Category Archives: Poetry

Wait A Lifetime.

I would wait a lifetime

to kiss you, to feel that tender skin

now sweet with middle age

and soon to become lined, matured,

taken beyond the late teen I knew

to the world of womanhood

and with the next step,

Time’s next artistic breath,

near dust, near rust, near the echo of the youthful

freckled girl I once dreamed of;

I would wait a lifetime to kiss you

as it would show we had lived all our lives

in each other’s company.

 

Ian D. Hall 2017

Raven Black Cloak.

Up close

I cannot see the point,

I have become my own shadow

glowing with false fire

in the darkness;

tomorrow in the bright haze of sunshine

I will still spend my time

in that same comfort zone,

because that cloak raven black

is a friend to me.

 

Ian D. Hall 2017

The Old Man’s Forgotten Lover.

She met her old lover

on the street that night,

they ran into each other

by the corner of 77th and ‘Dam,

so she told me

and after much deliberation on her part

she found herself drinking a few beers

just out of kindness,

for she thought he was still crazy

though she still loved him

after all those years.

 

I wish I had met her lover,

I would have warmly shook him by the hand,

for in the way he dismissed her thoughts

An Hour Forward.

 

An hour forward, Time again slides its hands

down my back pocket and fondles for change,

urging me to deal with the loss,

to make up Time and have an account settled early;

I wasted the moment,

I slept instead of being productive,

the type of action that would have a black mark

put aside you in a Kangaroo court of law,

the sentence…

undisclosed for now,

be satisfied, let your gloriously white teeth gnash

and grind…but hey, stop

for a minute and chew on this,

Shelley’s Delusion.

It is dangerous

to be so deluded,

that the internet for all its good

and ability to show the world

just how we strive forward in unity,

should we wish, gives a platform

to one so

bound up in her own con trick

that she can even call Australia

a place which doesn’t exist…

this modern day Atlantis,

packed to the brim with spiders

that will kill you, with Koala Bears

that are riddled with Chlamydia,

Kangaroos that made Skippy a star,

That made Paul Hogan a star,

Battery Low.

The four in the morning

Buzz, the phone

lets out

 a dying squeal of save me

in electronic Morse.

The screen is lit up

for a moment

with the legend,

battery low…

I sigh and continue to write helplessly

with a million words in mind,

all running towards

Oblivion

and I think to myself,

it’s not a competition

but I do know

how you feel.

 

Ian D. Hall 2017

The Sound Of The Silenced.

I remember the conversation held

between the man in the stylish looking hat

and the woman who had asked him

about his inconsistent and doomed affair

and giving him advice on how to finish

with his lover; the fifty ways she mentioned

and whilst I only heard five that she recounted,

I hung around to listen further

as he pondered on how she would deal

with the same situation.

A moment, a second of silence

before she answered matter of fact,

“If all else fails Paul,

Ground Down Cocaine.

 

Ground down cocaine

derivative coursing through my early morning

veins, my dinner time blues and late night

saturated fat on old Jazz music

of which I cannot play a beat,

yet hear every note that the Sax man plays

in earnest down on 77th Street gun alley

where only the night before a man was killed for less

than murdering a rag time special

and looking at his killer’s broad

with a funny eye.

The late November sun catches my eye

and through the glass I take a look around the street,

His Full Stop.

 

We talked for a while, the great Detective writer and I

about his work, the meaning of crime

in the fields of Oxfordshire

and the bounty involved with novel murder,

between the pages,

in one sentence, the last moment of a book’s life

should be that the suspect is named

with a gasp and then nothing

else to follow,

with perhaps the damning of yet another

advert or list of books that the voyeur,

the seer of slaughter and unlawful death,

must own, at least