Category Archives: Poetry

Games On The Last Day Of Term.

The last day of anything

should be treated as though

it is a day for games, to emulate

the final day of term

in which the teacher, finally

acknowledging that she has exhausted

herself, gives up and lets the kids

run riot.

Parliament could play Buckeroo,

the appointed donkey

accounting for Government sins

as they try to explain

the difference

between a wheelchair, mental health,

a nurse’s salary and a nuclear bomb.

Athletic doping cheats,

at the moment of being banned

Old Punk Eddie.

There are days I remember

how old I am

and all that has gone,

floated down stream

and now poisons the oceans,

I remember the punk


waiting to jump Maggie

and take the self styled Iron

Lady down,

in picture form,


those memories

are the ones that

make me smile the


Ian D. Hall 2017

53 Bus, Big Beat (Texas Radio).

Their faces look down upon screens

as the 53 rattles to the touch

of two fingers of my right hand,

keeping tune with the song

rolling round my mind,

late night bus home, a few

stare my way and I allow the curl

of a semi smile to come to my aid,

lips spread wide and the fingers hit out

at the rhythm at hand,

it could be anything,

it might have been a local star

of beautiful seduction,

perhaps Thom Morecroft or dear sweet

Living The Dream.

People have weird dreams,

‘tis all I’m saying,

not making assumptions

but if my dreams are anything to go by,

that holiday home in the South

of France, sipping shelled grapes

and eating croissants for breakfast,

that expensive car, worth more

than the house they live in,

and still only capable of

listening to Classic F.M.

when the signal is weak;

they say, Living the dream,

I daren’t tell them mine,

having been seduced by glamour’s women

on my worn out sofa,

Hollywood starlet, fighting

Philip Hammond’s Backside.


You are paid too much,

money is too tight

for the public sector purse.

Only a politician with greed upon his mind

would suggest that a nurse, a firefighter,

a police officer or a teacher

is earning too much,

isn’t that a slap in the face,

perhaps it would have only been worse

for those devils who dare be public spirited

and do the jobs that others cannot do,

if Philip Hammond had bared his backside

to the news anchors

and the television cameras

Spitting Cherries At Old Trafford.

The black stitched cherry

being tossed down the pitch

is turned away for the deft quick single,

the sly look of happiness

on the batsman face as he outwits the wicket

keeper is all too evident

through my binoculars, purchased by my wife

for days such as this,

not a ship sailing on the edge of the horizon,

but to witness the glorious catch

of the fielder on the other side of the ropes, down

in the Noir of Third Man, one inch from a six.

Down Here Amongst The Mad.

Always here, among the mad,

the uneducated of history

who put on a uniform, a white sheet

between them and the same air breathed,

the crew cut hair do, close read this,

they have an agenda and you are not paying

attention closely enough,

they weren’t banished or defeated

when the mad moustache took his own life,

they are still here,

in the shadows, dressed as corporate,

tidy suits, pin badges

with Hi, I’m here to help, but always that agenda;

they might not march down Cable Street now

The Impotency Of Intimidation.

You have no power        not now,

veiled threats perhaps

sly digs in which my name


off your tongue, the kind of fascist

remark,     I expect from you

but only missing a number,  tattooed

on my skin.

Would you prefer I sank to my knees,


 Oh lordy master, please

don’t torture me so, don’t serve up me up

as example of your impotent rage,

for I see you for the weak and pathetic boy

that you are,                      ineffective

capitalist front, happy

to screw a person over

Seconds Out.

Seconds out,

round one,

her alarm goes off

and there is a groan of bitter regret

that for the working woman,

the work never seems

to get any simpler,

that the clock,

fascist timekeeper, harsh task master

is always an hour too soon,

just an extra hour,

one day to wake up refreshed and bunny like enthusiasm

as the dawn of a day missed is noticed;

till then, the silent anger of sitting

and talking Government speak

is the reason

she hates the clock.


My favourite boots, feeling worn

out underneath, a little tired but loved,

the cobblers

will always find a way to preserve

them for a while;

dropping them off at closing time

and with pair of bulk standard

trainers to sneak home in

standing by as replacement,

I got them to mend them once again.

Next day, the clock chiming Ten

in the market square,

I walked in to the shop

just in time to see

the cobbler ringing the till

and his fingers red from the pressure