I hear the door close, one of many,
after one, after one,
I could do the same, shut the door,
slam it, barricade it completely
and let go, hide behind the door,
behind the memory of everything that ever went wrong,
my door, my fault, I am so very sorry
to have let it get to the point
where even the postman cannot push the letterbox,
cannot dump the adverts, the mix and match rubbish
bag fillers, the black plastic coffin
for the unwanted junk mail for this junk male,
I carry in my pocket bread,
two one pound coins, coal from the surround
we can never afford to put on
for more than half an hour,
and salt, it is not a fetish
but just my way of offering you fortune,
life, heat and wealth in the coming year.
I will walk across your threshold
with a smile and propose we shake hands
under your hallway light, twenty watt bulb,
may you be happy and know love
in the next twelve months, may your Sunday
lunch with family and friends
Lead me into midnight, let me feel the new
dawn rise, artificial construct though it maybe,
we all need to hear the chime of midnight
and the serenade of ships’ horns on the Mersey,
the minute watched diligently
by a Captain’s beard and the deck hand
letting off a series of fireworks into the cold
night air, no snow, perhaps rain
and the shower of memories to come.
Lead me into midnight where for a moment,
Peace reigns, there is no alarm
at the moment of surrender;
You received my parcel
on Christmas Eve,
plain
brown envelope
on the outside, nothing
to distinguish it from
the ray of beauty you told me
it contained when you opened it.
The stated fact that you opened it
at all meant a lot to me,
you could have just
left it on the table
and away from your tree;
decorated tastefully
but still something
you take down
and forget by
January the sixth.
Ian D. Hall 2016
I know I am
not everybody’s cup
of tea
but then
as I watch them stir their spoons,
plastic or sterling silver,
Hallmarked or fully
acknowledged that someone
with snot running from their nose
had licked it first,
I understand with a smile
that they drink
from the chipped cup,
the bitterest ground
coffee.
Ian D. Hall 2016
Your late night text message,
unexpected,
non demanding of return
and the only question
that was there on the ill-lit and cracked slightly screen,
was
How Are You?,
sent in unassuming type, sent with only
the thought that I might reply,
at some point.
How was I? I didn’t know,
I could lie and reply back
that I was on top of the world,
whereas in reality I was flat on my back,
no pillow to soothe my head,
and felt as if the weight of the world was upon me.
His death was unexpected,
in a year which had taken
an artistic hero of mine,
it was only in hindsight
that the quiet moment of finality
should take one of yours.
I did not grieve for the man you lost
as many tears had been spilled for the
musician that had abandoned me
but I mourned for the moment,
I stopped and immediately thought of you,
perhaps in your kitchen, holding a last cup
of tea on a busy day and the radio coming on
Nobody told me I couldn’t
so I walked along the single track,
a phantom sound
from somewhere close by
and the barb wire scratches the lens
of the camera as I try to take
a poignant picture; no guards,
the solemn vow of the past
being picked apart
rivet by rivet
as I get to about one hundred yards
down the track
and the fear still seeps through my shoes
as I imagine the terror that this final stop
in gas and smoke and bullet
There is no snow falling
through the air, softly and with delicate
dancing care,
there is no drifting smoke from a well stoked
fire keeping children warm
and the heavy glow of safety,
hale and hearty memories
of days before they were gone
in a flash; this is the Christmas in which to be thankful
that we have
all that we have
before the days turn to spring
and daffodils turn their heads
skywards to praise the Universe, so much bigger
on the outside.
Be thankful
Winter calls, or at least
the two week crush of bon accord
where the crush of last minute purchase
to secure favours in the coming
year are packed in so tight that there is no
escape from it all, the relentless must get this,
sprout after sprout after washed down, forced down
holding nose down sprout, cooked to death, force fed death
as the gargle and false puke noises outrank the endless
television adverts for the hot summer climes…
winter calls,
I don’t answer, not for the first two weeks anyway,