What was your message,
delivered by electronic device,
meant to achieve last night?
I know what it did to me
inside, to hear from you for the first
time in fifteen months,
and not like a friend who had been busy
with their lives, it happens, Time
gets away from us all,
nor did it place a sense of longing
to see you, to understand your loss
and own tragic demise;
all you did was piss me off, upset me,
cause pain in a heart that
It is the sign of the times
when the church on St. Andrews Road
displays not an encouraging word
on a billboard half hidden
by an instrument of Cosmic law,
the half blinding Sun and bedded down roots
of trees, seeking salvation in the quiet Earth,
but a for sale sign, proclaiming the new words
of profits…when a Church closes down,
even for heathens and dissenting voices
such as my own,
I feel the pain for the lost and lonely,
for now where do they go to sit
Her room, no stranger
to having the feeling
of outcast painted shadows
tip toe gently past thoughts
of music gods and erotic held
dreams of ghouls and demons,
is suddenly lifted by the sadness
that has crept over the room
as she sits silently on the end
of the half made double bed
and whispers good night to no one
as she listens to Pink Floyd
for the first time
and cries with wonder at
the message given to her.
Ian D. Hall 2016
I am an odd sock
with a partner in the wash, clean
and crisp when tumbled,
whilst I remain
unseen, possibly discarded
at the bottom of the laundry basket,
never quite being the one
to feel the detergent wash through
every fibre and rub shoulders
with the gods of tie-dye illusion.
I am an odd sock,
and where my partner smells so sweet
in the drawers I just remain dirty, tossed
hopefully into the bin
but always gathering dust
behind the fridge where I fall,
Political whitewash,
the washing of hands of the death
of nation, soldier
and the slaughter of innocents
and a Prime Minister in robes
and suits, with back handed
smile to the nation at all times,
no truth in this weasel words, uttered
with the prospect of the Hangman’s noose
now gone; the truth destroyed, the one
chance to put a man out to face
the barrel
of public opinion,
now just an illusion lost in dossier.
The nation, the soldier
and the million upon million
To resign and shuffle off to the peace of the farm,
leaving the sheep in charge of spraying
on the graffiti declaring pig propaganda,
is now seen as the new leadership,
the firm control and guidance required
in 21st Century
short attention span
management.
I resign in that case, I throw my towel in
to the wolves, baying for blood, baying
for the next willing victim, baying
for the sake of hearing their own howl
and piss in the wind…patience
is dead, it departed when playing games
I have no Welsh blood
in me whatsoever,
so I will not cling to a team out of genetics
to make myself smile at their success;
even though I would love it dearly if they
against the odds
lifted a trophy that England
may have thought was theirs by some
divine football right.
However…
I did once date a wonderful girl
from Hunstanton who now
resides in Wales with a very loving wife,
I can
on a very clear day see beyond the shores
The snail upon my bathroom window,
I have no idea how you got there,
for did you fall from grace
or seagull’s beak, for surely
you never struggled, slimed your way
up the wall, fashioned by intrigue,
plotted and manoeuvred past your ability
to reach such dizzy heights;
you surely must have had help
to see beyond your narrow scope.
I understand if a seagull
or some other winged bird
spat you out because you tasted
off colour, blue, too raw, undercooked
Prime Ministers come and go,
just as England football managers
arrive and depart,
in failure,
in ignominy,
own goals, let down badly
by the team or driven man
with the lust for power
and glory.
The conveyor belt, unceasingly
brings along the next unsuitable candidate,
the fresh hope, wit and the beaming smile;
things will change,
I am sure,
under them.
The roar of the Wembley crowd,
replaced by time and poor results
for the hatred bestowed
upon black door number ten,
The air of
smugness,
or was it desperation
that hung on her lips
when she
plucked
the illusion, the lie
from the clouds whistling Dixie
above her head,
when she told the audience
there had been riots in Liverpool
in the last week
only served notice
that some people in all their fantasy
worlds should never be allowed
on or in close proximity to
television.
Ian D. Hall 2016