Category Archives: Poetry

Against the Graffiti.

Against the Graffiti,

she stood out like a Renaissance painting,

a heroine of the new Maltese dawn

and the hint of classical features

that delivered the final sermon of the day.

This heroine smiled broadly

as her words floated in the Valetta night

time breeze, hanging

in the air, as vibrant as the thunderstorm

clouds racing the mopeds round the

streets in time

to this Maltese songbird’s

thoughts and aspirations

of providing culture

in The Pub.


Against the physical Graffiti,

slang driven poetic phrases

A Bully You Became.

It was your arrogance

that tipped me over the edge,

then I realised you had been

goading me into the wall

all along,


me further away from you, pushing

me away from our once romantic past

and making me want to see you with

eyes of exasperation and the sound

of mercy forever

hanging on my lips;

this you found easy, a playground bully

you became, spoilt, incessant in your words

and what for, to keep proving a point

on how you were a survivor,

Another Night Out (Missed).

Another night out missed, a gig this time,

a reason to get up and go, gone

as I battle stomach ache, as I battle anxiety

and the what ifs and what thens

of future interaction, of needing to hurry

to a place of sanctuary during the night

just to feel relief; it is not part of who I am

but what I have become, having to think

about where I am at a certain time

and can I be trusted to make it through

a set list, a meal out with the wife,


We see everything but notice nothing

because our senses have become dull,

mismanaged and turned inside out

in the search of a quick thrill,

the gluttony of knowing it all

but leaving wisdom

short of breath and dying of chest pains,

acute and short panting, slowly fading,

wisdom heart attack, over fed,

over saturated and goose fat waddle,

we see everything, including music,

we have adapted to listen with our eyes

and not with our ears;

our eyes bigger than our belly,

it is no wonder we are culturally

Homeless Poetry.

They would not give me credit

for the funds I need

to create the books

I wish to see breathe.

It seems

I have no


to write poetry,


and homeless words;

they tell me

they cannot give me financial


as I am quite obviously suffering


no fixed ode.


Ian D. Hall 2017

Another Birthday Blowing Out Candles.

Another birthday has come and gone,

try to stretch out the party beyond the

sixteen hours awake, four of which are filled

with everyday insanity,

how can cleaning your teeth,

washing your face,

drinking a cup of

breakfast tea to wake you up, to be rid

slumber and sneaking drowsy

be special , when you do it every day.

The birthday has come and gone, abiding memories

which have to last until the following year

and by pass Christmas and the dry roast

and the gluttony on offer

A Lime Street Station Serenade.

The crowds take up their positions

on the swept clean concourse

of Lime Street Station, the ballet, the rumba,

the strains of the Viennese Waltz ,

the mad dash of front seated desire, four seats

and small squeezed in table,

the clock

high upon the wall and dominant,

the band master ready to blow the whistle

and the dance begins;

slowly at first, hesitant to let go of the one they love

and who will love them till they get home, the dance forgotten

in a heartbeat of half remembered waves goodbye

The Night Off.

I took the night off,

for a while I allowed myself to hear words

but not concentrate

on watching the eyes,

the soul man, I stayed

away from the soul and

I took pleasure in staying out

of the emotions;

even my own words

were perhaps delivered without the same

fire and brimstone longing,

the same damnation in my spit and looking across

to see the Devil judging,

mocking my every words, his tail

poking out from underneath the table

and chairs and balancing a single shot

On Hold

On hold,

such a time to be had

falling for a tune

you would normally hate

but somehow feel close to

by the time the representative

from the company

decides it is time to talk down to you,

on hold…

on hold…

imagine if the everyday was the same

as calling, losing patience

with patience, the man on the end of the phone,

just hanging, shoplifting music

buzzing in the open air, still and jaunty,

designed to keep you upbeat, intended

to cause thoughts of mass destruction;