(Man:) Of course, it is regrettable. There is no doubt about that. The shock waves that rippled around the Palace of Westminster and other Government institutions this week when the news was leaked, unfairly in my opinion, that the Minister in charge of such a high profile department, a department might I add, which had made such sweeping fundamental and necessary cost saving changes to the way it was run, was in fact the illegitimate spawn of Satan. I won’t lie; it was of course a huge blow to morale.
Tag Archives: Ian D. Hall
The Sacred Heart Of St. Luke’s.
…And the sacred hearts are turning in their mass grave.
The destruction of memory is close at hand
When even hallowed ground is up for sale
And will do more damage than any falling bomb could muster.
The image of splintered charring wood, blackened will be the only thing saved
As The Economy, greed, meanness and the rest of their merry band
Try to call Time on the Bombed Out Church without fail;
Carrying out the gluttony of savings from another city in all its finery and bluster.
In Search of Voices. (In Honour Of Dylan Thomas).
To begin at the Beginning…
The voices in my head always sounded like Richard Burton delivering his polished lines as the Narrator in Under Milkwood. I say voices, it was just the sound of the hero in me, that underused, undernourished soul that waved from the shore at the edge of the ocean as I slinked terrified at the prospect of being at school, college…University, through all my important days, mediocre times, desperate hours, dark relentless minutes that stretched and spiralled seemingly out of control, through my first kiss, then my first real kiss…and no doubt would be there trying to talk calmly to me on my final day on Earth as I waved franticly to the hero on the otherwise deserted shore to save me whilst I started to finally, and regretfully drown.
A Trip To A Festival.
So I married a cheese plant…well given the alternatives, I think we have both been happy enough, although I am well aware that I was not the poor cheese plant’s first choice of possible life partners.
To Save On Water And Gas Bills…
There is nothing better than having the suggestion
To share your shower and kettle with someone to rightly save a bob or two,
I just have to ask the obvious question
How do I get the sexy film star to share my bathroom, kitchen or loo?
My shower is only just the right size for me to wash
My kettle, since I don’t drink beer, my only joy
The bathroom is tiny, it would be a squash
Could you imagine the starlet saying, “O.K then boy
The Imaginary Friend.
It was only at the end
that I realised that I was my imaginary friend’s
imaginary friend.
That all I had desired and loved was really all they had ever
wanted. Even if at the moment of desperation I should make the ultimate
sacrifice, arms outstretched and one foot hovering in the air ready to leap
a thousand buildings and a hundred memories with
a smile on my invisible face;
they would pull me back, talk loudly and with a blaze
of anger and energy
Two Poems For David Harvey…(The Bugle Boy)
…And the bugler plays his final note
As my cousin holds his mother close to him
Away from the winter chill she bows her head within his suit and coat
Whilst keeping her demeanour proper and trim.
The December wind is driving home the chill of loss
As friends and family gather together to mourn and see
November’s Poppies and Roses come together and apart they toss
Scattered to the four winds and whispering R.I.P.
The stories the minister told of your life,
The passing of a Human being in the celebration of a word
A St. Malo Serenade
The sun set over the busy St. Malo street
allowing the shadows
of the dead time
to capture the memories of all who walked along the
cobbled pavements and to make the
haze of
childhood recollection seem infertile and bitterly cold.
The group of English, the ragtag of German, the abundance of French
badly spoken questions, bitter rivalries without the understanding
or the compassion needed to be better than they were.
The shouts and hails from vendors, a bull whip on offer,
money parted his wallet, fawned over by
Time Passing
Striding through the woods at night,
sounds surrounding me, slithers of light.
I stop and kneel,
the cold damp earth spongy underfoot.
I look up to the beaming moon
shrouded by an eerie mist.
Night continues on its path to dawn.
Distant voices remind me I am lost,
shadows extending blackness.
I cry out. A primeval urge to dig and climb,
no hiding place to protect my weary bones.
Loneliness is devouring me, encircling my being.
Senses super tuned.
Damp air.
Cold clammy skin.
We Mocked The Devil. Prologue. Ian D. Hall.
“What is past is prologue.”
Prologue
The ticking of the aged Grandfather clock had been going almost unheard for a full year. Nobody but her ever paid any attention to the constant gentle swinging of the pendulum and soft whirring of the mechanism. The moving parts in perpetual motion that had been kept alive in much the same way that the man in the bed on the other side of the room had been, by the careful hands of one the two attendant nurses. She had kept the man topped up with the pain killers prescribed by the doctor; she had cleaned him every day and shaved the greying stubble that poked out through his death coloured skin diligently every day. She kept up his appearance in much the same way she kept up the appearance of normality, the rigid straight lines on her nurse’s uniform were creased perfectly and she looked respectable, even if she was hungrier and mentally exhausted than she ever thought she could be.