"lectern" poems
If wars were subject to a copyright -
Then candidates would have to pay a fee
Each time they appeal to the glorious past
When standing for the election, the proceeds
To fall like ****** weregeld on the dead
Who can never cash the checks anyway
If wars were subject to a copyright -
Then Hollywood movies should pay their dues
Whenever a bold, scripted commando,
Body-waxed muscles glistening with makeup,
Advances up Hamburger-Helper Hill
With a patriotic song on his lipstick
If wars were subject to a copyright –
The generals’ memoirs, the admirals’, too,
Would pay to lighten the blighted young lives
Of soul-fragmented lads whose pain and blood
Won the air-conditioned another star
And unctuous applause at the officers’ club
If wars were subject to a copyright -
The President would have to pay his bill
Each time he bangs the lectern for a war,
That glorious dux bellorum dux-ing
From the rear, while a squadron of pigs fly
Above, powered by pixie-dust and smoke
Dec 7, 2018
Dec 7, 2018 at 1:17 PM UTC
From this tree, they lynched John T,
for the crime of speaking
against slavery. Dead now, this spar
stands among Holsteins
in the pasture of a man
who figures we’re cousins somehow.
He, a midwestern farmer,
me, a California craftsman,
political poles apart
but blood is thicker than geography.
Ancient black walnut
hollowed by rot is tough to salvage.
Working together with chain saw
and wrecking bar we find a section
of solid core, and on the surface
a scar like a grinning face
where the branch broke off,
long gone one hundred fifty years,
the branch that held the rope
that swung John T’s three hundred and fifty
pounds of muscle and fat and bluster
until it snapped.
John T, who was the grandfather
of my grandfather, ran into the forest
where his best friend rescued him,
a man named, ironically, Lynch,
grandfather of the grandfather
of the man with whom I speak.
Thus, cousins — in the country way.
I’ll make salad bowls, I say,
wooden forks and tongs,
walnut plates, maybe even a tea set
for your daughter
who seems so outspoken,
so feisty and strong.
Tea set? he says, she needs a lectern!
So here it is.
The grinning knot on the surface.
Those holes in the side, from bullets.
Lead slugs. I dug them out.
Here, this cloth sack.
May she heft them in her fist.
May her words
fire like cannons
for freedom.
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 1:06 PM UTC
Mrs Merkel, fair and sturdy
Dour and doughty
High and mighty
Saviour of the sinking Euro
Female icon, Teuton hero
Stand up for our rights!.
Daughter of the old Republic
Proud and plumptious
Rarely bumptious
Quantum spousal and mechanics
Scourge of Grecian's and Hispanics
Onward from Berlin!
Lean upon the sturdy lectern
Softly spoken
Never broken
Deliver to the gathered masses
Words of warning and molasses
Deliver us from evil!
Target of the shocking Silvio
Chauvinistic
Almost mystic
While all things must come to pass
She's most certainly not a *******
Gott mit Uns!
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 1:16 AM UTC
THIS night has been so strange that it seemed
As if the hair stood up on my head.
From going-down of the sun I have dreamed
That women laughing, or timid or wild,
In rustle of lace or silken stuff,
Climbed up my creaking stair. They had read
All I had rhymed of that monstrous thing
Returned and yet unrequited love.
They stood in the door and stood between
My great wood lectern and the fire
Till I could hear their hearts beating:
One is a harlot, and one a child
That never looked upon man with desire.
And one, it may be, a queen.
1.3k
There isn’t much left of The Grange today,
There isn’t much left at all,
Only a charred left wing, I think,
And the odd, still standing wall,
The central Hall is a pile of ash
As it was, the day I left,
Sat on the back of the doc’s grey mare
As the Lady Mary wept.
It wasn’t supposed to end like this
On the day of the wedding ball,
Balloons and streamers hung from the roof
As the marriage carriage called,
Annette stepped out like a fairy queen
In her ****** white, and lace,
While Reece, the Groom, in the wedding room
Had a smile on his handsome face.
And I led the Lady Mary in
To the mother’s pride of place,
I only had eyes for her that day
As she walked with a widow’s grace,
It wasn’t a secret, I yearned for her
But this was her daughter’s day,
So I was content with the hand she lent
For she squeezed, along the way.
The priest stood up by a lectern as
The guests all prayed and knelt,
To bless their way on this wedding day
I’m sure it was truly felt,
But Mary’s brother-in-law was there
With an evil look in his eye,
He’d wanted to claim the Grange from her
Since the day her husband died.
‘The Grange belonged to my family,’
He’d say, ‘and I want it back,
You only married into the place
When you wed my brother, Jack.’
He made an offer, but she said no,
The Grange had become her home,
‘You sold your part to Jack at the start
Before you went off to roam.’
But Douglas, he had an evil mind
And his countenance was stern,
He said if he couldn’t have The Grange
Then he’d rather see it burn.
He’d brought three barrels of gunpowder
Unseen, but out in the yard,
He chose this day to make Mary pay,
We should have been on our guard.
The guests were all engaged at the front
When he wheeled the barrels in,
It takes a mind of evil intent
To imagine this kind of sin,
Annette had lifted her wedding veil
And raised her lips to the groom,
When all hell suddenly came to play
In the depths of that wedding room.
The hall was full of the screams and cries
Of those who lay on the floor,
While I picked the Lady Mary up
And carried her out to the door,
It was there we saw the bride, Annette
Who’d made it out to the porch,
The groom was dead, but the bride had fled
As her dress went up like a torch.
There isn’t much left of The Grange today,
There isn’t much left at all,
Only a charred left wing, I think,
And the odd, still standing wall.
But the Lady Mary married me
In the wake of all the strife,
Her daughter’s gone, but our love is strong,
And Douglas is serving life.
David Lewis Paget
Jul 4, 2015
Jul 4, 2015 at 7:14 AM UTC
Taxi from El Alto spirals towards the clogged streets
A thousand metres down from hell to high-rise
Thanksgiving in America a daily struggle in Bolivia
Street lamp effigies signal certain death to thieves
Two bodies on road surrounded by yellow tape
Hombres sleep-like stillness an uncovered curiosity
This morning neither knew it would be their last
Fifty police listen to chief behind mahogany lectern
Death brings them 15 minutes of news-time fame
Cars and peasants pass by with unheeding speed
Is death the end or just another part of life in La Paz?
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 9:35 AM UTC
I was in my chemistry class (lecture #2) and the professor was asking a series of questions. At first, hands were flying up, the answers were easy. But as questions got more complex, and the odds of being right fell off, confidence and raised-hands faltered.
I sit the front row because I film the lectures on my iPad, and there I was, doing my usual bit - taking detailed, color coded notes. If the lecturer mentioned something, I noted it, with my #5 mechanical pencil, but that something could become a heading or a bullet-point in a larger tableau. Those, I would color code with one of several gel pens - tracing carefully over the pencil. Later, in review, I might hi-lite these points with neon, phosphorescent highlighters. (I have a strict color coding system).
I tell you all that because it describes how focused I get on my note taking in classes. I don’t usually interact much due to my filming.
Suddenly, I noticed an unusual hush. I looked up and realized, to my trauma, that the professor had addressed me. He was looking fixedly at me, bent over with his hands on his knees (he’s on a platform).
“Pardon?” I said, meekly.
“Don’t just mouth the answer,” he repeated (apparently), exasperatedly, “say it out loud!”
I thought back to his last question and I offered, “Magnesium nitride,” but he tilted his head like he was waiting for more, “gave off ammonia as it mixed with the water?” I finish the answer like a question.
“Exactly!” he said, standing back up after giving his knees a little slap with his palms. “Thanks for JOINING us,” he says, and after checking his seating chart on his lectern, he added, “MS. Vionet.”
I took a shocked umbrage at this (scolding?), my whole body turning a defensive, atomic pink. What did I do - I thought - why was he being so sassy with me?
I doubt he REALLY wants answers just called out.
It might be a long year.
Sep 7, 2022
Sep 7, 2022 at 12:45 PM UTC
If Wars were Subject
to Copyright
If wars were subject to a copyright -
Then candidates would have to pay a fee
Each time they appeal to the glorious past
When standing for the election, the proceeds
To fall like ****** manna on the dead
Who can never cash the checks anyway
If wars were subject to a copyright -
Then Hollywood movies should pay their dues
Whenever a bold-scripted commando,
Body-waxed muscles glistening with makeup,
Advances up Hamburger-Helper Hill
With a patriotic song on his lipstick
If wars were subject to a copyright –
The generals’ memoirs, the admirals’, too,
Would pay to lighten the blighted young lives
Of soul-fragmented lads whose pain and blood
Gave the air-conditioned another star
And unctuous applause at the officers’ club
If wars were subject to a copyright -
The President would have to pay his bill
Each time he banged the lectern for a war,
The glorious dux bellorum dux-ing
From the rear, while a squadron of pigs fly
Above, powered by pixie-dust and dreams
Nov 10, 2017
Nov 10, 2017 at 5:10 PM UTC
The twelfth house was deeply marred
As of a forgotten ancient museum
Echoing the words of my kinswoman
Like a dusty book on a lectern
Whence part of that time it is of one
And part of that time is of other
When the Sun leaves me and enters in you
Then the season changes like feeling
Partly winter and partly spring
We are but fishes in a shallow marshland
Tied together on our suckling mouths
With rotten love and golden thread of stars
We are but the saints of the vernal equinox
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 1:55 PM UTC
He died...
Truck slammed into
An off-road approach,
Thrown clear,
Head folded back
To touch his spine,
Bruised and scratched,
But unable to breathe,
Unable to bleed.
No longer able to regret,
He made no attempt
To take a long look back....
No use reminding him
The futility
Of driving drunk,
Even in celebration
Of graduation;
No need to send
A congratulatory card...
No need.
The Monday after,
I stood in a classroom,
Hands upon the lectern,
Voice tense and low....
"Don't ask me to cry
At your funerals
When you die
This way....
"I spend too much
Life and love in my students
To waste my tears,
To howl in rage,
To whimper in disbelief,
To wrack myself with grief."
The class sat,
Numb as I...
Until they saw me
Cry.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 11:17 AM UTC
In a darkened church
hard by the dusky nave,
a brass lectern’s perched
with blue Chi-Rho engraved.
It faces to a reddened west,
its golden sheen aglow,
by light of candles blessed
as darkness ’round us grows.
Above the tall stone spires
dim stars come peeping out
to shine down on the quire
and the small knot of the devout.
We few sit as the gloom
grows deeper all around
and let ourselves be not consumed
by the chaos that abounds.
Once our Evensong is sung
for our time that slips us by,
a last brass bell is rung
as we hope for dawn’s reply.
Oct 20, 2024
Oct 20, 2024 at 5:05 AM UTC
Whenever I ride in the countryside
On the further side of the hill,
I can see the new church steeple, rising
Over the fields and rills,
Then I venture down to the valley, on
The Little Newhampton side,
And see the wreck of the ancient church
And remember the day it died.
Its blackened stone lies wide to the sky,
Its rafters lie in the nave,
If God was passing that fateful day
He thought it too late to save,
The lightning bolt that shattered his cross
Went on to set it on fire,
The lectern, pews, of Reverend Buse
Conspired to burn on his pyre.
They found his skull, all covered in ash
But the rest of him had gone,
Had flown his soul with its blackened wings
To a feast on the Eve of John,
He was known to hold a Satanic Mass
On the night of the Witches Moon,
But the Bishop’s men were hard on his track
And would have defrocked him soon.
His congregation was always sparse,
For the good folk stayed away,
They’d heard strange rumours of what went on
With the Squire, and the Widow Hay,
They locked themselves behind cedar doors
And called on the god of wrath,
With lighted candles, inverted cross,
Laid out on the altar cloth.
The evening of the lightning strike
The leadlight flickered and flashed,
And screams rang out in the early hours
As a black cat hurried past,
For then the windows had glowed bright red
To herald a presence there,
While a deep, loud gutteral voice rang out
To foul and corrupt the air.
‘Where are my churls and underlings,
My troglodytes and my trolls?
Tonight is the night of sundering
Each evil heart from its soul!’
The Squire burst out, made a run for it
And tried to leap on his horse,
But the old black mare took him back in there,
And somebody slammed the doors.
And that was when the lightning struck,
It flashed, and shattered the cross,
The blazing roof came tumbling down
And the Widow Hay was lost.
They never found the Squire or his horse,
But I think that’s just as well,
They’re probably roasting chestnuts, down
In the seventh circle of Hell!
David Lewis Paget
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 4:27 AM UTC
un breloque,
a novel,
un tonique moitié plein
sweet chicory; wild,
a japanese maple
a lectern, a candle, a pendant;
lent
waves bring in water that melts the cement
holy
holy a lordy sing me poormans-hymn
nothing is true when nothing is not
to is is to be is to know now,
you see?
holy
who what is and who is what's not
this is truth spread out on loaf
this is riddle to a rhyming oaf
never simply,
holy
from highest heaven to lowest vale
carry the sound like an orchestra,
a procession of violent brasses rising…
Oct 31, 2019
Oct 31, 2019 at 12:20 PM UTC
Their natural habitats vary widely, as they are an adaptable lot:
Sometimes a sufficiently surreptitious booth in a bar on the main stem,
Poring over a gaggle of Racing Forms,
Perhaps a convenient light stanchion
Just inside the track’s main gate,
Maybe even behind some lectern
Fronting some staid, stately stained glass,
But, in any case, a tout is a tout is a tout,
Their dissertations and dissection of speed ratings and other holy text
Promulgated as gospel truth
(Albeit tinged with a sotto voce touch of the disclaimer,
That nothing can shake its author’s faith
As long as the weather is clear,
The pace not too frantic over the opening quarter)
Though the nuances of sacred writ lead prelate and pundit
To come to quite opposite conclusions as to the race’s outcome
(Indeed, the disagreements can become quite heated)
Leaving the wagering public with little more to do
Than clutch sheaves of pari-mutual tickets
Close to their chests in the manner of rosaries,
Knowing that as their favored mount
Makes its way to the paddock for that final time,
It’s all too likely the tote board will flash “INQUIRY”
In grave and portentous typescripts.
Dec 15, 2016
Dec 15, 2016 at 1:19 PM UTC
From dried souls
comes singed words
falling in ashes of barren meanings
scribes of cloudy sky
the warped oracles
offering parables from glazed sands
tardy ivory heads
in misty ivy dew
veiling the tower of Babel's dry tongues
in epoch of dunces
the age of lunacy
manias at lectern dance selves parodies
devoid of the ironies
Apr 10, 2022
Apr 10, 2022 at 8:24 PM UTC
If wars were subject to a copyright -
Then candidates would have to pay a fee
Each time they appeal to the glorious past
When standing for the election, the proceeds
To fall like ****** weregeld on the dead
Who can never cash the checks anyway
If wars were subject to a copyright -
Then Hollywood movies should pay their dues
Whenever a bold, scripted commando,
Body-waxed muscles glistening with makeup,
Advances up Hamburger-Helper Hill
With a patriotic song on his lipstick
If wars were subject to a copyright –
The generals’ memoirs, the admirals’, too,
Would pay to lighten the blighted young lives
Of soul-fragmented lads whose pain and blood
Won the air-conditioned another star
And unctuous applause at the officers’ club
If wars were subject to a copyright -
The President would have to pay his bill
Each time he banged the lectern for a war,
That glorious dux bellorum dux-ing
From the rear, while a squadron of pigs fly
Above, powered by pixie-dust and smoke
Mar 22, 2018
Mar 22, 2018 at 7:35 AM UTC
The church is still there
at the end
of the narrow road,
the high hedgerows
and the vicarage
remain pretty much
the same,
but you are not,
for you lie
in another place
of rest than this,
although I don't
know where.
The inside is as it was,
the choir stalls
where we sang
all those years ago,
are as they were
although seeming smaller,
the ***** is silent now,
but still where it was
when the semi-deaf
organist played back then.
I look around me
as I stand;
the same smell
old churches have,
coloured light
through the windows,
the lectern
where the vicar spoke
(sometimes too long),
and the wooden pews
where the aging
congregation sat
and listened
or fell asleep.
I walk around
the church outside
and pass old tombstones
aged by time,
cross the small
wooden bridge
where we once stood
and watched the water
pass below or kissed
in moonlight after choir
before the ride home.
I stand alone now
and you elsewhere,
cancer's hold took you down
your brother said,
that time he met me
in the town,
sometime after.
I hear birdsong
and wind in trees,
but not your laughter.
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 6:43 AM UTC
Nocturnes narrating awkward remembrance,
steadfast, stoic in the house of God,
fragile, childhood memories still whisper,
boys, displaying cultured monotone respect,
despite blatant hypocrisy and emotional neglect,
disparity of memory, underlying tension of conflict,
rehearsed eulogies, gripping the old oaken lectern,
orations, borne of duty, incongruent and painted,
with the brushes of Munthe and Gibran.
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 7:26 PM UTC
in body whose white lectern
turns
fragrantly to
dust
, i will carve
a notch deep
into your *******
snow fingers and
dove hands of
love cruelly which
i cannot unmake
my lips for .
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 9:44 AM UTC
Once
before this day began and I knew everything, where everything was in its place, labelled, facing in a line and behind the bottles of red wine, hidden from the fractured eyes of linguists who disguised as spies would entertain me to the thought that if I carried what they brought, the alphabets that we were taught would become redundant,
Oh, fractured eye why spy on me?
I am a lectern on a sea and slowly drowning, can't you see?
Oh, fractured eye why spy on me?
Now,
a million years ago,
I know that I know what there's not to know
which is everything that Mother should
have told me.
Family.
Mar 29, 2015
Mar 29, 2015 at 11:01 AM UTC
Solemn ghosts sat reluctant
Aligned in neatly established rows
Facing the lectern of the unknown
Knowing that He who stands
Would soon cast judgement
Upon the hapless souls unchained
The prideful priest boasts purity
Trailed by flowing robes He strode
Standing tall, bright light glowing
Entering the sober hall of mourn
Crossing the pews of onlooking orbs
He prepared to sentence the dead
"The time is now to show your worth
In this life for the next
Though you sit quietly content
Beyond this hall you will repent"
The hall began to tremble
As the priest gave His command
The silence of solemnity
Quickly replaced with an eagerness
To move at His behest
Together the ghostly souls went
"Bright are the lights of few
It is plain to see
The moral life you once knew
Will now continue into eternity"
One by one the brightest of them wept
As they vanished in a flash
Until the final light stood in contrast
Against the inky orbs of fiends
It's glow beginning to pulse
Refusing the priest his past
"Curious you are my wayward son
To deny your Lord privy
Into that brilliant life you led
Makes one consider if you're really
,Truly,
Dead"
A violent ripping began to sound
The hall then began crumbling
Falling to pieces on the ground
For within that final light
A demon the priest had found
Speaking in dark rolling tones
To the wicked souls around
"This man lies to you
For you are not truly dead
Everything you see and hear
Is all inside your head
Stuck inside this holy dream
Of all the ******** you've been fed
So wakeup now and return to your life
And the comforts of your bed"
The hall fell with a sharp retort
BANG!
I awoke panting and covered in sweat
Thankful for the light of morning
Aug 10, 2017
Aug 10, 2017 at 10:37 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
Sean Spicer Never Metaphor He Didn’t Like
Walk back those Spicerian goosesteps, dude
(And while you’re there, unblame the Russians)
Similes using ****** are always rude
And now you’ll suffer Tweeter concussions
Cops will drag you away from your lectern
Like that screaming fellow aboard the plane
And make each reportorial neck turn
Heads swiveling to see where you’ve left your brain
Blame everything on the Russians? You bet!
It must be true; it’s on the GossipNet
Apr 12, 2017
Apr 12, 2017 at 7:24 AM UTC
Once again, September has come.
And just like that, the air thickens
Like the year before this
And the one before that.
Only this stubborn September
Marches in heavy-footed, loud-mouthed
Like a fascist on a podium, claiming comic Uncertainties behind a lectern
For the hopeful to hear —
The wide-eyed, rose-colored seekers.
We are silver bobs hanging on a wire,
Stricken by Achilles himself.
It is December soon.
By then, our ankles will be sore,
Our heels pierced,
Our pockets empty.
The arrows come shooting
Like eagles on a mission,
As we swing endlessly
Back and forth,
Suspended from a fixed point —
Praying that time,
Hoping that gravity
Makes the clacking stop at once.
Aug 31, 2021
Aug 31, 2021 at 10:58 PM UTC