Tag Archives: poetry by Ian D. Hall

Every Mother’s Son.

You used to put me on a train

departing New Street Station,

headlong through the day to Plymouth’s safe harbour.

I was safe

because I had you fighting my young battles with me,

and whilst I was not always appreciative

at the time, I never

forgot, I never allowed myself to fail

in your eyes and fought longer and harder

than I should have, just to never see

you disappointed in me.

It didn’t always work,

sometimes

I dishonoured your memory, sometimes I let you down

The Vicar’s Daughter’s Satanic Ritual With The Dead.

 

Illusion,

always sold as patriotism,

worse still when packaged

and stamped

by the Vicar’s daughter,

caught with her knickers down

and prepared to engage

in necrophilia

with the ghostly offspring of the grocer

and who is on the side

in thought

of a bitch whose mouth betrays

the evil in her heart;

this illusion we engage with

because it suits us, we keep just

on the side on respectability

because to sink further would betray

the fact that we like our two cars,

The Trouble With Political Pygmies…

The trouble with political pygmies…

 

I wish it was the start of an expansive joke,

the dig in the ribs,

the head back laughing,

the sly smile from a circumspect, normally

vigilant lady caught off guard,

the barman and the best friend slapping

you on the back till your spine hurts

and becomes bruised by morning

but it is all worth it as the laughter

sees the room united in contempt

for the butt of the joke

and in solidarity

to the one who supplied the punch line.

No, Not Tomorrow.

Tomorrow

I will not find myself wallowing in nostalgia,

I will not give in to seeing a sunshine bloom

where a dying rose sags

and slowly fades

away,

losing colour, curled up and closing in on confusion

of why it is no longer loved;

for tomorrow I will not disappear in melancholy,

why would I,

when I can do it beautifully

today.

 

Ian D. Hall 2017

Four A.M. My Front Doorstep.

Four  A.M. Tuesday morning,

not a time for the weary and dead

to be awake, a pregnant

pause

on the step outside my stone palace,

my brick inflicted mortuary

and a drag of my small but fast burning cigar,

the smoke burning my throat, but the taste,

the flavour at four A.M.  is a delight,

it conjures up images of battles won and victory

taken for a test ride, one not covered in the manual,

for my notebooks don’t have such validation,

I am not meant to win, I am not the kind of person

A Burnt Out Shadow On The Edge Of The Berlin Wall.

They promised us

when the Wall came down,

when the graffiti sprayed Berlin

and envious eyes stopped eyeing

what could have been, that that

would be the end of it;

there would be no more nightmares

as two suns fought for dominance

over European skies.

 

I believed you, I saluted the Greenham Common women,

I thanked in my mind the leaders

and whilst I knew there would always be war,

for after all Humanity is not humane

and as a species we are just dumb fucks

Never Trust A Man.

Never trust a man

who says

with arrogance or subtle manipulation

that his car is better than yours,

that it’s engine is more powerful

and full of the latest gadgets,

can go as quick as the Devil

collecting souls, or is a magnet for picking

up women; never trust a man like that.

 

Never trust a man who shakes your hand

and says with snide response,

and who are you again?

when they know your name,

who never once congratulated you

on doing something worthwhile,

This Obscenity Called MacKenzie.

 

The truth of it is,

that with his smug

insidious smile, his suits

that cost more than the Government

is trying to steal off the disabled,

off the poor, off anyone

but themselves,

his hatred, obvious and despicable,

his manner, rude, vulgar

and disrespectful to those

who call Liverpool their home,

their place of sanctuary,

and don’t forget if it was up to people like him,

none of you would be safe,

you would all feel his tarantula like offence

weave its web…the truth of it is,

The Piper Of Castle Street.

It was a far cry from the wail that finished off

any love I felt for the town

that nestled between drowning rivers

and the place where the white hart died

centuries before, running out of steam

on pastured land and from where

a rotten borough took place;

gentle snoozing town,

I was out of place, despite having

the strongest of connections

in a cottage in Peter’s Finger.

 

This hamlet market town, the piper of county

thought and woe betide country way,

never step out of place,

Where Is Hawkeye Now?

Where is Hawkeye Pierce now when we need him?

How’s that global warming now

as a terrible storm of winter

looks to

follow the

 damned and

the

 final sunset over Korea…

 

 

Ian D. Hall 2017