit the gold reserves

-New York Post, 16 February 2025

 

President Musk will now make an audit

Of the gold in Fort Knox, down to the dime

But all he will find (he may have already caught it)

Is the missing TP from the covid time!

Go Ask Your Father - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches for the Colonial Office

 

Go Ask Your Father

 

“Go ask your father.”

 

“Go ask your mother.”

 

“She said to ask you.”

 

“Go ask her anyway.”

 

“Go ask your father again.”

 

“He said to ask you.”

 

“Well I told you to ask him.”

 

“It’s your mother’s decision.”

 

“He says it’s your decision.”

 

“It’s okay with me if it’s okay with your mother.”

 

“It’s okay with me if it’s okay with your father.”

 

 

That was always soooooooooooooooo annoying.

 

 

I wish I could be that annoyed again.

Saturday, February 15, 2025

Portrait of Monsieur Gaudry and His Daughter - a poem based on the painting

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches for the Colonial Office

 

Portrait of Monsieur Gaudry and His Daughter

 

For all Daughters and Their Fathers

 

Monsieur is dressed for a quiet evening at home

As is his daughter in her cozy white wrap

Leaning dutifully upon his shoulder as he predicts

With globe and maps the empires of her mind

 

The empires of her mind which she will rule

With subtle wit and work instead of war

With armies of thought and beauty and art and truth

To conquer chaos and set the world aright

 

This guardian of goodness in a little girl’s guise

(But inwardly, I think, she’s rolling her eyes)

 

 

“The Geography Lesson,” Louis-Leopold Boilly, 1812, Kimbell Art Museum, Fort Worth, Texas

Thursday, February 13, 2025

Each Kiss is a Distraction - a poor attempt at a senryu

  

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches for the Colonial Office

 

Each Kiss is a Distraction

 

While we weren’t watching

They might have declared war on Canada

We’d better check around

Watching the Rain Without You - poem

 Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches for the Colonial Office

 

Watching the Rain Without You

 

The rain is incomplete without you

If you were here we could sit on the couch

I’d put a Frank Sinatra on the machine

So he and the rain could sing to us

 

But especially to you

 

The rain is incomplete without you

If you were here we could lie on the floor

As I read the funny papers to you

And do you like good ol’ Charlie Brown?

 

But of course you do

 

The rain is incomplete without you

It misses you almost as much as I

 

Almost


Groovin' on Graveyards - a poem about the night shift

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches for the Colonial Office

 

The Graveyard Shift

 

At two in the morning everything is old

The hours, the work, the fluorescent lights

The air, the night, flickering computer screens

Even the freshly-made coffee in the break room

 

At two in the morning everything is old

The way the new guy snuffles his dripping nose

The cleaning lady’s mop bucket and its rattling roll

The snoopervisor’s totally fake good cheer

 

At two in the morning everything is old

“You’ll love the fellowship on graveyards,” I was told

A Penny Saved is a Worthless Zinc Disc Gathering Dust in a Drawer - doggerel

  

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches for the Colonial Office

 

A Penny Saved is a Worthless Zinc Disc Gathering Dust in a Drawer

 

 

“Feed the birds, tuppounds a bag…”

 

-as Mary Poppins did not sing

 

 

It seems that our last penny has been spent

We will miss the fakey copper glint

Our other pot-metal coinage should take the hint:

We do not have a stable governMINT

My Shakespearean Girl - sonnet

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches for the Colonial Office

 

My Shakespearean Girl

 

I woke in sadness that the dream had passed

But joyed that the vision had come at all             

To comfort me with happy memories cast

Into my sleep through moonlight on the wall

 

Through moonlight on the wall, through starlit sky

That long-ago world in our golden youth

When she danced as lightly as a butterfly

Through sunlit fields where all was truth

 

Through sunlit fields on her little bare feet

As gracefully as a leaping summer fawn

Or rhyme and meter when in verse they meet

In that magic hour whence breathes the dawn

 

In that magic hour we were once more

So very close to that opening door…

Saturday, February 8, 2025

A Dachshund Dreaming of Rabbit for Supper - DOGgerel

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches for the Colonial Office

 

A Dachshund Dreaming of Rabbit for Supper

 

My little Luna-Dog has a bad habit

Of chasing after her back-yard rabbit

 

But still let not your mind be troubled or fraught

With fear for that rabbit who is never caught!

Pirates to Starboard! - a poem about childhood

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches for the Colonial Office

 

Pirates to Starboard next to the Dairy Cows!

 

My neighbors’ field is low; it tends to flood

Their children sail their kayak as pirates bold

And laugh and splash upon the sloshy mud

Swallows and Amazons in search of gold

 

Most comfortable with our feet propped up

We old folks sit upon the porch all dry

Each an admiral with his coffee cup

And let the heavy monsoon pass us by

 

We too were pirates in our dreaming youth

We wish we still were – and that’s the truth!

Little Thoughts of God - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches for the Colonial Office

 

 

Little Thoughts of God

 

We are not some casual and meaningless product of evolution. Each of us is the result of a thought of God. Each of us is willed, each of us is loved, each of us is necessary.

 

-Papa Benedict, 24 April 2005

 

 

Our children play with little toy trucks and trains

Comb Barbie’s hair and then arrange Ken’s tie

They get fussed at for pulling the puppy’s tail

They cuddle up with kittens and Winnie-the-Pooh

 

Our children create worlds with construction paper

Discover Narnia in a new box of crayons

They get fussed at for writing on the wall

They squirm in church; they tickle Daddy’s beard

 

Our children love their chapter books (and us!)

“Is this a picture of a pirate ship?”

They get fussed at for asking soooooo many questions

“Daddy, will you read us a story now?”

 

Dear Lord –

 

Let our children grow up and make us proud

 

Dear Lord –

 

Let our children grow up

 


In 2022 firearms accounted for 30% of deaths in children 1 to 17

 

-Johns Hopkins Bloomberg School of Health

Annual Firearm Violence Data | Center for Gun Violence Solutions

Exposition Kills Poetry - poem & Exposition

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches for the Colonial Office

 

Exposition Kills Poetry

 

Most exposition is an imposition

Like the supervisor who shadows you

Babbling incessantly needless admonition

Blocking your work so that nothing gets through

 

Respect your verse, how it dreams, how it flows

Your poetry is your will, your work, your way

But if you have to explain it in prose

Your verse is left with nothing at all to say

 

Your poem is in itself your exhibition

Of art – so ditch the cluttery exposition

 

Exposition: 

So, like, you know, what I’m saying here is don’t talk about your poetry because that’s talking about work instead of getting it done and if you have to explain to the reader what your poem means you’re not allowing the poem to be true to itself and so why attempt the discipline of meter, rhyme, metaphor, simile, narrative flow, and the many other elements of poesy if you’re just going to repeat in prose what the meter, rhyme, metaphor, simile, narrative flow, and the many other elements of poesy should be doing if you have crafted your work with artistry as well as imagination because exposition implies that either you don’t respect your work and your reader or that you have been deliberately obscure in your verse which in the event is pointless because a poem is itself, it is supposed to communicate an idea, a dream, a hope and not simply flounder about as a soup of disconnected words in a sort of the king’s new clothes of deception which is patronizing and not clever at all because if a reader who is reasonably well read and understands an age-appropriate catalogue of literary, cultural, historical, and artistic allusion to make connections then you have failed the reader and, worse, failed your own attempts at poetic art.

Tuesday, February 4, 2025

Jim Croce and a Rainy Morning - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches for the Colonial Office

 

Jim Croce and a Rainy Morning

 

When the plane went down that was the end

Of telephone operators and bottles of time

But the electronics are kind enough to send

Good memories of when coffee was a dime

 

You really could mess around with Jim

If you knew your way around a chord

And heard his lyrics as a workman’s hymn

That spoke of art offered to the Lord

 

He gave us good thoughts through his guitar’s strum -

And, yeah, a wild moustache to back away from!

Monday, February 3, 2025

Forming a Committee Around a Car That Wouldn’t Start - doggerel

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches for the Colonial Office

 

Forming a Committee Around a Car That Wouldn’t Start

 

The engine wouldn’t turn over; the electrics were dead

We stood around the open hood, each scratching his head

 

1st Member:

 

“It appears to me it’s the dead battery

There’s no indication of a charge, you see”

 

2nd Member:

 

“I’m a college graduate, so I am smarter

Obviously the problem is with the starter”

 

3rd Member:

 

“There’s a smell in the engine, something tannic

And I should know; I’m a certified mechanic”

 

4th Member:

 

“I’m a knight of the road; I drive a freighter

Just let me at that broken alternator”

 

 

But none of our skilled efforts came to pass

Because no one had bothered to check

 

                        the gas

Saturday, February 1, 2025

The Bright Green Wheelie-Bin - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches for the Colonial Office

 

The Bright Green Wheelie-Bin

 

(Much Superior to a Red Wheelbarrow)

 

The wheelie-bin is pretty in its own way

Thick plastic moulded in ecological green

To be rumbly-dragged on garbage day

To the end of lane to grace our suburban scene

 

Very little depends upon the wheelie-bin:

Unpleasant household garbage on its rounds

The really useful stuff has been well dug in

The loam – potato peels and coffee grounds

 

But note ye well - this garden plot thickens

For we have sparrows and crows

but no white chickens

No More Pronouns, Then? DEI, Mr. Trump, and Mr. Shakespeare

  

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches for the Colonial Office

 

No More Pronouns, Then?

 

 

A version of Henry V, that, yea, verily, will offend neither the rightistas nor the leftistas

 

 

Few, happy few, band of brothers;
For to-day that sheds blood with
Shall be brother; be ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think accursed were not here,
And hold manhoods cheap while speaks
That fought with upon Saint Crispin’s day

 

Or better yet:

 

Few, happy few, band of siblings;
For to-day that contributes bodily fluid with
Shall be sibling; be ne’er so vile,
This day shall equalise even more equally an existing state of equality:
And persons in a subset of the United Rulerdom now a-bed
Shall think mildly disapproved were not here,
And hold personhoods cheap and so in need of therapy while speaks
That negotiated with upon the 25th of October

Do Dreams Fade Away at Dawn? Or Do We? - short poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches for the Colonial Office

 

Do Dreams Fade Away at Dawn? Or Do We?

 

Do dreams beyond the dreamer dream

The imagined lands from deepest night

In which we live and seem to love -

Do they exist at morning’s light?

It Became Necessary to Destroy the Constitution to Save It - poem

  

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches for the Colonial Office

 

It Became Necessary to Destroy the Constitution to Save It

 

-as an unnamed army major in Viet-Nam did not say

 

 

When old Rip Van Me wakes up each morning he finds

A world unlike the one when his nap began -

Who are these angry faces on great screens?

Why are there cracks in the Capitol dome?

 

Arrests and deportations, mobs with clench’ed fists

Grim armored vehicles patrolling our city streets

A presidential advisor hurling Nazi salutes

Personal loyalty checks within our surveillance state

 

When old Rip Van Me wakes up each morning he finds

A nation of madmen who have lost their minds

That Old Loudmouth at Every Meeting - doggerel

   Lawrence Hall Mhall46184@aol.com Dispatches for the Colonial Office   That Old Loudmouth at Every Meeting   You know him well, that untuc...