Tag Archives: poetry from Liverpool

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

Drifting, Slowly Sinking.


Deluded misconceptions of what happiness can be.

This guiding light just blinds me, keeps me lost at sea.

We headed for the coastline hoped to reach the shore.

But gained no distance through resistance but my

persistence keeps me warm.


‘Its not what your lookin for,

that makes it difficult to find.

It’s not what your lookin for.

That keeps it on your mind.


Drifting with the current, heading who knows where

Incapable of anything, that shows how much we care.

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


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,


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

Whatever Happened To Lewis Wilson (The First Batman).

Doctor, never mind Fay Wray,

she will always be remembered

at least for being

instrumental in the death

of King Kong, animatronics

and the sense of colossal, the beast

dying at the hands of beauty

and pre war scream queen,

everybody will remember Fay Wray, Doctor,

because of you, but who remembers

poor old Lewis Wilson,

Adam West

considered by many to be the first

on screen, they forget you Lewis,

black and white hero in black

and white tuxedo and a cowl