The first petition
announced itself
with the cheery signature tune
of the over eager and the punished
by expectation gone wild.
Several more landed on my desk
before the night was out
and all bearing the same
words of elation,
the same impassioned glee
from a nation of fans who had witnessed
their heroes too often bite the dust.
I read the cheeky E-Mail
and then signed my name,
after all, how often do we get to enjoy
schadenfreude at the expense
…I asked my mother, “Will I die?”,
as the poison swept round my body,
my last leaf on the verge of killing me,
murdered by the unnecessary,
no clue why.
I asked matter of fact, there was no
panic in my mind, if you are going
to serenade the angels
and party with God
then it helps to believe;
I had lost my faith long before
and at eleven, I reconciled
that at least they knew my killer
and that it had blown out
…and the silence in the glitter ball
above our heads
speaks volumes
about the way you dance
when no one is watching,
no judgement passed,
just unspoken respect,
only daring to reflect the agony
of your two step, two move ungainly approach
when you dare show your other face to the public…
Ian D. Hall 2018
Falling over in stages, a man goes down
one moment at a time, a second per inch passes,
the ticking of ridicule commences,
for even via television
the lover of the game
can be heard muttering, casually screaming
as the hands come out imploring,
looking to the referee with whistle in hand
as a penalty first won,
is cruelly, in his eyes, taken away.
He is not the first to sully
the memory of the game I loved
playing, too many, too often,
exposed, a hand of God,
The longest day
again, déjà vu of the dark night
in full colour expose,
so much light uncovered
and the thoughts of solitary
mean nothing to you
as you go about your business,
never caring, just revealing
your version of a day with dusk
at two ends, fear not
for now the nights start drawing in
and I can sleep easier
knowing you will dream of me more.
Ian D. Hall 2018
Give me your tired, your poor,
your huddled masses…
the centre of a sentence and sonnet of hope
that I memorised from childhood
and in which I vowed to witness
with my own eyes
when I finally
plucked up the courage to ask the lady to dance
with me, an immigrant
who wasn’t tired, was not poor,
had nobody to huddle with, but who
yearned to break free…New Colossus
on a distant shore, how, I hope,
you now weep angel as your promise
It could be viewed as a bucket list
romance, my eighty days
staring at you,
getting to know you,
understand you,
hate you,
love you,
be fond of you,
swear at the frustration you cause me,
gently run my fingers across you,
bash down when the right thought
does not come to mind,
hurt you, as you destroy me
become your mirror image, embrace you,
finally leave you be
as when the dog days of August
whimper in heat after snarling
The rare writing on the Cornish slate
is older than the notion of England,
as it sits now in Tintagel Castle,
a display for the excited
and the learned to ponder over,
it’s meaning lost in Latin and ancient script,
but it must be gleaned in this land of legends,
of old Dumnonia and the last King of Dungarth,
that the script must only contain one message;
Do not put carrots in the pasties.
Ian D. Hall 2018
Roasted Hog,
basted and the cut, succulent,
dripping fat on the stoked
fires, upon which I feel
the burn
like flesh deposits crinkle
and leave me with crackling
on my back,
a taste of cooked meat
hangs in the air, sickly and putrid,
a cannibalised flesh, rotten
now from the inside out,
so bad that even a black fly stops and hovers
for a while and refuses to land,
no blue bottles, just maggots
upon my skin
today.
Ian D. Hall 2018
It is the cruelest trick,
to offer someone a future,
a second chance in which
to make things right
in their heart; this now is the path
before me,
a cruel trick played out,
a future denied,
and last night I tried to dream
but all I saw was the face
of the ideal and the possible,
taken away.
Ian D. Hall 2018