Tag Archives: poetry by Ian D. Hall

Seconds Out.

Seconds out,

round one,

her alarm goes off

and there is a groan of bitter regret

that for the working woman,

the work never seems

to get any simpler,

that the clock,

fascist timekeeper, harsh task master

is always an hour too soon,

just an extra hour,

one day to wake up refreshed and bunny like enthusiasm

as the dawn of a day missed is noticed;

till then, the silent anger of sitting

and talking Government speak

is the reason

she hates the clock.

Cobblers!

My favourite boots, feeling worn

out underneath, a little tired but loved,

the cobblers

will always find a way to preserve

them for a while;

dropping them off at closing time

and with pair of bulk standard

trainers to sneak home in

standing by as replacement,

I got them to mend them once again.

Next day, the clock chiming Ten

in the market square,

I walked in to the shop

just in time to see

the cobbler ringing the till

and his fingers red from the pressure

The Yellow Duster Waved Outside Of Wrexham.

The Irate Cleaner who washed

her business in public, was once

quite sweet, her younger self

only bitter when it came to

the lies she readily told

each boy who dared like her,

as she waved her yellow duster around

as if it was some kind of regal artefact;

a certain reel to lure them in

and then treat them like dirt,

who questioned them too far

and who with a sense of gleeful spite

and not a tear recline

from her just outside Wrexham collapsed face

Three Footballing Heroes Of The School Yard.

The once smoky atmosphere of the bar,

now cleaned by regulation

but somehow losing its charm

in the modern day transformation

would always see conversation

take shape in the air

about who was the greatest

footballer that ever lived.

Names bandied round

like solid facts,

all different and full of truth in their own way,

I offered a Dutch master, poise and panache

the steady stroke of artistry,

drawn from memory,

painted with deft strokes and unnerving realism,

vivid with expression, imagination

The Opening Ball Of Summer.

 

Summer should only start at the moment

when the first ball of the opening innings

of the first test is sent down the pitch

by a bowler who has found an extra yard

since Christmas.

Whilst April and the wet dew of Spring

heralds the days when you can ignore family

for six months of luxury

of a set of headphones firmly

implanted down the ear

and the commentator’s eye finding

the slow drawn crease akin

to the artistry of Michelangelo’s David

and attendance of the

Girls Were Just Girls.

Girls were just girls

just like us, the boys, only

with the knowledge

that they were better in the class room

than most of us in trousers, even

at eight, somehow more acute, articulate,

annoying but we had grown up

with each one of them

and in the school playground,

we at least could at least be heroes

with the ball at our feet, even if we felt

foolish in the classroom, our conversations

about the beautiful

game muted by constant spelling tests,

who cared how you spelt suspicious ,

Here’s To The Death Of Pac Man.

 

Bless you, sweet Ginsberg, you saw your generation destroyed by madness,

whereas mine, well we reaped what you sewed, crooked lines

of pop culture madness, here’s to the death of Pac Man,

junkie infused tablet eating, pill popping maniac,

spare the ghosts turning blue with cold, spare the next level up

for what did it prove in the end, that we were just part of Pop Culture,

that Generation X reaped the seeds of what was no longer normal

as we hid ourselves in the dark and chewed occasionally on food delivered

Feeling Alone In A Crowded Room.

When you realise

that you have been nobody’s

afternoon idle dream,

that the role of shining knight

was reserved for whoever rode

the biggest horse

or that you cannot imagine

that the world would not be happier

without you in it, that your smile

counted for nothing

on a good day,

then everything else just falls into place,

that you are part of the ninety-nine

percent, even though

you feel alone;

truly and irrevocably in the way

in a room shrouded in people

Upon A Brethren’s Arm.

We have allowed ourselves

to drown,

consented across the board

to be consumed

and driven mad

by want

and excess,

accepting

that

the bar code

that once was inked

and tattooed

on a brethren’s arm

is now

a status symbol

to purchase

things

more easily.

Ian D. Hall 2017

Last Night I Prayed.

I clasped my hands together like a child,

before I found I no longer believed,

and as I lay on the sofa, hiding

from the dark, two in the morning blues,

I prayed;

not to your God,

not to mine of childhood nightmares

of Heaven and Hell,

but to the wider Universe,

to the ground in which our feet may tread

and to my ancestors,

please end this suffering

of a woman I love, I implored silently,

only once raising my voice when the strain