Tag Archives: poetry by Ian D. Hall

Chronic.

I don’t remember standing in line with my hands held open,

a wooden bowl and half gnawed wooden spoon, chewed and nibbled at,

distressed over not through hunger but through fucking pain…

but I’m not meant to talk about it, complain or discuss it because

it shows a weakness, it shows lack of moral fibre that my great-grandfather’s

generation would have called Victorian values…the same Victorian

values employed that never allowed a heartbroken woman to grieve properly,

that allowed a monster onto the streets of Whitechapel

Chronic. full post

(446 words, estimated 1:47 mins reading time)

Bored To Death

I can’t think of anything worse to find on a gravestone

than the words, born, died, and nothing in between,

save two dates and the inscription dearly departed…

…is that truly all that is left behind once life leaves

the departed behind.

 

If I stand before my gravestone now, a mean feat and fate indeed

as I would like to think I would go out fighting a bear somewhere

in the Canadian outback, armed only with a blunt potato peeler,

an old yellowed and damp from the abundance of snow that

Bored To Death full post

(414 words, estimated 1:39 mins reading time)

Aggressive Corporate Takeover.

I was there on the day that the Devil was kidnapped by God.

I wasn’t sure exactly which one it was

as they all look the same to me

but I know she had form as a hijacker and usurper of religions past

and now was after the biggest bruiser of the lot to aid in a deity war

that would confuse humanity.

 

Bundled into the back of a long black hearse,

I hid out of sight as the Devil kicked and cursed and bemoaned

Aggressive Corporate Takeover. full post

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

The Path Of Delicate Flowers

The river runs deep if it is allowed to flow freely

and the clutter and wreckage of the abandoned shopping trolley

covered in slime, the mess of one generation passed down

to another in shrink wrapped, tightly wrapped, always trapped;

is removed and placed far out of sight.

The free flowing river, the conscious of independent thought

should not be stunted, diverted and allowed to stagnate in some form

of pruning cultivation, the flower should be allowed to grow

and take over the muddy ground that lays along the bank,

The Path Of Delicate Flowers full post

(193 words, estimated 46 secs reading time)

The Rapper’s Delight.

The Rapper smiles at the free soap box he is given

and he uses it, controls it, manipulates and exploits it,

until the box irrevocably falls to pieces,

joist by rusted nail, plank by frayed duct tape…

yet even when his vitriol makes no sense, when the fans

take the shit he spouts to be gospel and they don’t even

question music history and the small cog in a connecting  wheel

he plays, admittedly a hundred times bigger than the mechanism

I run at full speed upon and forever going backwards,

The Rapper’s Delight. full post

(246 words, estimated 59 secs reading time)

Death By Bow.

…and there is no grand gesture of acknowledging the audience’s applause

as the violinist stands perfectly still, watching,

waiting,

for the small, unseen blazing wink

that tells her to slowly, without mercy, break some hearts.

It matters not at all, what the violinist wears, for the assassin’s bow

gently pierces the skin and boils the blood of the victim

and she slowly places the breathe

in play in which the body can bear no longer, the beauty contained within.

The long drawn out note, the gentle scream that drives me mad

Death By Bow. full post

(308 words, estimated 1:14 mins reading time)

I Have Reached The Age…My Sweet George.

I have reached the age in which the first man who made me laugh out loud,

who gave blood, sweat and tears in an effort to defy the wind,

and who by the time I was 14, could quote line for line

in an effort to be allowed to study drama at school,

decided enough was enough,

and wrote, “Things just seemed to go wrong too many times.”,

and took the next boat out to the onward great adventure.

 

I have reached the age in which twin greats to music were lost

I Have Reached The Age…My Sweet George. full post

(411 words, estimated 1:39 mins reading time)

Sunday Afternoon With A Minstrel.

The minstrel, once wandering upon many high seas,

now happy in contentment, leans over to hear the pleas

and thank you’s for bringing Neil Sedaka to life

upon a Sunday afternoon for the city and its colourful wife.

 

It’s the richness of the voice, the sadness in the detail

and the desire to bring some freshness to what else the month makes stale.

The delicate sound of a raindrop pouring on silk is full of love,

tickles the ears and brings praise to the lord of the voicebox from up above.

Sunday Afternoon With A Minstrel. full post

(177 words, estimated 42 secs reading time)

Crossing The Lines (On The Day They Raided The Lomax)

Will they check the law courts and swab the dock for flour,

Come away happy, pose for pictures, wig arrested,

the lawyers all standing round being tested

and the chambers closed down in hours?

 

Will they go to go to the Golf course lunch for retired heads,

swab the tees for signs of powdered chalk

and entertain the local paper with absurdist talk

and have the private hospital closed for abuse of meds?

 

Will they roll up en masse at Parliament Hill

and with convenience  in mind forget the hate crimes,

Crossing The Lines (On The Day They Raided The Lomax) full post

(278 words, estimated 1:07 mins reading time)

When The Poet From Marsden Spoke, I Thought Of You.

As I watched the youthful sounding Yorkshire Poet

on stage in the furthest outpost that Lancashire once provided

but its self the gateway to boundless enthusiasm

and the cradle of civilisation in the wild, tempting lands,

I thought of you.

 

My stirred thoughts crammed with metaphor, with simile and symbolism,

the passion of friendship that flowed in the duck shaped earphones you

handed over with smiling mocking bow on my fortieth birthday

and the thank you that passes between us when needing

to crib from each other’s notes.

 

When The Poet From Marsden Spoke, I Thought Of You. full post

(268 words, estimated 1:04 mins reading time)