If I should cease tomorrow
would it matter, all that I have achieved
is but dust waiting to fall from my hands,
to shed loose from my skin, the words
lost in Time, nothing ever truly resembles success
for in the end, life,
is the mirror’s illusion, the offering to resign
before the shit gets wiped in your face
from those who have forgotten you.
I should have stayed in the dark,
waiting for you to carry me home,
for in you, at least, there is no despair.
The sound of a million phones
is set to mute,
I know so many by ring tone alone
but none of them
now makes a noise; they may
as well be turned off,
put away in silence, the only
noise is that of a lonely bugle boy
playing The Last Post
to the voices of high functioning anxiety
that has replaced the signal
inside my head
set.
Ian D. Hall 2016
If you must wear the face of shocked indignation
be warned, it is not a look that suits you,
or indeed flatters the features that are surrounded
by the years of hard drinking
or perhaps moaning twisted forceful tears
you have wrenched out of those crow lined,
feather scattered eyes. When you believe in your ugly
mind that what you say at four thirty in the long
cold festive driven afternoon is anything but crass,
that your gutter waiting mouth, spit and drawl
running from the side of your lop sided lips
I am looking forward to tomorrow,
I might meet up with someone
who likes spending time with me, but then
the questions start rummaging in my head,
scattering thoughts and wild demons,
of just what do I do if I cannot apologise enough,
that they take exception to smiling
in my direction, if they cannot contain
the dread of being in my company;
or if I should say one thing wrong,
compared to the hundred topics
of bile and consumerism they dictate,
that they will sneer and kick me
I admire you;
in a sea of black,
plastic umbrellas,
yours
is the only face
not afraid
to let the tears
outrun
the rain.
Ian D. Hall 2016
The rains of Williamson Square
fall with precision, with orchestrated beauty
on the words of the poet
below,
whimsical in nature,
they dance round Liverpool’s heart,
the words of every seaman’s tale
and Hen night drunken serenade
as shoes are carried
like wedding vows
through the cold whale spouted water;
the water tangos with their toes
and for the children who explode with weather warmed
August days, the chance to ballet and disco
in between the rain drops is second only
to the waltz enjoyed
The midweek floodlit match
and Stevie Heighway on the wing,
the memory of Bill Shankly
and the time when Kenny was King…
the band I listened to called them Fearless
and as images of Hamburg days and leather jackets
filled the fluid nature of my very existence;
got to choose between the Stones and The Beatles,
my vote went north every time
and went stratospheric the first time
I heard Pepper take the band out for a spin.
They are the Fearless, they are the glue
that frightens the Westminster village
It is an act of patriotism
it is decreed
to stand during your national anthem
before a film goes on
in your local cinema
as the National Anthem plays out.
I know people who used to stand
as the British National Anthem
played on the television
as close down for the night commenced,
they would be erect
as they thought of the Queen
last thing at night
and the Government backed signal
to turn off
and go to bed came;
A huge part of me is thankful
we don’t have that nonsense now…
Ian D. Hall 2016
Starry-eyed
She pounced in my direction
and in a loud commanding,
masterful voice that betrayed in its heart
a sense of innocence and wanting
desperately to please
She proclaimed,
“Oh Ian,
you were right, I have just finished
watching the first episode of Doctor Who;
isn’t it just so fabulous?”
Cheered by this revelation
I asked her if she enjoyed William Hartnell’s performance.
Clearly confused, her face screwed up,
contorted and thoughtful in her puzzlement,
she replied after much deliberation,
“Was he one of the monsters?”
The Satsuma is starting to go green,
untouched it has gone sour, the sweetness
sucked dry and stale,
I really wanted to taste this Orange fruit
but unlike the plums it held no thought
of ripeness in my mind;
the Christmas stocking,
oversized woollen sock
held many a delight, the Corgi toy car,
a cracker bound in small explosive,
yet every year the Satsuma would poke
its way out of the top of the stocking
and go mouldy before my eyes, even on the coldest
Christmas Day.