Category Archives: Poetry

Kintsugi Tupperware.

You are the gold

that is injected

into my tired and weary veins,

but still

 I feel

that my cracked

and broken

soul will never be

anything

other than Tupperware

in a dishwasher;

orange stained

from overuse and

un-washable

sauce deeply imbedded into my plastic

lid.

This Way Comes Geoff…

What if we have been mispronouncing the Grim Reaper’s name wrong for all of humanity’s time on Earth.

What if early humans were visited by the figure in black, the scythe held ungainly in the air as the imminent passing of the person was announced, and they asked of this stranger with the power over their very life, “And what do we call you, veiled outsider, so others may come to fear you; please say it aloud to my brethren so they may pass on your hallowed name as a warning…”

From On High they Swoop.

White beaked Messerschmitts

take vantage position

on the decaying church roof

as they crowd and wait

with piercing eyes

the early morning frenzy

of laid down black bags

the parcel corpses of the bread,

too far gone for morphine,

and they attack on mass.

The streets are filled with caw bullets

sprayed

and laughed by brains

so small

these creatures of the air,

and yet they know

our habits,

Your Presence.

Your life, in pictures,

is a reminder

of how I feel about You.

You are beside

My working desk,

You overlook me,

as I stretch and yawn

in the middle of the night, you

as a child

when I had to leave,

You

as an adult that has made me afraid…

Your presence

has filled me with love,

and it has driven me

to question, to anger, to fear…

I miss you always,

Scenes From A Black And White Photograph: The Sandcastle.

A memory of childhood

sets with the sun on a desolate beach

as whispers of tall grass watch over

forgotten sands

where once heavy footsteps danced

around fires and final beats of

misheard laughter, song lyrics, and confused

buckets are tapped down and moulded

into shape of turrets and invisible guards

keeping the sea and swooping bitter seagull alike

at bay.

The sands now brushed clean

by March gales, April showers

and October winds.

We were never there, just a blink

Fear Of The Calm.

The quiet

was deafening.

The silence

roared in my face

as the workman

signed off

on another job,

smiling as the payment cleared.

In fear of the calm,

the hammer and nail

withdrawn,

I turned on the radio

to thunderous applause

only to understand

that the sound

was just static,

unstill, crowded white noise

and not the end of a concert

that I had missed.

Ian D. Hall 2022.

Every Morning

Sometimes I open the blinds

to witness the dark at four o’clock

in all its stillness.

But more often than not I keep

them closed, till the Sun insists

its alive and well, screaming

into the darkness that becomes

a whisper of joyful light by the time

it reaches my ears…

and yet every morning,

long before the birds

see the march of time and early worms

I question whether 

I should continue,

every morning I ask if you

A Brief And Final Farewell From The Red Haired Girl In Bantry.

Listen my love

As you take my hand

As we walk gently to the town’s fair

I can no longer love you

in the way that you wish

under Wolfs Tone’s marbled stare.

You see my Ma thinks that we have

no future together

and I’m inclined to agree

for I seek a different life sailing the sea

beyond our small life

here in Bantry.

So she said her fond farewells

his face drowned in tears,

and the taste of bitter salt