Today
we mourn the loss
of our dear
friend.
Although he was unashamedly odd,
89
was a trooper,
and whilst
many of us only knew him in late life,
I just wish
you could have known him
in his prime.
Ian D. Hall 2017
Tag Archives: poetry by Ian D. Hall
I Am An Altered Fact.
I am an altered fact,
so are you,
we only exist in a state of comfortable
despair because the very rich,
the very stupid
and the unfathomably popular
allow us to be there to be struck off,
one by one, in a crowd, sniper guns
pounding coins
whilst they hoard pounds,
guarding the brain cells that give them power
but dementia like poise and dying cells
they release the ones that guide
compassion, hope and love
and they somehow infect us with promises
My (Future) Mid Life Crisis.
I feel old,
especially in the dark hours
when once I could go all night
talking to you, dreaming
of a time when my life was more
than just a scribble in a notepad.
My wife
sometimes says, with a smile
of course,
that I am a child,
in that case I cannot
wait
to have my mid life crisis
at 89.
Ian D. Hall 2017
I Miss Her Nordic Smile.
I miss her Nordic smile,
there was beauty
in that one defining movement,
a sweeping subtle gesture
of cool, of passion, of love
that was only betrayed by her eyes,
if they gleamed when spoke
it was as if the North Sea
had been tamed and your soul
could float between England,
Norway, Denmark and the Faroes,
adrift in that smile for eternity.
Ian D. Hall 2017
Accordian Heart.
I know you are alive,
last night in my dreams
I kissed you
sweetly on the lips, red rose,
your breathing silent but
your chest
Accordion like and sad lament
playing; I know
that you are alive
for I rarely
dream of the dead.
Ian D. Hall 2017
Cress.
The cake sputtered cough
is hidden by the hand of polite demure,
debutantes in waiting, in another age,
stylish but now the crumbs filter down
and she eyes another slice of thinly
scrapped bread and only manages a smile,
secretive, she never let her lips show it,
when she bit into the egg and cress on white.
Her fingers gently touches the lip of her friend,
making a show of the mess a cucumber will make
and the table laughs it off, but inwardly
she draws deep excited breaths, the closest
The Death Of Camelot.
The dream of Camelot did not perish
with his last breath on a Dallas highway,
Her shoulders buried deep, heaving,
unexplainable death, visionary now defeated.
The dream of Camelot did not perish
as he lied about Watergate,
as he sweated on stage under lights,
under oath then pardoned.
The dream of Camelot did not perish
as bullets rang out in a hotel,
nor in the air as a man took
in the scene on the balcony.
The dream of Camelot did not perish
at the base of Twin Tower destruction,
This Is Not About Lettuce.
It floats downstream, out in the wild
rough oceans, cold and alluring,
it offers of a sense of perspective, of size
and demand, dwarfing my intentions,
aiming to strike me down, the iceberg
comes, I feel secure,
I know what I see and the size as it rises
with the swell of the sea, ringing the bell
more out of politeness, out of a civility
that is engrained into my soul,
I don’t mention the iceberg,
I don’t scream out warnings, holler,
holler, holler, holler, I just
Telefon.
I was once asked
to take part in
a telefon;
“It would be fun”
they said with their eyes gleaming
and perfect smiles,
“You will raise lots of money
for charity
and feel great about yourself.”
Imagine how stupid I felt
after training hard
when I found out
that I didn’t have to run those
twenty six miles
dressed as an old
G.P.O. phone.
Ian D. Hall 2017
My First Love Letter To Liverpool.
I wish I could see the Mersey floor
and touch the greatness
that the city of Liverpool
is built upon,
the pounding heart
that sweeps in daily,
lucid dreaming,
hard fact reality in which nothing beautiful
is ever truly forgotten;
this Mersey providence
full of Mercy,
full of hope, I wish
I could be part of it.
Ian D. Hall 2017