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
From roughly twenty seconds in,
I hear what you have seen,
the echo of guitar
caught in the ferocity of sunlight
and the regal nature of an Iron Man
with blank staring eyes looking out,
unblinking, unmoved,
metal thoughts kept to itself,
of the scene that unfolds before
as you take that perfect picture
that resonates in your own soul,
a day out with the wife, now joined
by this silent companion,
the Sandancer on the beach.
Dedicated to John Chatterton and inspired by his photograph Sandancer.
A desert flower in full bloom
Beauty so untouchable
Barbed skin and prickly nature
Through the pleasure and pain
I will be one with you again….
Circle of stones on the leyline
Eco warrior a Greenpeace Boudicca
Psychedelic colours swirl in harmony
Paper Moon bite of Origami
Child in Time, Organically
Through Rose tinted glasses
I see what i want to see!
Cactus Child
Summer of Love forever
Destined to be!
John F. Hall
Not even a pen,
not valuable enough of Michael Parkinson’s
solemn delivery
urging me to grow older.
I received a letter, friendly in its content,
signed by machine, my name at least correct,
could I be worth up to a quarter of a million
pounds at the time of my death; worried
that I have the odd cigar, I enjoy
a cooked breakfast, over weight but happy,
I looked for the smaller print,
the kind in which makes you think on,
to survive and leave a penny means… what
I refuse the mask, there are no cameras
to catch my image, I wouldn’t care
anyway; the graffiti is my mark
and will, very soon, fade away.
I spray words of hope, anger, refined
and polished, screwed up ideas, a tag,
a tag of mine, wretched display of art,
this tag, this art, not for the faint hearted,
my display not fit
for comment as it is scrawled in blood;
fine lines of vein dripped venom,
remember, this is my art, not for hanging,
I’m not for hanging
I heard you had died,
the modern fail of internet, claiming lives
before their time, modern fail
of finding news before it has even happened,
to cause sensation, perhaps untold grief
in the faces and minds of those that care;
I heard you had died, taken away
from us, not knowing how to mourn
without remembering the name you gave me,
a moniker that somehow stuck,
that name of Rufus, I hoped to hear it again
now that I know it was a false report,
We stopped waving our pictures of Bob Hope,
now that the joke has worn thin,
different ways to fly the flag, smile
for the cameras, flash bulbs popping,
headlines made, U.S.O. satisfied
and the men grin
on the face of it,
not wanting to worry the folks back home.
We stopped sending letters, redacted, blacked out
lines, forcing half truths,
or no truths to take hold in lie,
lie, lie, lie
and yet they still sent Bob Hope,
with a smile, with a gag,
For those just walking on by,
pulling their coats closer to their skin,
It was surely nothing more than
a piece of litter thrown carelessly
out of a window of a passing car,
the jetsam of the age, too busy
for a bin, for the black plastic bag
collection on Friday morning at seven A.M.
Yet, no rubbish, just all dead
inside the remains of this wind battered nest,
no sign of mother, sticks clumped by rain
and sod and tossed from the tree with force.
Your mouth is on the button, ready
to take a shot at anything
you see, that flags up
in the tiny mind held up
by small hands, business like attire,
small orange sun
glowing hot and stare mad cold with bluster
and rhetoric, good for nothing
but column inches and inches and inches,
diminutive boy, slow to realise
that the shit is not in some far off country,
not in a hole created by mortar
or bomb, or bullet, or lie,
but in your own back yard, Commander
Don’t let your toothbrush
lay on its side,
head down
in despair
as it thinks lonely thoughts till
you dare tackle the plaque once again;
at night,
when you are sleeping,
thinking happy thoughts.
Spiders,
big and hairy generals
of the eight legged kind,
 are happy to
use the bristles
in an effort
to ease the pain
and discomfort
from the spider like piles.
Ian D. Hall 2018