Tag Archives: poetry from Bootle.

I Play Sax For Them As They Jive.

 

I nod my head to the leader

of the band playing my tune,

the signal that silently suggests,

if he would be so kind,

to go up the range,

make it beat faster, till I lose my breath

in the smoky atmosphere and sit

wide eyed at the dance, this mix of tango

and waltz, gentle and frantic

all in the space of a single ball room

to which I play the saxophone, sweat

drives with the speed

of an out of control Plymouth,

The Noise At James Herbert’s Wake.

 

Inside those tunnels,

I imagined rats, gnawing, chewing, ready to bite

down and feast on my flesh, the gatherers

at James Herbert’s wake in Liverpool

that night, as we toasted the horror of man

and the brain that seized them all,

made the connection between sex and the

ability to frighten, the strange allure

of the thrill in every page,

was down in those tunnels even now,

sharpening his pencil, readying his wit

to kill us, one by one, by one

who knew how to extend the torture

Seven Emotions: Smiling.

 

Have you ever seen me

smile? Laugh even;

snort like a free-wheeling pig

as it bathes in the mud,

almost lose the ability to breathe

as the joke hits home.

 

Have you ever seen me smile

properly I wonder, I rarely

show my teeth when I do,

the ones where I am ready to bite

down with anger, the smile of revenge.

 

Did you ever catch me, earphones in

and my mind spaced out, high

on a Galton and Simpson trip,

Seven Emotions: Tears.

 

Have you ever seen me

cry? Not just a tear, a stab of relief

of physical pain mind you,

but a river, a rolling spiky ocean,

a steady flow of information

making its way down my face.

 

Have you seen me cry in frustration,

over a film, a whole class once did

in senior school as Boxer

the Horse was sent down

in place of the people; I wailed then.

 

Did you see me shed a silent,

inexplicable tear over the death

The Extreme Puritan.

 

Soon, the extreme Puritan

will rub their hands in private glee,

it doesn’t end with a Victorian

painting being removed,

nor does it end well,

we are being judged for a laugh

we had that has now been forgotten,

except by those keeping score

and aren’t they just

doing the black and white dressed

authority figures of the past

justice, everything a crime, erased

and expunged, obliterated and left

in a bunker underground, growing feral,

becoming bitter,

till one day fashion dictates an innuendo,

The Space Between Us Both.

Six rows in front of me,

as I was facing backwards, both

slumped back looking down

we never made eye contact, never saw

face to face, though cheek by jowl,

our eyeballs never saw each other

at the same time,

my friend, what held your attention

instead of me giving you mine,

new headphones I noticed,

drowning out the noise

and the half mouthed, silent hello

as we sat there on the 53 in to town,

each in our own worlds of wonder,

not seeing the meteor racing past

The Three Fold Man.

 

The three fold man, I see you

in mahogany mirrors, two either side,

of the age I am now, the boy

to the left, coloured in regretful sepia

and fading from view, the old,

untapped and unseen but hoped to be,

still invisible, a sign tapped out in Braille,

don’t count your chickens sonny,

I should be grateful in wasn’t in semaphore green

or the malignancy of burning bush confrontation,

thou shalt not…

this three-fold man, remember me,

here in the middle

looking back at you.

A Question On The Modern Day Lonely.

 

It is not for me you understand,

the question of loneliness,

of solitude unasked for,

of isolation, perhaps enforced,

cut off from plans, talk, conversation,

chewing the fat

with no one

but me, the solitary figure;

it is not for me I seek an answer

on being lonely,

I’m just asking for a friend.

 

Ian D. Hall 2018

Here In Limbo.

 

Here in Limbo, ducking down,

avoiding the gaze of God and the Devil,

chums and old pals, compliments

spoken freely at the matter of my passing,

caught between the unbeliever

and the quite sure the place exists,

they are not sure what to do with my soul,

let it burn in Heaven or let it grow cold

in Hell; neither wanting, neither demanding,

they flicked a coin in the air,

there in the darkness they put me,

till the coin stops landing on its side,

in Limbo.

Cider Joke Lost In Yeovil.

 

I won’t accept the gift,

it was in his eyes, fifty five

years young and self proclaimed

special brew, special one,

it is not surely what he would

normally partake in, swift swallow,

long gasp of recognised favourite

as it goes down the hatch,

West Country greeting

lost upon this sophisticated man

that we cannot join in the pun of

Cider with Jose.

 

Ian D. Hall 2018