Tag Archives: poetry from Liverpool

On The Edge Of Twilight.

The souls of coffee beans

evaporate in the air,

apparitions

apparent for a brief moment

on the edge of twilight,

pulling me along for the ride;

so easy to despise one’s self at four

in the morning as the smoke

from a cheap cigar

dances with the Mersey mist

and allows you to believe that Time

is ready to pull you apart.

 

Ian D. Hall 2017

Sometimes You Just Have To Dance With Jane Fonda.

Look at the art

not to the artist,

for the polarising view

of half the population

will have you believe

that you are dancing with Jane Fonda

under a star filled night sky

and the siren of the 60s screen

is dressed like Barbarella; whilst

others will have you convinced that

Hanoi Jane is leading you astray,

not realising the implications

of both and one and the same.

Look to the art and not the artist they say,

yet deep down, I would still dance

The Price Of Declaring Love.

I told you once

when feeling the love

for you

that I would move both

Heaven and Earth.

I kept my promise,

I hired a skip,

You owe the council

for the delivery.

 

Ian D. Hall 2017

It Came At Three In The Morning.

Darling,

I hear your whispering voice,

Darling,

I hope it’s for me,

Darling

because I cannot believe you

would ever set me free.

 

In this world, darling,

Time is so short tempered,

we take the world as we must,

for all the glitter, for all the rainbows

we should return to dust.

 

Darling,

I heard your whispered voice,

Darling,

calling me beyond my fragile mind,

Darling

I am forever young

in your arms, you become so kind.

 

Candy Floss And Tea.

 

Candy floss and tea,

the last Dog Day of August barks

and fun before school

and Christmas adverts

come along and spoil the thought

of forever sunshine in towns like Southport.

Candy floss and cooling tea, still stirred

and gossiped over as children swarm

and take photographs of the mirror image

in the Hall of Mirrors

whilst seagulls above squawk, keeping an eye

on congealing chips and left

over baited breath fish and pie crust.

Candy floss and final dregs of summer tea,

Tuppence Arcade.

Tuppence arcade, a pound

thrill whilst others sit and drink

slowly cooling

tea near the promenade and the sound of Candy floss

melting in the August sun.

Rolling tuppence, eagerly lost, a way to spend

a pound to gain eight pence back

and feel the thrill, no longer a tuppence intact,

rolls of loose change and loose lipped

conversation, gambling addiction,

removing the training wheels early

as the hard earned coins

from savings at the back of Rackhams

come rolling down the slope

and adding a moment of pleasure

(They Only) Talk To You (When They Want You).

There is no cure for isolation

when the silence is drip fed,

when it is interrupted,

painfully, awkwardly

by the can you do this for me,

rather than just a simple

random, text, media social hello,

thinking of

you

but don’t know how to say it properly,

because I don’t want see you upset,

not you.

They only talk to you

when they want something,

and then it is to tell you

how you should feel.

 

Ian D. Hall 2017

The Monster In The Water.

There is no shark on the freeway,

yet there is a monster lurking,

under the depth, just always

out of sight till it rears its head

and its jaws come crashing down on

your torso,

you’re tore so

you believe all the lies

and it is not helpful;

for the beast under the water

picks us off one by one,

it glories in its belief,

the despicable dogma,

this is the monster under the rising water

and as we drown, we cling

Bitter Flies.

 

I used to know every word

to all the songs

that I loved,

now

there are just too many,

they flutter like butterflies

and when I try to hold one

in my hand,

they hover

just out of reach, not wishing

to land on my palm

or feel my fingers stroke their fine wings

and restore memories, of times

spent with you.

They believe

they are sparing me from despair,

the chance to howl, to be

in pain and live in bliss,

He Gave Me His Drumsticks.

The notch marks and splinters give it away,

another symbolic nick, a gash

in the rhythm and the hit me

in time with the cow bell,

the drummer looking down,

a single gestured tapping

and the guitar goes silent,

only the hum of the audience

joins in the anticipation

of the beat, suddenly rising

Hell is unleashed and the drumsticks

crash though arteries, a legion of sweat

ready to pounce and scratch

at the bleeding eyes of those in love.

The heat is blinding, Buddy Rich intense,