I watch the prom Dance,
In an awkward stance,
my friends walk in with dates,
and the excitement Abates.
Alone in a corner,
I mope like a mourner,
With no partner to dance with,
No gentleman to prance with.
Amidst the mirth and cheers,
My eyes fill up with tears.

I rush out into the open air,
And by Jove! I see Voltaire!
With his satirical charms,
He draws me in his arms.
As I sway to the beats,
I'm waltzing with Keats.
Causing my funny bone to arouse,
Enters P.G.  Wodehouse!
Using nonchalant wittiness,
He acknowledges my prettiness.
And then walks in Shakespeare,
Who  wipes away my tear,
And my senses curdle like curds,
As he showers me with words.
While I repress the excited child,
I'm swaying with Oscar Wilde.
I'm rendered helplessly mute,
With his phrases so astute.
With a proposal so verse-y,
I'm serenaded by Shelly  B. Percy.
And before this fantasy can spoil,
I fox trot with  Conan Doyle.

And thus literally seduced,
into putty I'm reduced.
I am platonic-ally smitten,
By the genius of what they've written.
The dating circus can’t make me cry,
because a host of paramours have I.

…These men are worth your tears:
You are not worth their merriment.

-Wilfred Owen, “Apologia Pro Poemate Meo”

When that loudmouth on the wireless machine
Alludes to Western Civilization
What does he mean? Paradise Lost? Probably not
Nor Saint Paul speaking on the Field of Mars

The Kalevala, Hagia Sophia
With its pendentives lifting up our prayers
Horatius fighting to defend his bridge
And Wilfred Owen dying bravely on his

Lord Tennyson and Idylls of the King
Chapultepec, Henry V, Becket
The paratroops at Arnhem, Saint Thomas More,
His King’s loyal servant, but God’s first

The Stray Dog poets of Saint Petersburg
The brave last stand of Roland at Roncesvalles
Lewis and Tolkien and glasses of beer
Montcalm and Wolfe on the Plains of Abraham

Hildegard von Bingen, Siegfried and the Rhine
Magna Carta, HMS Hood, the Thames
The Grove of Daphne, “The Old Rugged Cross”
Beatrix Potter and her little pet rabbit

El Cid, Anne Frank, John Keats, Saint Benedict
“I Have a Dream,” Dostoyevsky, and Greene
Viktor Frankl, Dag Hammarkskjold, and Proust
Good Chaucer’s naughty pilgrims telling tales

The Gettysburg Address, Willie and Joe
Stern Saint Augustine of North Africa
Wodehouse writing a jolly bit of fun
Saint Corbinian and Bavaria

The ancient glories of Byzantium
Pius XII contra the bombs and lies
The 602nd TD Battalion
Saint Joan, the Prado, and Robert Frost

And far, far more.

When that loudmouth on the wireless machine
Alludes to Western Civilization
What does he mean?

Disaster Preparedness Checklist**

Double-A batteries, a map out of town
A tank full of gas, a mind full of plans
A flashlight, toilet paper, a radio
A can opener and cans to go, go, go

Leather gloves and duct tape, whistles
Waterproof matches, and match-proof water
Blankies and ponchos and a change of clothes
A medical kit and a pocket knife

But

No one ever lists a box of cigars,
And a Wodehouse for reading by lamplight

Not much longer now before we and Keats
Must pack up all our impedimenta
Into a photocopier paper box
And after a Wal-Mart-cake reception – leave

No one will notice us, and that’s okay
Thomas and Frost will meet us with the car
Greene will suggest that we go for a drink
The designated driver might be Shakespeare

With Fermor beside him reading the map
Guareschi and Wodehouse laughing in the back
Lewis and Chesterton will bring the beer
And Leonard Cohen will adjust his hat

In God’s name we will sit under the apple trees
And tell merry tales of the lives of kings


          And whether we shall meet again I know not.
          Therefore our everlasting farewell take:
          For ever, and for ever, farewell…
          If we do meet again, why, we shall smile;
          If not, why, then, this parting was well made.

                             -Julius Caesar V.1.115-119

Hurricane Preparedness Checklist

Double-A batteries, a map out of town
A tank full of gas, a mind full of plans
A flashlight, toilet paper, a radio
A can opener and cans to go, go, go

Leather gloves and duct tape, whistles
Waterproof matches, and match-proof water
Blankies and ponchos and changes of clothes
A medical kit and a pocket knife

But

No one ever lists a box of cigars,
And a Wodehouse for reading by lamplight

Lawrence Hall
[email protected]  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                           Trousers, Gentlemen, Trousers!

          “There are moments, Jeeves, when one asks oneself,
            'Do trousers matter?'"

            "The mood will pass, sir.”

                     ― P.G. Wodehouse, The Code of the Woosters

Had you visited the post office today
You might have heard an elderly man say
(After opening his newspaper, by the way)

“Trousers, gentlemen, trousers”

For there in black and white, on the front page
Was pictured each and every schoolboard sage
Attired in shorts, in deference to the age

“Trousers, gentlemen, trousers”

While one appreciates our volunteers
Who serve our schools for free (let’s give them cheers)
The vision of old men’s legs must lead to jeers

Their veined and wrinkled knees – is this a tease?
“Trousers, gentlemen, trousers – please!”

I make my way through neon fury
Into a dizzying blur of heads
I think i see mountains in the distance
The darkness hides the concrete mounds from sight
Child imagination
For this night make them those mountains
From the time that your gait was free and your feet tiny

O Immortal night

Turn the gravel
Into the wistful green that cushioned my soles
Turn the amber of my room into a bonfire
let me look upon the city lights from the shelter of my tent

O Immortal night

Let Wodehouse laugh from beside my bed
And turn midnight fury into a wisp of smoke
Douse the embers of the day with the silver juice of the moon
While i rest at the root of the hibiscus that bloomed when i was ten

O immortal night
let me dip my quill and rejoice in the ink of your innocence
for the chatter of voices past fills my cave
from shelves they read out their favourite lines
as Blyton speaks to Shakespeare
and Dahl courts Woolf
their spirits high and their voices low

O immortal night
Let the tooth fairy knock on my door once again
Its been ages since i met her
Let the mystery of the future
Stir my soul
With millions of questions
Blind me with the succour of my faith

O immortal night
Lend me belief
In the sunlight of rhythm
While Belafonte spreads his warmth
Let the oil paints make a marble on my ceiling
And beckon to the stars
I am
Because you are

Narcosis wafts on the air
Pollinating the senses
Spreading dust on the years
Softening corners and edges
Disguising shapes
Until there is no point anymore
Nothing clear to be seen
But something pierced the skin

Wrecked witless and reckless
I have walked here all my days
In this land of rant and cant
Home of the brave and me
And I, the sentimental fool
Would keep the dream alive
Of gentle Wodehouse summers
And a myth of Christmas snow
Victorian values

Daylight is brighter here
So bright it laughs for joy
Dapple-dancing and doting
With no thought of cloud or rain
Not one word of unpleasant truth
No hint of hypocrisy
Here in Narcosis England
Everything is fine

                            By Phil Roberts

Lawrence Hall
[email protected]  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                                 A Prisoner’s Modest Dream

Some humorist on parade: “When the war is over…I’m going to buy a German and keep him the garden and count him.”

                    -Wodehouse in a German detention camp,
     quoted in Frances Donaldson’s P. G. Wodehouse: A Biography

When this is all over I pray for us
To sit in in my yard in some cheap Wal-Mart chairs
Each of us with a beer and a cigar
We could talk about the joys of fresh air

We could talk about our families and our work
And air-conditioning, and our home addresses
No longer A-43-Upper or B-24-Lower
We could sing about the Day of Jubilee

And give our voices and our lives to God
And there wouldn’t ever be a head count

Narcosis wafts on the air
Pollinating the senses
Spreading dust on the years
Softening corners and edges
Disguising shapes
Until there is no point anymore
Nothing clear to be seen
But something pierced the skin

Wrecked witless and reckless
I have walked here all my days
In this land of rant and cant
Home of the brave and me
And I, the sentimental fool
Would keep the dream alive
Of gentle Wodehouse summers
And a myth of Christmas snow
Victorian values

Daylight is brighter here
So bright it laughs for joy
Dapple-dancing and doting
With no thought of cloud or rain
Not one word of unpleasant truth
No hint of hypocrisy
Here in Narcosis England
Everything is fine

                            By Phil Roberts

Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]

                                     Weary with Dachshunds

                                   Cf. Shakespeare, Sonnet 27

With an improving book I go to bed
                    (as P. G. Wodehouse said)
And two improving dachshunds on my pillow
                    (as Wodehouse almost said)
They then begin their journey at my head
Wriggling down to my feet and back again

They slurple messily from my bedside glass
And crumple up my copy of Hercule Poirot
Neither slows: they lick my nose, they tickle my toes
And will they finally doze? Nobody knows!

But

When comes the midnight moon, then all in a cuddly heap
Their little doggie noses snuffle at last in sleep

Lawrence Hall
[email protected]  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                  Chuck Lorre is Shakespeare with a Laptop

Chuck Lorre is Shakespeare with a laptop
Bill Prady is Wodehouse at a whiteboard
Their Pasadena is the Forest of Arden
Or Totleigh Towers at a city bus stop

They have built for us an unfallen world
Of Woosterian plots and app-crossed lovers
At play in the laboratories of the Lord
Where the magic works but the elevators don’t

Chuck and Bill’s stories are always well-wrought
And they end each one with a provocative thought


(Nothing rhymes with “l’envoi.”)

Lawrence Hall
[email protected]  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

                            Okay, So It’s the End of the World

                “What do ties matter, Jeeves, at a time like this?”
                “There is no time, sir, at which ties do not matter.”

                                             -P. G. Wodehouse

Okay, so what if this is the end of our world
Windblown sands where Ozymandias once ruled
Or dying like Charn in The Magician’s Nephew
Pale and sere under a fading red sun

Let us not meet it pajama’d on a couch
Videogaming upon a telescreen
And suddenly marveling that the power has failed
As a moving hand writes across the skies

If the world is going to end today
Let us dress properly for the occasion

Oxymoron used frequently
Two words juxtaposing
Containing the opposite meaning
Etymology derived from Greek
Oxus and Moros
Sharp and stupid
Also an oxymoron

Commonly usage is unintentional
Appears paradoxical
Which Is a logical contradiction
A puzzle
Something to think on
Oxymoron is a figure of speech doesn't linger but gone

Used on people
To describe their characteristic
Cannot be used to describe a person
As it does not make sense

Used in quotes
Purpose to reflect
On purpose
As in not to neglect

Used in Advanced Science
Innovations with names that in English does not make sense
Virtual Reality
Is it a fallacy or advanced technology
Thin line to draw
Explanation difficult notoriously

Used in quotes
By great men like
Mark Twain.
Genius like Wodehouse
Visionary like Henry Ford
Mockingly by Bing Crosby
To Add Drama by Yogi Berra
Flavour to speech like Churchill
Unintended by Movie Moghuls

Lacking in knowledge critics will say
Percieved Comically
Some make you laugh hysterically
Adds fun to life
Usage An entertainment
No harm done

Act Naturally
Small Crowd
Clearly confused
Amazingly Awful
Only Choice
Farewell Reception
Commonly used
Not to get confused
Depends how much exposed
You are
To understand the context
In which it Is told

Tried my best
Leave the rest
To accept or not accept
To the person
At whose behest
I wrote this on request

Does this make me
A Smart idiot
Or a Stupid genius
For I shall be the happiest man alive
Even if I could drop dead
To get the approval
Even if it is negative
For everything is absolutely relative

Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]

                           Two Sovereign Remedies for Depression

Reading a few pages of Wodehouse at bedtime
Is like walking behind a dachshund at any time

Happiness

Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
Dispatches for the Colonial Office


             If the President of South Africa Were to Visit My Home


                               “The contingency is remote, sir.”

                                        -as Jeeves would say


If President Ramaphosa were to visit us at home

(I hope he would ask us to call him Cyril)
We would offer him cookies and coffee and tea
And the best chair in the living room
Does he like dachshunds and Wodehouse and Shakespeare?

If President Ramaphosa were to visit us at home

We would show each other pictures of our children
And brag about their accomplishments
I’d like for him to see my little garden
The cherry tomatoes aren’t quite ready, though

If President Ramaphosa were to visit us at home

(The bathroom is down the hall, second door to the right)
I would be pleased if he admired my small library
He might give us his favourite recipe
We’d give him a sack of blueberries fresh off the bush

When we wave President Ramaphosa good-bye
I hope he will remember us with fondness

p g wodehouse and
john betjeman made
life seem worth living
just to read them    ..