Tag Archives: poetry by Ian D. Hall

The Cruelty Of Dreams.

Dreams are too cruel,

they either wake you after the chase,

when short

of breathe and the object of your anguish

slides into the shadows, the laughter of a thousand

screaming nightmares rebounding billiard ball like

against the empty echo that the cushion

over the mouth to stop your own petrified scream

is happy to assist with, even going as far

to enjoy the muffled choke of terror

that the dreams provide it, like food,

sustenance, the pork chop in gravy

to keep its own part in the play fresh and required…

The Cruelty Of Dreams. full post

(214 words, estimated 51 secs reading time)

Catching A Cold In St. Malo.

The St. Malo air was crisp on the July morning

that I heard down the crackling line

of the only phone

box in the towering vicinity

that my

Grand Mother had

suffered

a heart attack.

 

I had been walking for weeks, the chance to stop

for a while and take stock,

take the map out of the bag

and contemplate my next move, one that

unlike my time in America,

I was determined

was not going to end in a premature way

Catching A Cold In St. Malo. full post

(543 words, estimated 2:10 mins reading time)

On The Subject Of Ageing.

On the subject of ageing,

I fear it’s not for me,

I just like wallowing in memories far too much

to have them snatched or slowly corroded, decayed

or fading into the golden sun-sleight of

half forgotten anecdotes and blistered self-denial

to not remember you, your brushed long hair, and trembling

smooth skin as you leant in for a second kiss,

to ever allow old-age the promise

of victory in wondering

who the women is when I look at a

sepia toned photograph, torn through the middle

On The Subject Of Ageing. full post

(396 words, estimated 1:35 mins reading time)

92 Degrees In The Shade.

Sat in a fashionable coffee house in the centre of town,

a pot of flavour filled tea lost in the melee

of noise

of the spitting furnace of the gargling dragon

as it pumps out saliva, frothy and burning hot

coming from one end of the pure white interior

where men and women all decked out

in Dulux shades of the same duck breed egg

and their eyes down, screen driven pupils

whilst their tongues never meet the gaze

of the green eyes, dark shades, expectant calls of mercy me,

92 Degrees In The Shade. full post

(300 words, estimated 1:12 mins reading time)

Your Clenched Fist Speaks Volumes.

The clenched fist

rocking back and forth says it all,

it is after all in your actions that it looks

terrifyingly like the Nazi salute, but that

surely is nothing new for the man

who married money and still has the gall

to claim thirty seven pounds for breakfast.

 

Many miles away,

in the shadow of the Welsh hills,

in the shadow of where dust once reigned,

a young man pumped his arm to salute

his one hundred runs,

a salute delivered with guile, promise

Your Clenched Fist Speaks Volumes. full post

(275 words, estimated 1:06 mins reading time)

The (Second) Extra Granted Minute.

Having recently had the pleasure of a gift

bestowed upon me, Time, albeit for a solitary

obliging minute, I found that I was not content

in how I handled it, I gave myself Time, but I didn’t

give any of it away

as I should have done

with a smile,

a handshake that was denied me by one,

and even if I cursed under my breath

and the taste of craw and carrion ticks

that scuttle around at the back

of the throat, that delight in the act of living like

The (Second) Extra Granted Minute. full post

(420 words, estimated 1:41 mins reading time)

The Day After Prizegiving (7/7).

The blown out shell of the bus

on route past Euston Station

is quiet and still now, destroyed a second

time to wipe out the memories of the act of barbarism

that took life, that took lives

in the space of a single moment in time

and the London streets fell victim one by one.

 

The television screens, the minds of the ordinary

London folk were still reflecting on what

it meant to have the world watching

their city five years later,

the beauty of togetherness, of games played;

The Day After Prizegiving (7/7). full post

(169 words, estimated 41 secs reading time)

Naked On 77th Street.

Naked she stood before me, her eyes glistening

with youthful Hispanic desire and the elegance

of her people wrapped in New York 77th Street silk

and I broke my heart as I knew I could not satisfy

that what was given freely.

 

I shuddered as the eleven thirty seven rays of sunshine

hit the window that hid the opulence that blinded

me temporarily to the disease that wanted to be shared

like a needle holding a myriad of confessions

and the straight jacket of conformity.

 

Naked On 77th Street. full post

(275 words, estimated 1:06 mins reading time)

My Friends Of Jailors.

I thought I’d take a trip to see an old friend,

meet halfway and agree upon the same conclusion

that it had been far too long since we last spent

Time killing time

and the talk of old things between us,

that bound us and which into Middle Age

no longer mattered.

 

The distance between us was never that far

even after nearly three decades apart

and I reminded him of the blow

by blow replication that he did for me

of my then favourite album cover and wondered if he

My Friends Of Jailors. full post

(237 words, estimated 57 secs reading time)

Lord Byron Versus The Hashtag.

Byron wouldn’t have stood a chance

if the world of his time had the mass media

exposure, constant Google up-load

and Facebook name and shame being urged upon

by the two a.m. giggle fit of the warm and instantly forgiven

rant telling like it is, and the recriminations of the following

morning text, you know what you called him girl?

 

He may have revelled for a while, more so than Percy,

in the hashtag-moustached hag, mad, bad and dangerous

to know, but would have been concerned

Lord Byron Versus The Hashtag. full post

(401 words, estimated 1:36 mins reading time)