Tag Archives: poetry by Ian D. Hall

The Joke That Grew Into A Poem.

It is not

that well known

but during World War Two

I

took on German division

single handed…

not as easy

as you might think,

I am fairly useless at maths

and throw in

translating it into

another language,

well

I won’t give the answer away;

I won’t

die Teilung.

Don’t Buy Your Children A Map.

Parents,

don’t buy your children a map

of the world, an atlas,

and pin it up on upon their pristine painted wall,

the one you debated over duck egg and random

sunflower corn,

don’t let them see a plan

of a country far away, memorise

the city streets via an A to Z

and learn facts of towns

and villages that hold dark

enticing secrets, places of interest,

parents

do not let your children

write an old fashioned letter

or talk via electronic media

Small Talk.

I don’t feel comfortable

in the small talk,

it comes out

the wrong,

unhelpful, inconsequential

and full of near sighted opinions

that are

immovable, restricted

and deaf.

Give me

the big conversation, one of

depth,

one that can be easily followed

and can create

illumination,

loud voices of agreement

or of argument

but in which thankfully never comes

down to

asking someone

just how much their house

is worth

A Line On A Bicester Wall.

 

I leave a line of memory on a Bicester wall,

a remark, an admission of love

wrapped up in clothing of regret,

for these days I think of you

in sepia detail, like a long lost lover

who moved away without saying goodbye,

I feel bereft of Time,

for whilst I glimpse at you

in modern social media glory and those bitter

sweet postcards

sent by locomotive from

the steep bank of Bicester North,

I miss the haze of Sheep Street

now closed

Melancholic Memories As We Dance In The Shadow Of Balmoral.

In the light of day,

I see you,

spectral showers frame your skin

and the ghosts of our past,

silent, quiet, here

on the Scottish hillside

overlooking the future

with uncertainty  and framed by cold winters,

if only they had listened to our unspoken

warning, then we would have not heard

the quiet stealth of a killer

approaching us

from the skies.

In the light of day,

oh my darling, dance with me

as we become

blinded

and then,

much like our melancholic memories,

A Frank Admission.

…at this point

I’d like to admit

I am destroyed inside

and out;

for the knives in my back

have tore open wounds

I once hoped were closed,

it seems the stitching has come

apart

and now the hole is seeping

and fingers are prying,

poking and probing

to find a heart

already decayed.

 

Ian D. Hall 2017

Illuminated By Cinema Screen.

 

Illuminated by cinema screen

back light, their shadows

pestering the divide

of reality and make-believe,

they do their best to not spoil it for others

yet somehow their presence

is enough to destroy the artifice erected.

Too slow, they reason,

the actors have done nothing

for ten minutes, save eat a pie

and wear a sheet;

no patience some people,

bet they liked the sex scene

in the film before mind.

 

Ian D. Hall 2017

Amerikkka.

Well God bless Amerikkka,

for today some showed their face to the crowd

and reminded us that the fight

against Fascism is never over;

in the land of the free,

a home from home for me,

I now feel my stomach turn sour

as the grip of power

and turns to war in the East,

veiled threats in Venezuela

and good ol’ boys with short hair

and short fuses

march down the street, their aim

to prove surely how dumb they are.

Lady Liberty, close your eyes,

The Passing Of Britannia, As Told By A Steward.

 

When you show Britannia tears

She will comfort you, cradle your soul

and make everything alright, show her

the face of heroism, of remaining loyal

to her throughout life, of being faithful

in a world in which she suspects she has done

many wrongs, then her tears are for you

to respect and kiss away gently

as they run down the side of her cheeks.

Britannia is old now, my Queen still fights

on, I see the rage, I feel its heart as she lays down,

The Courage Of Teenage Conviction.

Where would I be now

If I had the courage of my convictions

as a fumbling teen, ready to shout

and flick a finger or two, doesn’t

matter about this and that,

I am going to go round the world

and write down all that I see,

it doesn’t matter about money,

I just require a sturdy mind

and the bottle to do it;

betrayed before I started

by the spine

which the Doctors missed

and the muscle of love and music of sweet

talking women.