Tag Archives: poetry by Ian D. Hall

The Pain Of Google Mapping.

I hurt myself last night,

indirectly, in the harsh light of a 20 watt shadow

but instead of beating myself up

and seeing people who have wandered

in and out of my life,

their times and happiness running

through my head, I chose to quieten

them all by looking at Google Maps

and the places where my own happiness

briefly

once stood like a monument

in a desert occupied by barking dogs

and rivers

damned up long ago.

Never trust Time

to stand still for you,

Bee Stings, Snake Bites And Nuclear Warfare.

The sharp pain, numb

after a fashion,

hit me like a snake bite,

a bullet from a concealed gun,

digging away into my head,

yet somehow keeping me alive,

forcing me to recognise this new

possible threat,

a moment to join the rest

of the doses

of passionate warfare

raging, skirmishing,

full blown nuclear assault,

in this tired, deserted body…

I could tear an advert free

stained white T-shirt in half

and wave it above my head, frantically

calling out, “Don’t shoot, I am

A Message From Pittsburgh.

A message from Pittsburgh

opened tentatively, a friend’s

smiling name searching across Time

and the glittering remains

of the Atlantic Ocean,

one crossed between us

and the bridge of comradeship

forged in a pub by the Avon

so long ago.

A picture of my boys, cheerful

and fledgling optimism bursting

from beyond their early bird uniforms

the headline of his electronic note

and yet underneath it all

I realised that Time has been a beast,

for my eldest boy is now a year older

I Sometimes Have To Remember.

I sometimes have to remember

all that I have seen

and felt,

touched, experienced

and lost,

for sometimes it feels like a dream,

one that my imagination

has stirred and fired off without warning;

I sometimes have to remember

the hands I have shook,

for in the skin I have

I collect their memories also

and in the end their thoughts bleed

into mine,

an honour to have been part of it all,

but I have forgotten

most of all that ever

happened.

The Girl In Blue Denim.

We danced, you in blue

Denim and me,

uncomfortably  sporting a black

bow tie, sweating because you,

dear you, a girl in my dreams,

whose blonde bottled hair

once covered your breasts

as you undressed

before me, a smile

tight on your Stockport lips;

we danced six years later,

holding my hand,

till dawn

when with sadness

and empty feeling in my stomach,

I awoke and cried a lonely tear.

 

Ian D. Hall 2017

Puddles On A Train (On The Hottest Day Of The Year).

Who needs snakes or Samuel J.

Jackson when you can bake

on a train,

a puddle on the floor with your D.N.A.

split and frying

like an egg on a car bonnet,

spitting feathers

for a moment’s release of an open door

and the rush for fresh-ish

air that comes tantalisingly in

as the rush for a seat to stick to is

uppermost in a puddle’s mind…

who needs snakes

or a hero to rescue you,

when all you need is a fan.

 

 

An Arrow Full Of Quivers.

Here behind my own wall,

I take comfort in Roger’s words,

as my window on the world

is larger than the slit

of light afforded the guards

of towers old and still

have room to fire an arrow

full of quivers through,

although these days the window

also lets in the mad and the fanatical…

even crazier than me.

I sit behind a fortress of books,

periodicals, fiction,

with a stronghold fortification

of doors and clouded windows

my reality view,

is obscured by living.

Five Cold Heartless Monkeys.

Still not angry yet?

Say Boris,

ask yourself this,

a pound here, a shilling or two there,

is it all worth it when someone dies

when their dreams  come undone

when sleep is supposed to be the safest haven,

hey Teresa, a face that only

a lemon squeezer could produce,

with cold lips and ambition

to craw back another pound,

waste the money that was never there

you said, for the magic money tree

doesn’t exist, as you sit on more money

than God, how many

A Dalek Playing Sax.

Stuck traffic, a jam to end all jams

and bored rigid in a taxi, the counter

climbing breathlessly

up towards its own ticking Everest;

six in the evening,

a possible fight in the sunset eve

as tempers boil over

and there by St. George’s

Hall, a complex, but through my taxi

windows, silent and animated argument

began to unburden

itself in the Liverpool warmth.

As long as we sat there,

engine revving like a lion pacing

in its own cage, I expected the worst,

Everyday Parrot Blues.

Repeat after me,

you are only a miserable sod.

It was words that I knew to be false,

miserable,

unhappy perhaps, certainly cheerless

in some cases, wretched,

low, as overcast as leaden sky

and the darkness of a thunderstorm

waiting to rage…

but even in that thunderstorm

must come surely

lightning, the illumination

of a flood of ideas, the mania

of hopeful praise and the sense

that the brief encounter

with electric vibration may last

long enough to kick start the heart