Thursday, January 9, 2025

I am a Ptolemaic - poem

  

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches for the Colonial Office

 

 

I am a Ptolemaic

 

 

There was a star danced, and under that I was born

 

-Beatrice in Much Ado About Nothing, II.i.349

 

 

This little world isn’t much, but it’s what we’ve got

Our Narnia, our Middle-Earth; it’s green

It’s green and blue and round, an almost-sphere

Fitted with all the ancient conveniences

 

Let the stars encircle us as a crown

And who will dare to say it is not so?

For we are commanded to grow this garden

By the light of the sun, and of faith and love

 

As Shakespeare might have said, this blessed plot -

This little world isn’t much, but it’s what we’ve got

"LA Fires Bring Art to a Halt" - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches for the Colonial Office

 

“LA Fires Bring Art to a Halt”

 

Hyperallergic: Sensitive to Art and Its Discontents

 

No.

 

A fire brings nothing to a halt

 

To the last respiration of the very last soul

And beyond: Art will live because Art lives -

 

A poet abandoning her car to flee for her life

Holds to her heart her notebooks in grocery-store bag

 

To the last respiration of the very last soul

And beyond: Art will live because Art lives

 

A trumpeter manages to save the mouthpiece at least

While carrying his child out to an ambulance

 

To the last respiration of the very last soul

And beyond: Art will live because Art lives

 

A sculptor’s eyes record a wall of windows

To be re-molded as life-filled windows of dreams

 

To the last respiration of the very last soul

And beyond: Art will live because Art lives

 

Firefighters wrestling a hose through smoke and heat

Are a choreograph of life against flaming death

 

To the last respiration of the very last soul

And beyond: Art will live because Art lives

 

An artist whose studio is now but smoke

Will stir ashes and water, and paint again

 

To the last respiration of the very last soul

And beyond: Art will live because Art lives

 

A little girl will write of her little dog

Her bestest pal whom she never saw again

 

To the last respiration of the very last soul

And beyond: Art will live because Art lives

 

In a shelter tonight an aging man

Will sing to himself the love songs of his youth

 

To the last respiration of the very last soul

And beyond: Art will live because Art lives

 

 

 

                                   then patch

 

a few words together and don’t try

to make them elaborate, this isn’t

a contest but the doorway

 

-Mary Oliver, “Praying”

Wednesday, January 8, 2025

“Now, Therefore, Write for Yourselves This Song” - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches for the Colonial Office

 

“Now, Therefore, Write for Yourselves This Song” 

 

 

-Deuteronomy 31:19 per Talmud at My Jewish Learning <community@mail.myjewishlearning.com>

 

 

“Nunc itaque scribite vobis canticum istud.”

 

-Douay-Rheims

 

 

What song will you write for the people of God?

Something from the Prophets or the Laws

A hymn for Mary, dancing in the spring

Or maybe praise for patient and protective Joseph

 

What song will you write for your own true love?

Gentle rhyming for the music of her gentle laugh

Iambics and meters her intellect to please

Birdsong sweet to limn her holiness

 

What song will you write for the world God made?

Matins for mist and mountain and flowered glade

Sunday, January 5, 2025

Epiphany Moved and Improved - The Magi Must Re-Schedule Their Arrival Time

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches for the Colonial Office

 

Epiphany Moved and Improved –

The Magi Must Re-Schedule Their Arrival Time

 

Whatever committee decides these things

Has chosen to shift ancient feasts about

For the convenience of the modern world

In scheduling meetings and interviews

 

Magi following a smart watch in the sky

The ostler wants the stable cleared by ten

King Herod tapping massacres on an app

Plough Monday must be reset to Tuesday next

 

Whatever committee decides these things

Is stricken deaf when the sacring bell rings

Saturday, January 4, 2025

Why Do They Say He was Tragically Murdered? - poem

  

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches for the Colonial Office

 

Why Do They Say He was Tragically Murdered?

 

Was anyone ever joyfully murdered?

Happily murdered?

Humorously murdered?

Gloriously murdered?

 

When at dusk a mist begins to rise

A sinister mist from across the fields

And you seem to perceive a malevolent being

Peering at you from the tree line dark

 

Yes, something is watching you

 

It is not God-banished Grendel from Beowulf

Nor is it Nesferatu creeping up to you

Or a Haunt arising from a long-lost grave

It is something even more grotesque and obscene:

 

                                            An Adverb

The Presumption in Wake-Up Calls - poem

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches for the Colonial Office

 

The Presumption in Wake-Up Calls

 

A wake-up call is but a manifesto

Retro 1968 but less literate

Demanding that the world pay attention

To the temper-tantrums of some middle-aged guy

 

Who knows all about guns ‘n’ bombs ‘n’ stuff

While the rest of us know all about raising our kids

Working 12-hour shifts, paying our bills

Building our lives, and taking care of each other

 

The rest of us have grown-up things to do

    The presumptuous waker-upper

Should ditch his childish ego and wake up himself

Activate Your Card Now! It's Easy! - doggerel

 

Lawrence Hall

Mhall46184@aol.com

Dispatches for the Colonial Office

 

Activate Your Card Now! It’s Easy!

 

‘Enry ‘Iggins, Tiffany in Calcutta, and my Cousins Down the Road

 

There even are places where English completely disappears -

Why, in America they haven't used it for years!

 

-Henry Higgins in My Fair Lady

 

California and council flats, aye, there’s the nexus

Great Britain taught the world English right and proper

But in hearing my cousins from Caney Head, Texas

I conclude that the Empire has come a cropper!

Reading the Room - doggerel

   Lawrence Hall Mhall46184@aol.com Dispatches for the Colonial Office   Reading the Room   I don’t know to read a room, but look – I’m stil...