Tag Archives: poetry by Ian D. Hall

Isolation: In A Spider’s Web.

Isolation, it is a fear more acute than

a room full of spiders,

for they at least

might be behind glass, snarling

away, venom rising,

wanting to taste your flesh; but they do it

only because they are hungry, not evil,

you are prey, not ridicule, as the first bite

goes deep into your skin

and the feeling of paralysis

comes over you in waves,

at least you know it is not out of hate.

 

Ian D. Hall 2017

Cool Runnings.

 

I have never been fitter,

well in sarcasm terms anyway,

all this running in circles,

jumping through hoops,

clearing every hurdle

and pushing

myself forward

in a time

when all people want

is to be famous.

I just want to be able to live,

happy in the darkness,

not surrounded by obstacles

or contemplating the quick sprint,

out of breathe, out of touch,

just content to do the marathon

in my own time,

one foot

after another and to the beat of my own

Several Blank Pages.

 

The blank page of the diary

mocks me with a gruesome

eye, more so

than a verse unfulfilled

stuck in my mind,

eager to be released and kiss

the world, fight it

if it must.

The day that is blank

just reminds me that

Time has nothing to offer me,

not this day,

perhaps not tomorrow

and in a run of a week

where nothing is planned,

that gruesome eye burns

with greed, stolen

all that is worthy.

 

It Was Nothing Like Taylor And Burton.

I first saw them together, him

in pain, her

concerned, a worried frown

etched deeply on her young face

and surrounded by

the faint whisper of hospital gowns

and nurse’s pulses quicken

as they take the temperature

of the mis-morning managed

roll call.

It was hardly the dreams

of Romeo and the girl on the balcony,

it was nothing like Taylor

and Burton, but

what love is wrapped in such gilded prose,

it is what it is,

I thought with a smile,

Four In The Morning Shrill.

 

Four in the morning

telephone calls

are never moments of great news

departed from excitable lips;

come quick, the pub landlord

has said all are welcome to

drink the place dry,

you awake, good,

you have won the lottery,

come to your front door,

I have a million quid for you

in cash, blow

it all on excess, you

are being transferred to City, good

luck kid, the big time beckons;

Four in the morning shrill,

is like the fire brigade siren,

The Saturday Night Arcade Fight.

 

We dominated the arcade game

even at the end of the night

when half cut, you on Newquay Steam,

vapour trails followed your hand

as we took the Mutant Turtles

to the sound of Metallica’s

Seek and Destroy in Costermongers

every Saturday night to new extremes;

Searching seek… garbled mess of lyrics

following, yet in tandem

Dear Cousin,

we struck blow after blow

and we raised our beer bottles high

as we drove to victory

in Costermongers every Saturday night.

 

Just Above My Eye.

 

Just above my eye, the one

I nearly lost the sight in

as a boy, battered

and beaten for being wrong

in the criminal place

of Cooper School fields,

a foe hiding in the enemy,

that is

where the headache has lain,

a small worm perhaps growing fat,

cultivating more room

in which to sneak through

the mind fields

of veins and vanity;

a small chobble here, a bite

there, slowly wearing me away

to nothing,

a headache that is all it is.

Mish Moshing.

 

I Mish Moshing,

so out of breath from the swirl,

the fevered bounce

against another human bein’

that I would not get my words

out properly, as I say with engine stoked

memories forcing their hand,

I Mish Moshing,

the body the tool and the elbow

tucked in but still wary of

the natural enemy

to use force when

no one’s listening, the sly dig

as the ritual reaches

a crescendo of colour

and passing out sweat, flung

over and happily drenched,

Come Not Ye Empty Mourners.

 

She had the type of hair

that Maria Fredriksson

wore without apology,

not that she would ever need to,

not that any of us should be required

to utter,

Come not ye empty mourners,

I boldly cried out loud

in the safety of her stark office,

too young for personal effects

but complimentary on my tattoos

that straddle my arm

as if making the best of a bad deal,

a slight hand job with no verbal kissing,

no sweet talk, she took me to the edge

The Smith And The Lame Horse.

The Smith scratches his bald head

and sighs, exasperated it seems

by the famer’s

and the village’s

lack of understand his point,

that the horse is lame

and needs to be destroyed.

Why shoe a horse good only good for glue

He asks with arrogance in his voice,

educated not for the betterment of

those who seek his service,

but confrontational, weak livered

but full of supposed moral superiority.

He pays no heed to the cries and objections

that the horse can still provide a means