Like a bomb,
encased in skin,
I just want to self-destruct,
pushing myself
to the limit of simmering pressure,
I want to explode
and be a second sun
on the horizon
at Dawn…
you disarm me
only with your smile.
Ian D. Hall 2016
Category Archives: Poetry
The Day I Discovered Futility.
If it should end, let it end now,
stop dragging it out,
stop feeding the worm in the mind,
for today I discovered futility
and it is a word that I cannot abide.
Wasted years, never in search of riches
and to those I may have hurt, unknowingly
or their perception of what I said,
I apologised more than once if you deserved it,
but blow me down
if you think I am going to kneel
and take your crap forever, infinity was long enough.
The Good Son Of Goodison
The smile of Howard Kendall had entranced him
and the dogged determination of Alan Ball
had always stuck in the mind of this
good son of Goodison as he took his seat
or stood withstanding the noise of the Kop
on alternate Saturdays,
from the days of childhood,
through pouring rain of success
and the desert years of despair, he was faithful,
always sucking on the toffee,
cheering on days of Imre Varadi and the hours
between cup and league, his home painted blue
My Own Golden Brown (Whisky No Longer Touched).
I never had flu till I had turned 45,
not true flu, I had woken early one morning
whilst I was back packing through rural Normandy
with my head resting in a
dirty storm formed puddle
and I know I probably looked awful for about a week
and the thoughts of unfulfilled dreams
of making peace in my time across the Channel
brought to a premature and early end.
Now every week I seem to be fighting back infection,
the assault on the body, the throat, the eyes,
A Blue Balloon.
A Blue balloon,
attached to fraying string, the sky
the limit
in its desire to see
the world for what it truly is,
held only by childish fingers,
white with tightness,
grim determination upon the glowing face;
like that balloon
I yearn to look down
upon
the shit storm
we have created
and I will pull away from the fingers that bind me
and sail into the sky
before
I inevitably
Pop.
Ian D. Hall 2016
Even Dishevelled As I Am.
Even dishevelled, even in the dog hairs
I find myself covered in, I keep up appearances,
no tie round my neck, will not die by the noose,
no shirt, starched, small black hairs
weaved in and out of the thread, small pin pricks,
unseen but there all over my skin, scatter cushioned,
just pins, not needles, tattoos aside,
I have never felt the need for such barbaric squander,
yet my head is permanently a mess,
I am sinking
further each time, the jack boots in the country stir
Potato Peel.
A potato is just a potato,
humble, quiet,
unassuming,
an object from the soil,
do whatever you want with it,
all is good…
until you make it spell a name,
till you see that there is nothing more
important in the world
worth fighting over,
worth a revolution
than a potato
that cannot spell…
Ian D. Hall 2016
Not Only In Virginia.
To deny the written word,
to seek to erase words
that might offend
is as criminal
as the act in which they were used
to demonise in the first place;
not only in Virginia it seems
can a word see a book banned
from being taught
but why stop there, lets place a prohibition
upon all literature,
all words,
give them a life sentence
for in the beginning
was the word
and now that word
is mute.
Ian D. Hall 2016
Made Your Resolutions Yet?
Made your resolutions yet?
I once vowed to not
eat fish for a year
after hearing that cod was running out; I missed
the taste of battered flesh
and the vinegar that splashed
over spiky remains.
Why wait till December 31st,
this new year, new you bollocks…
if you really wanted to change,
you wouldn’t wait a month.
Ian D. Hall 2016
China.
The pain was intense,
meant that I dropped the plate
that I was carrying
and it split into three large
china fragments
and small dust pieces,
like the first split in the land mass
of Pangea, never again fitting.
I screamed but no one was there
in the virtual world
and nobody cared in mine,
silence after the final shattering
realisation that I am on my own,
as we all are
when we break the china plate.
Ian D. Hall 2016