Tag Archives: poetry from Bootle.

Moss In The Back Yard Jungle.


The back yard was covered

in the miniature jungle

of moss, earth bound mold,

secret fortress for the Viet-Cong

and hiding holes

for the alien Predator, casually

smoking Park Drive cigarettes

as it polished the remains

of a once scurrying beetle

late for work no more.


I have had no reason to venture out there,

like my childhood, when wet

or not allowed to go near my father’s

guinea pigs for fear of upsetting them

as I crashed a decaying

Music, Milk And Mars Bars.


I still live

for Music, milk and Mars Bars,

never finding a replacement for them all,

the speed of the thirty three

and a third, always fulfilling

and fuelling the memory of fifty

pence in my pocket, a morning token

in which the early Walkman knock off

would play me the music of choice

on the way to school, passing by

the odd discarded milk bottle, a victim

of thirst and now drained

and allowed to stand erect, proud,

devoid of culture and parading the remains

A Small Skive In Waterloo (Crumpets On The Menu).


Their school uniforms flattered

their conversation, overheard

as it was

in coffee shop in Waterloo,

over tea and a snack before

heading back to school, tucked

back in blouse, the giggle of fifteen

year youth as they congratulated

themselves on skiving off a lesson

for an hour, and the slurp

of how they shall get fat,

should they do this all year.

I rolled my eyes, I could not

sanction or approve of such time wasting,

the skive, one lesson, all for a buttered scone

It Felt…Nice.

It felt…


to hear that I didn’t do

something wrong, that my words

committed to the screen

and bound by feverous desire

to get the story out of my head,

were good, better than good,

they were enjoyable;

it felt nice to not be

looked upon with despair.


Ian D. Hall 2017

The Urge To Say Thank You.


It was with the once gleaming look,

a smile with a glint attached

and a face that radiated honesty,

that I thanked anyone

who had liked,



drooled over to the point where

spittle ran out of the corner of their mouths

and they had the look of basting

a turkey for Christmas etched

across their sly grin chops,

kissed, French kissed,

snogged like there was tomorrow

and in some cases like there was no

day after that,

whispered down the ear such words

Tuesday Morning (Visit To The Doctors).


Again, I enter your domain

and feel the queasiness

of my symptoms take a tumble,

for your eye is uninterested

and your stethoscope brutal,

a cold metal harbour

for your five minute lesson

in your ignorance

and impatience, watching

the clock tick over, counting down

the sick, marking them off,

crossing them off;

the sigh of the same story once told

now the conjured message of disguised help

me please, modern

life the incorrigible scourge

of modern living.

I look into your eyes,

Poured Over Timetable (On The Way To Plymouth).


Learning to read

the British Rail National Timetable

was a rite of passage

I enjoyed early

as my mum

would invariably

restrict me to one comic

only, purchased at the station,

as we made our way from Birmingham

to Plymouth

when I was a small boy;

exotic names, unheard of treasures

would find their way

worm like and lay eggs forever

into my subconscious.

I lament the passing

of such information,

lost to print it seems,

found only as an A to Cornwall,

The Wrong Winning Ticket.


I bought the wrong winning ticket,

easy mistake to make,

and yet the council

won’t take the wrong money

to pay off my bills,

the slave owners of credit cards

insist I still owe them

despite mistakenly wanting to settle

my debt and the milkman

is adamant that he still feels

obligated to inform me

that I should hand over

the spondoolicks for my

regular full cream top.

I wanted to shell out shrapnel

to the people that own my house

Antique Silver Knife.


I have a silver knife,

an antique picked up

from a market stall

in South London, a depiction

of a car, old as the time that

the Hallmark suggests,

I wrote a snappy poem

and put the picture up

on social media,

it wouldn’t load,

I only asked

if friends knew where they

would plunge it in me.


Ian D. Hall 2017

Not One Decent Single Man (For You).


I don’t know how to respond,

perhaps you are having

one of those bad days

in which the world can go to Hell,

or is it just a portion, a half,

fifty percent

that you would see burn, break it down

to the man

you despise

and the assertion

that no man is capable of true emotion;

I don’t know how to respond,

not because I am devoid of feeling

or lack empathy, I just don’t

want the argument to escalate

further as you march