To make something clean,
You
must understand
that something else
will have to become dirty,
leave a mark, a smudge,
a smear
elsewhere…
My mind keeps whispering
clean and purge
the pain
in the leg, the sciatic nerve,
the fearsome ache in the neck
and spine, and groin, and eyes
and take a cloth to the arm
and leave my mark there…
over
and over
again,
till
I am only ever
one
word
away from placing
a full stop
where a comma should be…
Ian D. Hall 2021
Two
plus two,
always had to equal
four…
There was no scope for imagination
in the certainty of this,
so my young mind
didn’t exactly rebel
at the rumoured threat
of attending Maths,
for like school uniforms
I thought
the instruction and lessons were a waste of my time…
but English,
now
there was a
craving,
because nonsense was to be admired,
and abstract and stream of consciousness
Forget your dictators,
the tyrants,
stern judges with white wigs
upholding
ruthless laws,
for there is no greater power
than the mother
who insists
on ironing their teenage
son’s jeans
before they leave the house
on a date,
whilst he stands
in his underwear,
embarrassed
and hopping from foot to foot,
his vulnerability in front of authority
on show.
Ian D. Hall 2021
Things I Miss After A Year Inside
I miss the taste of fish shop chips
and battered cod swimming
in salt and vinegar, and watching
the world turn past me,
for everything
is silent,
as the people make their way
down Church Street, Saturday
shopping bags in hand, smiles
painted, fixed and grinning
as Reds and Blues size each other
up and down the table, and I,
in ignorance listen to a song
as batter burns my lips.
The finest
book
I never read
was by
Darcy Sarto.
I
will never
read that book now
because
Darcy’s missing,
presumed dead.
Ian D. Hall 2021
I know
that I am
still capable of happiness, for last
night in a dream
I took
You
dancing, and as we jived
to the music,
you smiled.
Ian D. Hall 2021
Time
moves
so
quick
these
days,
I’m watching
icebergs melt in real time
Ian D. Hall 2020
Which was worse,
The American Army
assault weapon thrust in face
outside of The Pentagon
in the dog days
of August 2003, the soldier
demanding to know what I was doing,
or the snipes of the personal
critic, the locust
chirping in my ear,
wondering how I spend
my time, which is rightfully mine
anyway.
It came perhaps late in life
the urge to shut the door
quietly,
not with drama,
not
By late afternoon
I felt it might snow.
The crisp chill air
that breathed silently in Central Park
became sullen
as the
drop in temperature caused
a fed-up call girl
to smirk at me
and turn a cold shoulder
at my faded glory park bench
companion and I.
Studiously ignoring each other,
he in the middle
of humming a tune, repeatedly to
himself
as random messages and inspiration
were pulled from the ether