Friday, September 13, 2024

My Grandfather's Hayfield - poem

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

My Grandfather’s Hayfield

 

From my own fields I can hear the band

The high school marching band, oom-pah, oom-pah

From several miles away, with merry songs

and merry cheers around the homecoming bonfire

 

That was my grandfather’s hayfield in my youth

Before the town and school replaced the past

The shaking baling machine compressing grass

Where the team captain gives his whup ‘em speech

 

I found a terrapin where the cheerleaders dance

From my own fields I can see my youth

The White Lady of the Well - a senryu

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

The White Lady of the Well

 

She visits at dusk

She’s watching you;

                                 turn around -

She’s just over there

Tuesday, September 10, 2024

For English Pick Up the Anglophone - poem

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

For English Pick Up the Anglophone

 

For English pick up the Anglophone

For French the Francophone

For others in Canada the Allophone

          (“‘Allo! ‘Allo!”)

For Mandarin or Cantonese the Sinophone

For Portugal the Lusophone

In Deutschland perhaps the Deutschesphone

          (or perhaps not)

And in Russia the Russophone

 

Please phone in, everyone

 

Because isn’t it wonderful -

So many phones, and each with a direct line to God

Monday, September 9, 2024

Li Po Writes to us from His Mountain - poem

  

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Li Po Writes to us from his Mountain

 

Li Po, “Ancient Air,” p. 84

A Book of Luminous Things, ed. Czeslaw Milosz

 

We read of the poets of China

In the days of the Golden Tang

In the time of The Gathering of Kings

When The Silk Road carried dreams

 

Government officials were the poets

And poets were the government officials

Who knew The Five Classics by heart

And wrote of China in Tang quatrains

 

They were writing to the Emperor

And now they are writing to us

Sunday, September 8, 2024

God in the Hands of Angry Sinners - poem

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

God in the Hands of Angry Sinners

 

As Jonathan Edwards did not say

 

How do they find so much hatred in their Book?

 

Why do they bind their scriptures and themselves

In anger, duct tape, and camouflage

Why do they raise high the AR and their fists

Instead of salvation and the Holy Cross?

 

Where do they find so much hatred in their Book?

 

Why have they abandoned the altars of Truth

For the flagpole idolatry of the pagan state

In coven-circles facing each other and a pole

Like Canaanites and their wooden Asherim?

 

Why do they find so much hatred in their Book?

 

If they would look beyond their own perimeter wire

They would see

A Maiden dancing

            In Galilee

For Booger-Dog of Happy Memory - poem

  

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

For Booger-Dog of Happy Memory

 

And for his pet human Max

 

The one absolutely unselfish friend that man can have in this selfish world, the one that never deserts him, the one that never proves ungrateful or treacherous, is his dog.

 

-George Graham Vest

 

His fuzzy little bed is empty today

His dinner is untasted, his water bowl full

Awaiting his ungentlemanly slurps

And his favorite toy seems lonely and lost

 

He will not claim space on my pillow tonight

Nor chase dream rabbits while cuddling with me

Nor lick my nose to wake me up at…

(Geez, Booger, do you know what time it is!?)

Leaping and barking to be allowed outside

 

He will not bound into the kitchen at dawn

Happily barking his joy unto God

Circling and snuffling for his breakfast treat

A bit of bacon or egg from a loving hand

 

Because his brave little soul has flown

To wait for me at the foot of that glorious Throne

Friday, September 6, 2024

Cleaning a Metaphorical Rifle - short poem

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Cleaning a Metaphorical Rifle

 

The Detachable Magazine Holds Ten Lines

 

There is no such thing as an unloaded word

And once a word has left the barrel it’s gone

You cannot call it back – were you sure of your aim?

Falling Into Truth - poem

   Lawrence Hall, HSG Mhall46184@aol.com                                                    Falling Into Truth   The fall of October’s leave...