I slowly ground to a halt
on the intersection of the Holy Corner, my mind
blowing hard on Paradise and Whitechapel,
Lord Street and Church, I was crossed
on all sides, spectacles, tentacles, wallet and watch
and the Friday night throng of people passed me by,
invisible, concealed by own thoughts of the weekend ahead
and disguised by looking aimless, a waste
of space and noticed only as being in the way,
get out of the way, get out my way,
the unseen only sighted when they dare make a noise.
The dinosaurs
were not wiped out by an asteroid,
they just refused to
believe
that their time had come
and the people
were finally angry enough
to demand
that they pass away
and take their capitalist policies
with them.
Ian D. Hall 2017.
I don’t envy
at all,
that you get to play
with the helium all the time,
I don’t require the need to
hog it, to keep others
from dipping their fingers
into the fun
and pulling the vital resource
into ever quicker decline,
I have used it once,
I enjoyed it
and whilst I would like to hear
someone else giggle as their voice
went higher and more ridiculous,
I have no envy that you keep it
wow all to yourself;
There is a carving, whittled by skeletal hand
and conceived of by a man angry with God
that sits beyond Time and the whistle
of a train carrying death.
I echo those thoughts, even as an atheist,
I repeat the philosophy
daily, not out of spite, not out of fear
and retribution by those seeking revenge,
just honesty,
that if there is a God,
for the wrongs done in her name,
the next time we meet,
she had better apologise.
Ian D. Hall 2017
Yes, it is a victory for common sense
and decency, our Gallic cousins
showing the way to truly be
a member of the Human Race,
yet let us not forget,
let us make sure we remember
that despite the horrors
visited upon the French
by a despicable regime
in our grandparents’ time,
that eleven million of them
still unbelievably backed
a party steeped in fascism;
that is the point,
that a third who voted
saw the opportunity to seize the past
once again.
I want to hold your hand today,
you made me far too independent
and I am so far away, a life time
perhaps, a sense of searching for identity
urging me on to be something more than
a boy of Cornwall and a son of the Midlands,
somewhere in between, always torn
between the two and with the honour
of both branded, indelibly tattooed,
deep into my sometimes angry,
always passionate heart.
As you wait at home for news
from the calling of the foundry,
It is funny how people will get offended
by the use of language, a single swear word
than by the actions of the state,
of the lies told and spread by Government,
that someone can be upset by the use
of God to drive a point
rather than a church that defends
the most indefensible;
I am no lover of certain words,
some, despite appearances, are useful,
they are the memories of truth
that we cannot bring ourselves to utter,
be proud in the use of them,
I was born with a pre existing condition,
passed down genetically and without selective behaviour,
I was born, hopefully like you,
with this specific snag
in my blood, in my genes,
not to want, to enjoy, to take any satisfaction
from pissing people off, to let them get on with life
and should they fall ill,
then not to be too blunt,
to not be a dick and hope that society cares enough
about all those born, to see them, to care for them,
to understand that the unseen ailment,
A chance of fresh air,
just for a while to escape the house
to soak in the residue
of life, this point of it all,
to sit and gaze up at an old god
and thank him for dancing
with the moon.
The moon, I used to fear her,
hanging there like an afterthought,
blood soaked in my dreams,
far too many nights watching
Hammer House of Horror when I was small boy,
the Saturday night ritual
I was allowed wonderfully to explore
from such a young age,
I imagine there will be no family there
at Ted’s graveside today,
as a single crow falls silent in respect
in Anfield Cemetery
the last of his line,
the last remaining soul.
I first encountered Ted some years earlier,
a man of smiles and intrigue
but now his days were spent
keeping warm in the taxi café
off Lime Street Station and drinking tea,
reading the paper
and occasionally telling a story
of his life…
now consigned to fading memory,
both he and the café alike.